Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales #4)

The grand manor was situated closer to the village square than it was to the palace. It was a short walk in the cool, fall air before Gemma arrived. Several flags flew from the flagpole, marking the three additional noble families staying with Lady Linnea’s parents instead of risking the palace.

Gemma slipped in through the back entrance, avoiding the chaotic mess of the kitchen. She climbed a servants’ staircase and slipped into her workroom—which was a sea of lavish cloth and held the great luxury of a fireplace.

Gemma rang the bell to summon a scullery maid before she unwrapped her materials and splayed them out over a workbench.

“Did you need something, Gemma?” a scullery maid asked, poking her head in the room.

“Sissel—perfect. I was hoping it would be you. Could you get a fire started, please?” Gemma said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sissel said, darting for the fireplace. In minutes she had the fireplace cleaned and lit, warming the room to a toasty temperature.

“Is that all?”

Gemma snapped a knotted rope. “No. Stand, please.”

Wide-eyed, Sissel stood, brushing off her ash-smeared smock.

Gemma walked around the scullery maid, brandishing her rope. She maneuvered Sissel’s arms, measuring them and her shoulder width. “Thank you, Sissel,” Gemma said after making a complete circuit around her.

“Sissel? Sissel!”

“Excuse me, Gemma,” Sissel said, bolting for the door.

“There you are,” Malfrid, the head maid, said. “Cook needs you in the kitchen. Get a move on!” the red-faced woman said, folding her formidable arms across her chest. In this pose, she resembled a cream puff in her brown and white uniform.

“She was helping me, Malfrid,” Gemma said, but Sissel was already gone, pounding down the servants’ stairs.

“Hmph, no wonder,” Malfrid said, strolling into Gemma’s workroom. “Must be nice to be paid to sit around a room and do little.”

“Is it? I wouldn’t know,” Gemma said, writing Sissel’s measurements on a small slate.

“At least I’m hired because I’m good at what I do—not because I’m a personal friend of Lady Linnea,” Malfrid said.

“You needn’t worry about that ever happening to you—with Lady Linnea or anyone else,” Gemma said, snagging a pin cushion.

Malfrid went stiff as she tried to figure out if Gemma was insulting her or not. “Tale-teller,” she finally said.

“If I told tales, I wouldn’t put up with your presence,” Gemma said, picking up a scissors. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a dress to make,” she said, pointedly staring at the door.

“You might be proud of yourself, Gemma Kielland. But you’re nothing but a chicken borrowing turkey feathers,” Malfrid said before storming out of the room.

“Peacock feathers. You mean I’m borrowing peacock feathers,” Gemma called after the stocky maid, although her attention was focused on the fabrics spread across her workbench.

Most dressmakers would draw out a dress before they started making it. At the very least, they would measure out the material. Not Gemma. She could tell where to cut and exactly how to stitch fabrics together.

Gemma worked in silence, her eyes—an unnerving mash of gray and blue so pale, they looked like river ice—narrowed in concentration. Her tea-brown hair spilled around her head in wavy, messy, shoulder-length ringlets—the ends twisted up in curls that no amount of brushing could undo. Her heart-shaped face was highlighted by the blue hair-band peppered with snowflake embroidery that ran across her forehead and pushed her hair away from her face.

Gemma’s button nose twitched as she cut the last piece of pricey fabric, and the door to her workroom opened.

“Gemma, I see you are hard at work,” Lady Lovland, Lady Linnea’s mother, said as she entered the room. Her daughter and a lady’s maid trailed her like lap-dogs.

“Yes, My Lady,” Gemma said, setting her scissors aside so she could curtsey to the gentlewoman.

“That is beautiful fabric. It will look stunning on you—wouldn’t you agree, Linnea?” Lady Lovland said, picking up the violet fabric and holding it out to her daughter.

Lady Linnea resembled a statue of ice as her mother held the velvet against her blonde hair.

“It will accent the blue of Lady Linnea’s eyes,” the lady’s maid, Jentine, said after several moments of awkward silence. Jentine was an older woman with silver hair and deep smile lines around her mouth. She usually treated Gemma well, probably because she knew Grandmother Guri. “I think it will complement her greatly. An excellent choice, Gemma,” Jentine said, giving Gemma a warm smile.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Gemma said.

“Which reminds me, I am most pleased with the newest dress you made for Linnea,” Lady Lovland said. “The train is quite pretty, and the embroidery around the neckline is beautifully done. Didn’t you think so, too, darling?”

Lady Linnea acknowledged the comment with a slight tip of her head.

“Thank you, My Lady,” Gemma said, curtsying again.