smiled shyly. “He’s been mooning over that length of cloth for days now. He’s a good man and never looks at another woman. But the way he is with a bolt of fine goods is almost more than flesh and blood can bear. How can I compete with wool or spider silk, or even Dry Town cotton? Still, he is a master craftsman. Here is the russet made for Rafaella—as fine a garment as you’ll find in all Thendara, but not good enough for that—cat! Those Renunciates! Can’t behave like a decent woman. Yet she gives herself airs, just because her father was coridom to the MacLorans. Well, a coridom is still a servant, I say, and no better than an honest craftsman.”
As she rattled on, the woman was shaking out the folds of the complex garment. There were three petticoats, each dyed a slightly lighter shade of russet, and embroidered about the hem with a pattern of green leaves, a blouse the color of the palest petticoat, and a tunic of very dark russet, which completed the ensemble. Worn all at once, it would be heavy and warm, and, Margaret thought, much more comfortable than what she had on at the moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Margaret said, “and just about my favorite color. But I think it’s a little too—too elegant for what I had in mind. What I want is a working outfit.” She somehow knew the correct word for what she wanted, as distinct from a garment suitable for a fancy occasion, and wondered how, because she knew she hadn’t gotten it from the basic language disk. It just came to her, like the song had come out of the ryll. The garment, lovely as it was, was too elaborate, she thought, for prowling around in a maker’s shop full of wood shavings or collecting songs in remote corners of this world, at once so familiar and so alien. “I really like it, but what I wanted would be something more like what you have on.
Manuella looked at her serviceable petticoats and plain gray tunic, then cast her eyes heavenward. Margaret had seen that gesture many times before, and it always meant the same thing—why were people so incomprehensible. She felt comforted by the very humanness of the look, and smiled a little.
“Dress like a tradeswoman? Would you shame your family? Please, domna, anyone can see what you are, and dressing below your station will not fool anyone.” Manuella’s voice was earnest.
Station? Margaret could not imagine what Manuella meant. Did these people know she was the daughter of the Cottman Senator, and what difference would that make? The woman was clearly distressed by the idea of her wearing the wrong clothing, but she had no idea why. She was about to ask when a wrinkled old woman came in, her arms full of soft garments. She paused, gaped at Margaret in wonder, then dropped a deep curtsy.
She heard a faint whisper of thought from the older woman as she was introduced to Dayborah, the lingerie maker. Comynara! It is like the old days! When I was a girl. . . ! She caught a feeling of longing, a yearning for a bygone era when people knew their places, and shook herself free of the sensation of hearing the old woman’s thoughts. Margaret was certain she was being mistaken for someone else, though she could not imagine who.
Suddenly too tired to argue about it, she let them bully her into buying what they considered the correct clothing. They tried on several pieces before Manuella declared herself satisfied. The clothes fit well enough, though the drawstrings at waist and neck left room for variations. Manuella pulled down the braid she had made, combed out her hair, and refastened it with a beautiful silver butterfly clasp, which appeared in Manuella’s worn hand, like a conjurer’s trick. It felt heavy against the nape of her neck, heavy though it was light, and familiar though she did not clearly remember seeing one like it. Most of all, it felt right.
As the two women conferred over belts, and chose a dark green one, Margaret had a disturbing sense of losing her personal
As she rattled on, the woman was shaking out the folds of the complex garment. There were three petticoats, each dyed a slightly lighter shade of russet, and embroidered about the hem with a pattern of green leaves, a blouse the color of the palest petticoat, and a tunic of very dark russet, which completed the ensemble. Worn all at once, it would be heavy and warm, and, Margaret thought, much more comfortable than what she had on at the moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Margaret said, “and just about my favorite color. But I think it’s a little too—too elegant for what I had in mind. What I want is a working outfit.” She somehow knew the correct word for what she wanted, as distinct from a garment suitable for a fancy occasion, and wondered how, because she knew she hadn’t gotten it from the basic language disk. It just came to her, like the song had come out of the ryll. The garment, lovely as it was, was too elaborate, she thought, for prowling around in a maker’s shop full of wood shavings or collecting songs in remote corners of this world, at once so familiar and so alien. “I really like it, but what I wanted would be something more like what you have on.
Manuella looked at her serviceable petticoats and plain gray tunic, then cast her eyes heavenward. Margaret had seen that gesture many times before, and it always meant the same thing—why were people so incomprehensible. She felt comforted by the very humanness of the look, and smiled a little.
“Dress like a tradeswoman? Would you shame your family? Please, domna, anyone can see what you are, and dressing below your station will not fool anyone.” Manuella’s voice was earnest.
Station? Margaret could not imagine what Manuella meant. Did these people know she was the daughter of the Cottman Senator, and what difference would that make? The woman was clearly distressed by the idea of her wearing the wrong clothing, but she had no idea why. She was about to ask when a wrinkled old woman came in, her arms full of soft garments. She paused, gaped at Margaret in wonder, then dropped a deep curtsy.
She heard a faint whisper of thought from the older woman as she was introduced to Dayborah, the lingerie maker. Comynara! It is like the old days! When I was a girl. . . ! She caught a feeling of longing, a yearning for a bygone era when people knew their places, and shook herself free of the sensation of hearing the old woman’s thoughts. Margaret was certain she was being mistaken for someone else, though she could not imagine who.
Suddenly too tired to argue about it, she let them bully her into buying what they considered the correct clothing. They tried on several pieces before Manuella declared herself satisfied. The clothes fit well enough, though the drawstrings at waist and neck left room for variations. Manuella pulled down the braid she had made, combed out her hair, and refastened it with a beautiful silver butterfly clasp, which appeared in Manuella’s worn hand, like a conjurer’s trick. It felt heavy against the nape of her neck, heavy though it was light, and familiar though she did not clearly remember seeing one like it. Most of all, it felt right.
As the two women conferred over belts, and chose a dark green one, Margaret had a disturbing sense of losing her personal
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