Then her mother had stalked out of the breakfast room, not even giving Malta time to argue. Not that she would have. She had decided that she did not need to argue. Arguing would only have made her mother suspicious and watchful. There was no sense in making her own tasks harder.

Her father had suggested green silk, and fortunately there had been a good supply of it in Aunt Althea's sea chest. She had been aching to know what was in there since it had been delivered to the house, but her mother had wearily told her it was none of her concern. But it hadn't been locked-Aunt Althea never remembered to lock anything-and as Althea certainly was never going to use it, Malta saw no sense in letting the lovely fabric stay there and fade. Besides, by using this fabric, she'd have more coin to spend on a really good dressmaker. She was only being thrifty. Had not her father told her that was a good trait in a woman?

From Delo Trell, Malta obtained the name of a good dressmaker. It shamed her to have to ask her friend, but even in that important area, her mother and grandmother were so old-fashioned. Almost all their dresses were still made at home, with Nana measuring and fitting and sewing, and sometimes even Mama and Grandmother helping with the sewing and trimming themselves. And so they never had anything that was the latest style from Jamaillia. No. Oh, they would see something they liked at the Ball or the Presentation, and then they would copy it onto the next gown they made. But that was always what it was: a copy. No one was ever astonished by what one of the Vestrit women wore to a social gathering. No one ever gossiped about them or put heads together behind their fans to whisper enviously. They were too respectable. And too boring.

Well, Malta had no intention of being either as staid as her matronly mother, nor as mannish as her wild Aunt Althea. Instead she intended to be mysterious and magical, shyly demure and unknowable, and yet daring and extravagant. It had been hard to express all that to the dressmaker, a disappointingly old woman who clicked her tongue over the green silk Malta brought her. “Sallow,” she had said, shaking her gray head. “It will make you look sallow. Pinks and reds and oranges. Those are your colors.” Her thick Durja accent made it seem like a pronouncement. Malta folded her lips and said nothing. Her father was a trader who had seen the whole wide world. Surely he knew what colors looked best on women.

Then Fayla went on to measure her endlessly, muttering all the time through a mouthful of pins. She cut and hung paper shapes all over Malta, and paid no attention at all when Malta protested that the neck seemed too high and the skirts too short. The third time Malta objected, Fayla Cart had spat the mouthful of pins out into her own hand and glared at her. “You want to look like a trollop? A sallow trollop?” she demanded.

Malta shook her head wordlessly as she tried to recall what a trollop flower looked like.

“Then you listen to me. I sew you a nice dress, a pretty frock. A dress your mama and papa happy to pay me for. Okay?”

“But . . . I've brought the money to pay. My own money. And I want a woman's gown, not a little girl's frock.” With every word she spoke, Malta became bolder.

Fayla Cart stood slowly, rubbing at her back. “A woman's gown? Well, who's going to wear this dress, you or some woman?”

“I am.” Malta forced her voice to stay firm.

Fayla scratched at her chin. A hair was growing out of a warty-looking mole there. She shook her head slowly. “No. You are too young. You will only look silly. You listen to me, I make you a pretty frock. No other girl will have one like it, they will all stare and tug their mamas' skirts and whisper about you.”

Without warning, Malta tore the paper shape loose from herself and stepped out of it. “I am not eager to have girls staring at me,” she said haughtily. “Good day to you.”

And she left the shop, her green silk under her arm, and went down the street to find a dressmaker of her own, one that would listen to her. She tried not to wonder if Delo Trell had purposely sent her to that horrible old woman, if Delo did not think that Malta still belonged in a little girl's starched skirts. Lately Delo had begun to give herself airs, to imply loftily that there were many things that Malta, young little Malta, simply could not understand about Delo's life now. As if they had not been playmates since they could walk!

The young seamstress Malta chose wore her own skirts as if they were silk scarves, at once clinging and revealing her legs. She did not quibble about the color of the fabric, nor try to hide Malta in paper. Instead she measured her swiftly and spoke of things like butterfly sleeves and how a spill of lace could flatter a young woman's developing bosom into an illusion of fullness. Malta knew then she had chosen well, and had all but skipped home with a tale of being unable to find a free shimshay to excuse her lateness.