Page 18 of Anwen of Primewood (The Eldentimber #2)

I turn to Marigold. “Do you have needles? Thread?”

“Of course,” she answers.

“Galinor, take off your tunic and hand it to me.” I turn to Marigold. “We’ll cut the sleeves off and hem it up to make a vest.”

I purse my lips as I examine Dristan and Bran’s clothing.

As princes of Triblue, their attire is entirely different from Galinor’s.

Bran’s shirt is beige, and Dristan’s is red, but they both lace up the front and have billowy sleeves.

Their trousers are tight, as is suited for climbing up ship’s rigging.

To be honest, they could pass for Bandolian performers just the way they are.

“Your clothes are fine.” I toss the brothers several scarves. “Bran, tie one around your head. Dristan, roll yours up and belt it around your waist.”

Galinor stares at me like I’ve misplaced my sanity. “Is this necessary?”

I give him an impatient look and wave at him to hurry. Grumbling, he pulls the tunic over his head.

And…oh my.

Flustered, I snatch the tunic away from him, careful to keep my gaze averted from his bare torso. Marigold doesn’t bother to look away. She openly gawks at him, her eyes wide.

I thrust the tunic at her. “Do you have a knife?”

With pink cheeks, she yanks her attention back to me. “Why would I have a knife?”

Purposely avoiding Galinor, I turn to the brothers. “Dristan? Bran?”

Though they shake their heads, I refuse to look at Galinor again. I’ll just make a fool of myself.

Galinor steps forward, handing me his dagger. “Here.”

I accept it, my eyes on the steel. Apparently that amuses him. He chuckles low and walks away, and I only take a tiny peek at him before I take his dagger to the tunic.

Once the sleeves are removed and the raw edges bound, I slice the tunic down the middle. After I hem it and add the gold trim, I hold up the vest to inspect my work.

“It will do.” I hand it back to Galinor. “Tie one of the long scarves around your waist before you put it on.”

He selects a scarf that is far too short. “What do you mean?”

I push myself off the ground, exasperated. “No, not that one.” I find one that is longer and striped. “This one.”

“How do you want me to…?”

I snatch it from him. “Honestly, Galinor, it’s not that difficult.” Keeping my eyes on the fabric, I wrap the scarf around his middle and tie it at his side.

“I suppose it wasn’t,” he says when I’m finished, his voice a touch deeper than usual.

A witty retort is on my lips, but I forget what I was going to say when I look up at him. His mouth quirks in a half smile, and my stomach flutters.

We study each other for a heartbeat too long, and then I quickly step away and snatch the shells from the ground.

Trying to ignore the sudden heat in my chest, I toss the strand to Dristan. “Find a way to put these—”

I’m interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek. I swivel around, already knowing what I’m going to find. Pika is in front of Marigold, staring at her with curious eyes and a twitching tail.

“Marigold, it’s all right— ”

And just like that, Marigold passes out.

Bran has already unsheathed his sword, ready to slay the glasseln, and Dristan is searching for his bow.

Galinor steps in front of them. “No!”

The brothers pause, surprised.

“It’s Anwen’s,” Galinor explains, obviously irritated with the situation.

“She’s friendly,” I assure them, and I go to her.

Pika lets out a loud yowl. She then sits back on her haunches, watching us. I stroke her head and wings, and she purrs with pleasure.

“Impossible,” Bran whispers.

Dristan stares at the cat with a slack jaw and disbelieving eyes.

Bran rips his attention from the glasseln to me. “She’s a pet?”

I shake my head. “No, but she befriended us in Lauramore, and now she’s followed us here.”

“That’s the thing that was stalking us!” Bran exclaims.

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’ve hastily 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 will not cut 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.

Just as she is tightening the knot at her hip, footsteps sound from the edge of the forest. I shoo Pika back into the brush—and just in time.

A young man strides into our camp. He’s handsome in a white, billowy shirt; long, fitted vest; and several scarves tied around his waist. On his head, he wears a large captain’s hat with a huge, plumed feather.

He graces us with a cocky grin as he bows low.

“Welcome back, Irving,” I say. “I see you’ve found yourself new clothes.”

Irving winks. “I’ve done better than that, darling. I’ve bought us a caravan cart.”