an offensive piece of correspondence into the flames.
“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about—Prince Salvadore summoned you this morning so I went to find out what they’ll require. It turns out the Piaceres are holding a ball at the end of the month, and they, plus their staff, will require new formal wear for the event.” Maggie bit her lip. Three days, plus a wedding. Salvadore himself would require at least six changes of clothing. They would need to hire a staff.
“You’ll have to handle it,” her father said, his tone worn through with fatigue. “I know you’ll do a wonderful job, and that Salvadore and Nico’s fondness for you will prevent them from any comment on my absence.”
She didn’t know about that. Salvy had made it clear this afternoon that he was happy to see her again, but she doubted it was out of brotherly fondness. Knowing the man he’d become, he probably saw her as some kind of conquest that had been meant for a mark on his teen bedpost but had somehow gotten away.
He had another think coming, if he had any notion of that being a thing that would happen.
This ball. Ugh. It smacked of Salvadore’s disrespect for the crown, of his tendency to flout the seriousness of his position and influence, but King Alfonso? Why had he agreed to such a tasteless event?
As one of the last monarchies in the Mediterranean, the Piaceres had taken care to paint themselves as levelheaded benefactors, not this…attempt to recall the storybook royals of old.
“You can do this. You’ll need a staff, at least a dozen, I’d say. The usual seamstresses and tailors will be ready to help, and you can move into the rooms the King set aside for occasions like this at the palace. The workshop there will accommodate you.”
Magdalena knew that this would be her father’s answer, but the reason for the ball stuck in her craw. She didn’t want to help Salvadore, or any of them, waste that sort of time and resources, but she knew it would ruin her father’s legacy if she refused.
Not to mention she’d have a hard time getting clients as the former royal tailor.
A truth fluttered at the back of her mind, asking a question about why the ball really upset her so deeply, but Maggie refused to look right at it. She had reason enough.
“Okay, Papa. I’ll get started right away. I told Salvadore that I would begin work first thing tomorrow.”
He reached down and patted her cheek, his hand steady for once, and a great comfort. “You will do fine. The princes were your playmates, once. Do your best to remember the boys they were, but do not assume you know the men they’ve become. Yes?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Make your phone calls and then enjoy a night with your friends. It will be your last one until this business is done.”
Maggie got up and kissed her father’s papery cheek. It sounded nice, but she couldn’t leave him alone, she thought as she wandered back into the main house to start making phone calls.
She couldn’t leave him alone for the next three weeks while she worked at the castle, either. A nurse would have to be hired, or at least someone who could move in and look after him while Maggie was off making clothes for a narcissistic prince.
It took a couple of hours to pull together a plan for the next three weeks, but when she hung up the phone for the twentieth time, she thought everything was in order. One of her father’s oldest friends, a woman named Juliet, had agreed to come from the country and stay with him the whole time. A dozen seamstresses and tailors had agreed to drop everything and join her at the palace the following day—most of them had been expecting her call, after receiving invitations of their own.
Nothing sounded better than dinner with her father and crashing into bed. The day had been long, starting with the worthless trip to Matrigna’s offices, then the emotional bodyslam of seeing Salvadore again, followed by the invitation and the slew
“It’s what I wanted to talk to you about—Prince Salvadore summoned you this morning so I went to find out what they’ll require. It turns out the Piaceres are holding a ball at the end of the month, and they, plus their staff, will require new formal wear for the event.” Maggie bit her lip. Three days, plus a wedding. Salvadore himself would require at least six changes of clothing. They would need to hire a staff.
“You’ll have to handle it,” her father said, his tone worn through with fatigue. “I know you’ll do a wonderful job, and that Salvadore and Nico’s fondness for you will prevent them from any comment on my absence.”
She didn’t know about that. Salvy had made it clear this afternoon that he was happy to see her again, but she doubted it was out of brotherly fondness. Knowing the man he’d become, he probably saw her as some kind of conquest that had been meant for a mark on his teen bedpost but had somehow gotten away.
He had another think coming, if he had any notion of that being a thing that would happen.
This ball. Ugh. It smacked of Salvadore’s disrespect for the crown, of his tendency to flout the seriousness of his position and influence, but King Alfonso? Why had he agreed to such a tasteless event?
As one of the last monarchies in the Mediterranean, the Piaceres had taken care to paint themselves as levelheaded benefactors, not this…attempt to recall the storybook royals of old.
“You can do this. You’ll need a staff, at least a dozen, I’d say. The usual seamstresses and tailors will be ready to help, and you can move into the rooms the King set aside for occasions like this at the palace. The workshop there will accommodate you.”
Magdalena knew that this would be her father’s answer, but the reason for the ball stuck in her craw. She didn’t want to help Salvadore, or any of them, waste that sort of time and resources, but she knew it would ruin her father’s legacy if she refused.
Not to mention she’d have a hard time getting clients as the former royal tailor.
A truth fluttered at the back of her mind, asking a question about why the ball really upset her so deeply, but Maggie refused to look right at it. She had reason enough.
“Okay, Papa. I’ll get started right away. I told Salvadore that I would begin work first thing tomorrow.”
He reached down and patted her cheek, his hand steady for once, and a great comfort. “You will do fine. The princes were your playmates, once. Do your best to remember the boys they were, but do not assume you know the men they’ve become. Yes?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Make your phone calls and then enjoy a night with your friends. It will be your last one until this business is done.”
Maggie got up and kissed her father’s papery cheek. It sounded nice, but she couldn’t leave him alone, she thought as she wandered back into the main house to start making phone calls.
She couldn’t leave him alone for the next three weeks while she worked at the castle, either. A nurse would have to be hired, or at least someone who could move in and look after him while Maggie was off making clothes for a narcissistic prince.
It took a couple of hours to pull together a plan for the next three weeks, but when she hung up the phone for the twentieth time, she thought everything was in order. One of her father’s oldest friends, a woman named Juliet, had agreed to come from the country and stay with him the whole time. A dozen seamstresses and tailors had agreed to drop everything and join her at the palace the following day—most of them had been expecting her call, after receiving invitations of their own.
Nothing sounded better than dinner with her father and crashing into bed. The day had been long, starting with the worthless trip to Matrigna’s offices, then the emotional bodyslam of seeing Salvadore again, followed by the invitation and the slew
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