Olwin plucked at the faded rose-pink skirt Irenya was wearing. ‘This is so old I can barely see the pattern. It is at least twenty summers according to my aunt. And she would know.’ Amused by Olwin’s criticism and inclined to agree with it, Irenya allowed the young woman to march her into the labyrinthine streets west of the citadel to a seamstress.
Olwin bore little resemblance to her cousin Brianne, except in their colouring—dark hair and green eyes. Irenya kept seeing the girl in the dining hall, mouth open, staring from her to the archprince and back again, an indistinct picture in the margin of Irenya’s vision, yet leaving an indelible impression. It bothered her to think she might have exposed a vulnerable part of herself to someone like Brianne.
‘You still haven’t said how the dre
