Every speck of lint on Gavin’s travel clothes beckoned. Each visible thread was a tear in his mind. The smattering of dust on his cloak made his skin crawl. He could taste vomit at the back of his throat and his tongue worried the cracked tooth.
The glass counters before him gleamed in the light. His own flaws reflected back at him from a hundred polished surfaces.
Why did L’Marc not let me bathe after the carriage ride, he thought, sniffing himself and smelling Plumm’s cigars.
The proprietor of the store was an immaculate woman. His eyes searched her clothes, her hair, and her face for perfection, for symmetry. She was wearing black silk, shoulders bare. Not a single freckle out of place on her golden skin. Her dark hair was parted down the middle as if by a razor. Her eyes were amber wine. Each one was the absolute mirror of the other. Even the swell of her bosom was balanced. The rise and fall with her breath was like a metronome.
Gavin opened his mouth to speak and the woman said, “Are you used to wearing jewelry?” Gavin swallowed acid.
His eyes searched the room behind her. L’Marc was the only other man in the building. Behind the displays was an open door into a workshop of bent heads and tightly coiled hair. Slender searching fingers worked beneath suspended lenses on glittering jewels. Windows wrapped the showroom, and the sun’s light made everything sparkle and shine.
Gavin tried to inhale as he spoke, certain the scent of his breath was revolting, “No.”
L’Marc’s hand landing on his shoulder made him flinch, “He is a trained duelist, of Ariland.”
Why didn’t he say the heir, Gavin wondered.
To his horror, he clenched his jaw. Another sliver of tooth shattered free. The shard slid over his tongue, and there was nothing to do but swallow it.
L’Marc continued, “Soldiers are unused to adornment. But needs must at court, as you know, Lady Saphiel.”
‘Lady’, Gavin thought, she is a noblewoman.
The woman purred, “The only adornment a soldier needs is his sword.” The lady placed her hand gently upon Gavin’s sleeve. Gavin tried to swallow against his dry throat.
“The first decision in this matter is ‘silver’ or ‘gold.’” L’Marc said, taking his hand from Gavin’s shoulder and waving at a velvet board where two necklaces hung. They were identical save for the tone of the gleam.
She moved her hand down Gavin’s arm, never breaking contact. She rolled up his sleeve and placed his wrist in a sunbeam. The veins were obvious under his pale skin, “Such a lovely shade of periwinkle. Silver, then.” She released him. He let his sleeve fall. His stomach was seething.
At Gavin’s elbow, a young woman appeared. She curtsied and asked, “May I be so bold as to offer you a refreshment?”
L’Marc was the first to reply, “Nothing would please me, thank you.”
“I’m just fine, dear Sylvia.” Lady Saphiel declined as well.
Gavin flexed his stomach and squared his shoulders. He shook his head, careful not to let his teeth touch.
“Silver cufflinks and tie pin to match?” Lady Saphiel inquired once the girl had disappeared.
“That sounds like a beautiful start, my Lady.” L’Marc answered for him.
Gavin scanned the room for a seat, and found none. His legs quivered. He braced himself against the glass case with his fingers splayed.
Lady Saphiel walked behind the counter and returned with a set of rings hanging from a chain. “You are quite right, a ring would be required as well.”
Gavin let her lift his hand from the case, her delicate fingers slender and straight. He looked at the veins in her wrist. They were contrasting, but he could not decide on the shade. He felt a cough rising and hoped to play it off as a laugh. There was a tickle in his throat, and he imagined the piece of tooth lodged there.
She took his right ring-finger and stroked it gently twice with her thumb, “A bachelor after my own heart, I see,” She flipped his hand and examined his palm, “Very little callusing for a swordsman. You must be diligent with your care.”
She slid a steel ring over the finger. It fit perfectly. “A pianist’s hands. I have some pre-made in size six if you would give me the pleasure of seeing you try them.”
Gavin’s tongue was pasted to the roof of his mouth. He stifled another cough and swallowed. It tickled.
L’Marc said, “Obviously, we seek something custom-made for an audience with the king. But my friend may enjoy sampling the finery. It will give him confidence in your craftsmanship.”
The noblewoman bent to reach under the case, and her silk gown flared open at the top. Gavin’s eyes followed, and he choked.
She slid a tray of indigo out from a drawer, “Were you interested in jewels, or something with simple scroll work?”
L’Marc reached out a long finger and pointed at a fat ring set with an oval of liquid black, “Star sapphire. I had thought to wear the pendant you made for me, but it is quite dear to my heart for such a trivial errand.”
Lady Saphiel removed the ring from its ridge and held it up into a sunbeam, inches from Gavin’s mouth, “Do you see the star? The way the light makes it dance?”
Gavin’s eyes looked down, but he kept his neck straight. His stomach was straining. He took a breath through his nose. The scent of her perfume was musky like his mother’s. The gem danced in a slow circle in her tender grasp.
His eyes crossed and his guts wrenched. A burst of yellow bile exploded from his lips and onto her hand, the gem, and the glass.
The noblewoman lowered her hand and looked in his eyes with exaggerated care, “Yes, a different stone, perhaps.”