Juliet Marillier - Wildwood Dancing

Tati went off with Paula and Stela to make a start while Iulia and I got the rest of the cargo unpacked, labeled, and stored. By the time we’d finished, Tati had cut most of the pieces and Paula was busy altering the silk shift. The sun set early and fine work was difficult by lamplight. When we went down to eat supper, our minds were elsewhere, and both Florica and Petru gave us funny looks.

“We’re worn out,” Iulia said, helping herself to a second bowl of ciorb˘a. “That must be some kind of record, unpacking a whole shipment in one day. Tomorrow I’m going to do absolutely nothing.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I snapped, picking up her cue. It was essential to cover our tracks by acting as we usually would; we always made sure that Petru and Florica got no inkling that the days leading up to Full Moon were 63

different from any others. This time, with the need for a full day’s intensive sewing, we required additional cover. In Florica’s mind, there would be no reason for us to spend so long on such a frivolous creation. When would Tati need a dancing dress? With Father away, the most exciting outing we could expect was a trip to Uncle Nicolae’s to take coffee with Aunt Bogdana.

“We have mending for you to do,” Tati said calmly. “I’m planning to go right through Paula’s and Stela’s things, letting down hems, repairing broken fastenings, adding a few trimmings. . . .” As Iulia began a protest, she added, “It’s only fair.

Paula and Stela always get clothes last, so they should at least be able to wear them without needing to worry about holes. There are probably one or two more garments of yours that Paula could be wearing, Iulia—you’re really shooting up this year.”

“I’ll help,” Stela piped up, understanding what this was about.

“So will I,” said Paula. “I wouldn’t mind that skirt of Iulia’s with the braid around the hem. I’ve noticed she can’t do up the waistband anymore.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Iulia’s eyes flashed outrage and Paula flinched.

“A man likes a woman with a bit of flesh on her,” Florica said, a little smugly. Her own form was ample. “He doesn’t want an armful of skin and bones. You’re growing into beauties, all of you, in your different ways.”

Iulia had pushed her bowl away with the soup half eaten.

“You’re not fat,” I told her. “You have the same kind of figure 64

as Mother had—and Father thought she was the loveliest woman in all Transylvania. He told me so.”

“Early to bed tonight,” Tati said briskly. “You all need a good night’s sleep so you can work hard for me tomorrow.

Florica, I think we’ll do the mending in our room. We can sit around the little stove and keep our fingers warm, and we won’t get in your way.”

“If you’re sure,” Florica said. All of us knew she would be happy to have her kitchen to herself for once. Since Father’s departure, we had taken all our meals there. The formal dining room with its silk carpet and gleaming oak table seemed cold and unwelcoming without him.

Petru was not at supper. When questioned, Florica said tersely that he had gone to bed early. “He’s tired, Mistress Jena.

We’re none of us getting younger. He says the fences around the eastern side of the woods won’t last the winter—they’ll need mending, or wolves will be at the sheep. It’s a big job.”

I said nothing. This was the kind of work for which Dorin would have hired extra help, the help I did not seem to be able to secure. Petru had been looking gray and exhausted even at breakfast time. He was so much a part of the fabric of Piscul Dracului, I had forgotten he was an old man. Guilt gnawed at me.

Tati made the younger ones go to bed straight after supper.

Without a good sleep tonight, we’d be blundering through Full Moon, dancing with our eyelids half shut. She and I stayed up a little later, working on the shaping of the new gown.

“Jena?”

65

“Mmm?”

“I wonder if that young man will be there again tomorrow night.”

“You mean the one in the black coat?” I had almost forgotten him; I’d been too busy even to think about the Other Kingdom.

“Who knows? I don’t know why you’re interested. All he did was stand around looking mournful and showing how long he could stare at you without blinking.”

“Maybe he’s shy.”

“Shy people don’t go out of their way to look different. Besides, he was with the Night People. I wish they’d go back where they came from. I don’t like the stories I’ve heard about them. They disturb me.”

“Oh well,” said Tati dismissively, “it doesn’t really matter.

What do you think about the sleeves, Jena? Narrow at the wrist, or cut in a bell shape?”

Tati sewed the last stitches in the hem at about the same time the following night, surrounded by the rest of us in our dancing finery. It was piercing cold outside. I had felt winter’s bite earlier, when I had taken a break from sewing to perform some essential tasks. Petru was out on the farm, and Florica could not do everything. By the time I had replenished the wood baskets, taken a steaming mash out to the huddled chickens, and ascer-tained that the storeroom was staying dry, my teeth were chattering and my ears ached with cold. Tonight we wore fur hats, heavy lined cloaks, and outdoor boots. We carried our dancing slippers. In our bedchamber the chill wind was slipping in 66

through every crack and chink it could find. Shivering, Tati stood close by the stove to take off her day dress and put on the new gown.

“Come on!” urged Iulia.

I gave my elder sister’s hair a quick brushing. The gown floated around her like a cloud of mist; her eyes were bright. I helped her put on her thick woolen cloak, blue-dyed, and pull up the fur-lined hood. In the pocket of my green gown, I had tucked Gogu into an old glove made of sheepskin. He did rather spoil the line of my skirt, but I couldn’t have him catching cold.

A freezing draft swirled and eddied up the spiral staircase; it tangled and teased its way along the Gallery of Beasts, seeking out victims. The gargoyles had retreated into whatever niches and cavities they could find between the stones. I spotted a group of them clustered together like bats, up in a corner.

Nobody wanted to come out tonight.

On the shores of the lake, we stamped our feet and rubbed our gloved hands together, our breath turning to vapor as we watched the line of small lights draw closer. A thin layer of ice crusted the lake’s surface. We could hear its shifting music as the boats broke through. By next Full Moon, the water would be hard frozen.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” muttered Stela. “I’m turning into an icicle.”

One, two, three, four boats nudged in to shore. One by one, my sisters stepped in: Stela with a blue-bearded dwarf, Paula with a gap-toothed wizard, Iulia with tall Grigori. As 67

Sten stepped from the fourth boat and reached out his hand to help me in, I cast my eyes about, confused. Tati was still standing beside me on the shore, waiting. Gogu began to tremble. I could feel it even through the thick sheepskin.

“What about my sister?”

Sten mumbled something. I got Gogu out, glove and all, and held him close to my chest under my cloak.

“What did you say?”

“Late,” said Sten. “He’s running late. Step in, young lady.

And the young master there. That’s it.” Without further ado, the troll shoved his pole hard into the mud and we shot off across the water in a tinkle of swirling ice, leaving Tati all alone on the shore. I was opening my mouth to protest when I saw the last boat coming. As the craft emerged through the layers of mist, I saw the pale length of the willow pole first, and the white hands holding it—then the black-coated form and ashen, solemn features of that young man, the one who had spent the night of last Full Moon standing unnaturally still with his eyes on my sister. I only got a glimpse, because Sten seemed to think he was in a race and must win; he dug the pole deep and we surged forward, making an icy wave.