The Encounter

“Of course, Madame Trejeune. It will be ready within a week,” Mireille murmurs respectfully to one of her customers. The woman outside hands her a dress over the small shop’s counter.

“I need it for my sister’s wedding in four days,” Madame Trejeune insists, her mouth puckering into a sour frown.

“I’ll do what I can, Madame Trejeune. I have several rush orders pending at the moment. But stop by in three days, for I hope to have it ready then.” Madame Trejeune smiles and nods before departing; she is unable to resist Mireille’s soft-spoken charm and stunning beauty, just like all of the seamstress’s other customers. As Adrennes’s only seamstress, Mireille has become famous not only throughout the village but throughout the entire country of Mordalce for her skill at her trade and the rumors that circulate about her. Despite her best efforts, stories about her childhood have made it out of the village and people from all over the country travel to Adrennes to see her, the seamstress unsurpassed in talent and beauty with a heartbreaking history. Even so, she never speaks to anyone of such things, conversing only of her trade and inconsequential things with her customers.

Mireille glances at the sky as she lays Madame Trejeune’s dress with her other projects. It is nearly sunset, meaning it is time for her to close up shop. Queen Bêtel, sole ruler of Mordalce, has issued a decree that all citizens of the country must be off the streets and done with business by dusk. A glance at the street reveals that her fellow townsfolk are hurrying home for fear of incurring the wrath of Queen Bêtel’s secret police. Since her husband, King Tristan, died under mysterious circumstances when their son, Xavier, was only ten, Queen Bêtel has ruled Mordalce with an iron fist, and the people do well to fear her power. The only one who has ever defied her and lived is her son, and even he has never defied her openly.

Mireille, however, cares not for the decree. Having learned at a young age that being quiet and following the rules results in being ignored by authority, she fears no one, knowing that none can find fault in her. All she wants from the world is to be allowed to practice her trade and live a quiet life. She hums softly to herself as she closes the shop, admiring the sunset as she works. As she puts away the last of her projects, she notices a stranger across the street who appears to watching her and pauses for a second. While she is quite used to being a tourist attraction, she is most unaccustomed to the tourists being handsome men close to her own age. She elects to ignore him and resumes her work quickly. If he wants anything from me, he will have to come to me to tell me so, she decides as she firmly closes and locks the shutters over her counter. Then she goes to the door, turns the sign thereon from OPEN to CLOSED, and closes and locks it, as well. Finally I can have supper. I have not eaten since this morning.

She is perpetually busy and does not have much to eat, hence her long fast. The shop window opens into a large cupboard containing all of her wares and supplies. The cupboard is little more than an add-on to the main room of the cottage, which serves as a dining room, living room, and kitchen all in one. Also opening onto the main room, behind the sales cupboard, is a room only slightly larger than a cupboard, where Mireille sleeps. The small cabinets of the kitchen contain only half a loaf of bread, a morsel of cheese from a friend’s mother, a few home-grown vegetables from her own garden, and a bit of tea she purchased at the market. Despite her popularity, she does not make enough money to sustain her shop and herself, so she often goes hungry. As a result she is extremely thin, probably too thin, but the fashion for corsets makes it easy for her to hide this deficiency.

A knock at her door interrupts her from boiling a bucket of well water over her small fire. Who dares to interrupt me at this hour? Surely the sun has set by now. I never receive visitors after sunset. Nighttime visitors bode no good in Mordalce; that honor is most frequently attributed to the Queen’s secret police. Mireille goes nervously to the door, which she unlocks while praying for her soul before opening the door just a crack.

“I’m sorry, but my shop’s closed now. You’ll simply have to come back tomorrow,” she says sweetly. “Besides, Her Majesty’s decree forbids all citizens from being outside after dusk.”

“I am fully aware of the decree. I have a pass,” the visitor replies with a voice that is deep, rich, and masculine. A tingle runs down Mireille’s spine from hearing him.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t, and if I’m seen speaking to you--”

“You will not be harmed. I have the power to protect you. Will you let me in? There is something important we must discuss.”

Alarm bells start ringing in Mireille’s head, the tingle suddenly forgotten. “If it’s so important, it can be discussed just like this,” she retorts.

“At least open the door. I will not hurt you.”

“If you have the power to protect me, as you claim, then you’re no doubt here on the behalf of Her Majesty the Queen, and whatever she wants with me can’t be good. I won’t open this door one bit further.”

The man sighs heavily. “I am indeed here on behalf of the Queen, but fear not, for she has found favor with you, if you are the legendary seamstress of Adrennes.”

Intrigued, Mireille opens the door a tiny bit more, just enough to see that her visitor is the handsome stranger who was watching her earlier. His hair is straight and of a medium brown, hanging at just the right length over his dark amber eyes and crisp shirt collar, and his face is ruggedly handsome and well-made.

“Her Majesty the Queen, begging your pardons, is not known for finding favor with anyone. What does she care for a simple country girl like me?”

