It’s hard to take him seriously with a scarf tied around his head.
“She’s fine.”
As if to prove my words are true, Danver leaps from the underbrush and runs for the glasseln. He sits next to her, and she leans down, nuzzling his little body.
Marigold groans from the ground, and I go to her side. “Wake up, Marigold. She’s harmless.”
She blinks, and her eyes focus on the giant cat. Her lips part to scream, but I clap a hand over her mouth. “Stop, you’ll draw attention to us.”
Marigold looks at me, her face white with terror.
“She’s friendly—watch.” I leave Marigold’s side and sit on the ground next to Pika. The massive winged cat bumps her head into mine as I scratch her chest.
“Why can’t you have a dog like normal people?” Marigold hisses, making me laugh.
She’ll be okay.
Not as hesitant as Bran, Dristan comes forward, holding his hand out for Pika to smell. “What are you going to do with her?”
“Keep her in the brush for now,” Galinor says. “We’ll figure out what to do with her later.”
While the others are occupied with Pika, I unroll a long bolt of deep red silk. Marigold’s ivory skirts will be fine with a few scarves tied over them, but the bodice will have to be cut off and replaced. It’s too prim and trim. I work quickly, doing the best I can to cut the fabric with Galinor’s dagger.
The men settle on the forest floor, and Bran starts a fire. My stomach growls, but with the fate of the festival undecided, we won’t be able to buy fresh meat.
It’s almost dark when I have the new bodice finished.
“Should I go look for Irving?” Dristan asks.
He’s been gone for several hours now.
Unconcerned, Galinor tosses another log onto the fire. “He’ll find his way back.”
Bran motions to the remaining scarves and extra silk. “What do you want to do with the rest of this?”
“Leave the scarves for Irving,” I say. “I think I’ll use the silk on Marigold’s dress.”
Marigold casts a doubtful look at the blouse I’vehastily sewn. “I don’t see what’s wrong with what I’m wearing.”
I study my project, pretty proud of it. I thread leather cording through the neckline, gather it up, and tie it at the front, Bandolian-style.
“I willnotcut the bodice off my dress,” Marigold says after I explain my artistic vision, going white.
I give her a light shove deeper into the forest so she can change. “Once this is all over, I’ll have Father buy you a new one.”
She takes one step toward the dark woods, and then she hesitates.
“It’s all right,” I say, “I’ll go with you and change as well.”
I pull my patchwork skirt out of my pack, thankful I saved it.
We walk deep into the woods for modesty’s sake, tripping over roots and branches as we go. After we’ve changed, Marigold practically runs back to the light of the fire.
As I walk, I undo my braid and shake my hair out. It’s even curlier now, and I like the way it corkscrews past my shoulders.
“Since you don’t have a corset belt, tie one of those scarves around your waist,” I say to Marigold.
She nods.
