morning. Ben and I are still a form of entertainment on the street, as the townspeople can’t seem to keep their eyes off of us. I ignore them and focus on what they’re actually doing—chasing chickens, selling produce, chatting with other locals. Nothing appears out of the ordinary, except Ben and me.
A tiny bell overhead dings as we enter Fiona’s shop. One of her employees is behind the counter in the front area, and she looks up when we enter.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning,” Ben and I reply in unison.
“Fiona is in the rear, if that is who ye are looking for.”
We bypass the tables and cubbies filled with ribbons and fabrics, and amble toward the area just off the back of the boutique, where Fiona led us yesterday to acquire our measurements. Sure enough, her skirts can be seen below and behind a curtain, where, I’m guessing, she helps another customer. Ben points toward two chairs sitting in the corner, and he and I take a seat.
“We’re here for our fitting, Fiona,” I say, “but there’s no rush.”
Fiona swipes at the curtain she’s behind, desperately searching for the opening. She eventually finds it and pokes her head out, smiling. “I shall be with ye shortly.”
“Take your time,” says Ben.
I have to admit, it’s pretty awkward being in this age, especially while waiting in a boutique. It’s not like they have Cosmo’s to peruse through, so we end up staring at the undecorated walls and a wide selection of cloth.
“That should do it,” Fiona exclaims as she steps out from behind the curtain and admires her handiwork. The young woman she was helping steps off the pedestal and sashays over the cherry-finish cheval mirror in the corner of the room. Fiona plays with the dress, fluffing the ruffles and fanning out the short train. “What do ye think?” she asks, excitedly waiting for a response from the female customer.
The fashionable lady glares at her reflection. Soft blue fabric, the color of the daytime sky, covers her from head to toe. Honestly, it’s one of the most beautiful colors I’ve ever seen. The edges are accented with white cord, and a dazzling gold brooch is pinned in the middle of her neckline. She looks absolutely gorgeous.
“Mmm. ’Tis not as fine as the wears in London, but ’twill do, I suppose,” says the young woman.
What. A. Bitch.
I can’t imagine the amount of time and effort Fiona has put into creating this exquisite masterpiece—a gown fit for a princess, truly—and this hooker comes along and claims it’s not the best dress she’s ever worn. Seriously, I want to punch her. In fact, I might. What will the citizens do, tie me to the back of a horse and drag me through town?
“Well, I think it looks lovely,” I say. “I’m sure Fiona slaved over this dress, so it’s pretty rude of you to think otherwise.”
The woman eyes me in the mirror before turning around to face me head-on. “And just who are thee to tell me what I shall and shall not say? ’Tis no business of thine, so heed thy own.” She actually lifts her chin and looks down her nose, daring me to say something.
I stand up and cross my arms. “You’re two seconds away from getting a good smackdown, which is what you deserve, and then some. I suggest you apologize to Fiona for being a class-A bitch before I show you what it’s like to feel unappreciated.”
The woman gasps melodramatically. “How dare thee! Thou hast no cause to begin a brawl with me. And if thou did, thou would be lowlier than thou art now. As lowly as a pig who tumbles in muck all day, mayhap even more so. Might I suggest thou close thy mouth since naught but a fool’s words are uttered from it?”
My heart accelerates, and I can feel my pulse throbbing in my head. Oh, no. This isn’t good. If I don’t calm down, I’ll go apeshit on her.
Think happy thoughts, Ben says.
Damn it! This isn’t Neverland.
The woman haughtily raises one eyebrow, then smirks. “As I thought. Now,” she says, turning toward Fiona, “see to it my father is billed for this.” And with that, she gathers the clothes she previously wore, which hang across a chair in the next room, flashes a grin at me, and walks to the front area of the store, her heels clack, clack, clacking on the floorboards. The bell chimes, and I know she’s left the building.
It takes me