“No simple country girl, according to the stories about you that circulate the country. They say that you have phenomenal skill with a needle--clothes to fit anyone perfectly, and embroideries so realistic that insects attempt to feed from your stitched flowers.”

“Folklore, all of it. I’m nothing special.”

“Perhaps you would permit me to see your wares and judge for myself?”

“What, you think I’d lie to you?”

“No, but Mordalcean women are trained in the art of modesty.”

“I hardly think--” She hears the water begin to boil over. “Bloody hell! Excuse me just a moment--” She dashes to the kitchen area to rescue her tea water and to start brewing the tea, completely forgetting to shut the door. As such, the stranger recognizes the opportunity to come inside. It does not take him more than a second to locate the cupboard where all of her wares are stowed. Mireille turns around from her small kitchen counter to find the young man contemplating a cushion embroidered with a magnificent castle and bordered in roses.

“Who said you could come in?” she demands, voice dangerously soft. He whirls around to face her, shocked by her tone.

“I do as I please, thank you,” he replies astutely. She stares at him with a cocktail of shock and indignation fighting for control of her face. “By the way, this is very good. Exceptional, actually. The official portrait of the Palace of Roses is none so realistic. Have you ever been there?”

“Not as far as I know. I didn’t know the place existed in real life. You’ve seen it?”

“Yes, a few times. ‘Tis the Royal Palace of Vyrunia.”

She stares at him for a few moments, then sweeps her finest curtsey. “Forgive me my disrespectfulness, Your Highness,” she murmurs breathlessly, fearing that he will have her killed for it. The visitor rolls his eyes.

“Do not apologize. I liked you better before you discovered my identity. Call me Xavier,” he replies, somewhat irritated. Shell-shocked by the idea that the Crown Prince of Mordalce is standing in her house, Mireille cannot form words. “What troubles you?”

“You!” Mireille gasps, unable to come up with anything more profound. “Why are you here?”

“My mother sent me to take you back to the palace. She heard from one of her maids that you are the best seamstress in Mordalce, and from what I have seen of your work--” he gestures to Mireille’s cupboard “--I have to agree. As you know, Queen Bêtel cannot stand to know that the best things are not her own, so she demands that you become her seamstress.”

“What....” Mireille stops and swallows hard, gathering her courage. “What if I say no?”

Xavier fumbles for an answer, quite taken aback by this reply. “What do you mean? None has ever said no to her and lived since she took the throne. Certainly the results would not be pretty. You would truly be better off to just take the job. To be employed by the Queen really is an honor...erm...May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

She stares at him for a long moment before deciding that his knowledge of her name can do no harm. “Mireille. And it’s no honor to work for her, no offense. I don’t want to go to the palace. All I want is to live my quiet, insignificant life in this village. That shouldn’t be too much to ask.”

“No offense taken, but in the eyes of the Queen, all things contrary to her own will are far too much to ask.”

Mireille huffs indignantly. “Her Majesty’s rather spoiled, don’t you think? It’d do her some good if someone told her no sometime, and there’s no time like the present. Surely Mordalce would prosper if she were taken down a peg.”

Xavier’s eyes widen. “Mireille, not even I can openly defy her. What you are suggesting is really nothing less than suicide.”

“So be it. My answer is no. And really, I expected more courage from a man such as yourself, the crown prince of the realm.”

“There is a difference between courage and recklessness.”

Mireille rolls her eyes in response, and the prince sighs, frustrated with this headstrong village girl and yet undeniably intrigued by her. “Where did you get such boldness?” he asks.

She looks away. “It’s simply a matter of principle,” Mireille mutters. “Girls like me don’t work for tyrants like her. I’ve endured enough tyranny.”

Xavier raises an eyebrow, interest further piqued. “Were you a seamstress in the Vyrunian Palace before you came here?”

She shakes her head. “I told you, I’ve never been there. I’ve never even left this village. The image you see on that cushion came to me in a dream.”

“I am most curious as to what sort of tyranny you have endured in this village.”

“That I shan’t tell you. Now, will you leave and let me eat my supper? I’ve not eaten since afore dawn, and I do believe I’ve made my answer quite clear. You may tell the Queen that I prefer death to the dishonor of having her as my employer.”

“I am afraid I cannot do as you have suggested. I have instructions to take you by force if necessary.” The air suddenly grows cold and unbearably still. After a moment of thick tension, a broom arises of its own volition from the corner where heretofore it had rested. Mireille shrieks and drops to the floor, covering her head with her hands.

“Not again! Please, not again!” she wails. “It’s not me who wants me to leave, it’s him!” At that, the broom flies like an arrow after the Prince, who runs around the small house twice before fleeing the building out of desperation, the broom in hot pursuit. Mireille gets to her feet and closes and locks both the front and back doors as quickly as she can, although she is trembling with fright.

“Thank you, Agnes,” she whispers. “A thousand times, thank you.”

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