Free The Shadow at the Gate by Christopher Bunn

the duchess’ head.
    “Will you be waiting outside for us?” asked Levoreth.
    “Er,” said the footman.
    “Of course,” said the duchess.
    “There’s a good inn down the street,” said Levoreth. She dropped a gold piece in the footman’s hand. “Wait there. See that the horses have some oats. We’ll send someone to fetch you when we’re ready. Have some ale yourself.”
    “Very good, milady.”
    The footman ushered them to the door of the shop and then backed away, bowing. He was young and the niece of the duke of Dolan was beautiful. Everyone thought so in the servants’ hall.
    The duchess shook her head.
    “Sometimes, Levoreth, you are much too nice.”
    The dress shop was alive with light. Lamps hung from the ceiling and their glow reflected from mirrors of all sizes hung on walls and propped in corners. The proprietor appeared out of nowhere, bowing and smiling and bowing again.
    “Welcome, maladies. Welcome. Tea?”
    “That’d be nice,” said the duchess, already drifting toward a flowing blue silk.
    “Tea!” called the proprietor.
    He clapped his hands together and a small girl hurried up with a silver pot. A second girl, even smaller, followed with a tray of mugs. Steam and cinnamon filled the air. Levoreth found herself holding a mug of tea. A third girl, the smallest of the three, peered up at her from beneath a plate of cookies.
    “Gingersnap?” said the little girl.
    “Yes, thanks,” said Levoreth. She took two.
    “My daughters,” said the proprietor. “Now, back to work, my dears. Nimble fingers, you see.” He bowed to the duchess. “Little fingers make little stitches. They take after their mother.”
    “You don’t say. This blue silk, do you have it in green?”
    “Milady has excellent taste. This comes from the loom of the best weaver in Damarkan, Avila Avilan herself. I’m devastated, but I do not have it in green. Purple, scarlet, blue. If I may say so, this blue does marvels with your eyes, milady.”
    “Pity,” sniffed the duchess. “Why is it so difficult to find a good green?”
    “The dye’s been rare this last year,” said the proprietor.
    “And why’s that?”
    “I don’t know, milady.” The proprietor spread his hands in apology.
    “Because the yarrow crop in Vomaro has failed for the last three years,” said Levoreth to herself. “Too many gophers.”
    “What’s that, my dear?” said the duchess.
    “Nothing.”
    “You look good in green, Levoreth, but this brown velvet damask would go splendidly with your hair—“
    “Absolutely, milady,” said the proprietor. “Absolutely.”
    “—though brown is a difficult color, difficult to pin down into a proper tone, don’t you think?”
    “Certainly,” said the proprietor. “But if it’s brown you desire, perhaps milady would consider this silk as well? A lovely, rich earth tone, I might say. Finest Harthian silk.”
    “It is rather nice. Levoreth, my dear, what about a silk instead?”
    “If you don’t mind, Aunt,” said Levoreth, “I’m going for a walk. It is a bit stuffy in here. I’ll take this umbrella.”
    “But this silk would go perfectly with your—”
    “Fine. Buy it. I’ll wear it.”
    Before the duchess could say anything else, Levoreth stepped out the door. She discovered she had crushed a gingersnap in her hand. She flung the crumbs into the gutter. The rain was still falling. It drummed on top of the umbrella and dripped down in front of her nose. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Something was not right.
    A yawn escaped her lips. The sensation of wanting to fall asleep was even stronger now. Stronger than it had been in the castle up on Highneck Rise. But she was not tired. She knew she was not. Yet here she was, about to fall asleep on her feet. She stumbled and stepped into a puddle.
    “Drat!”
    Her stocking felt cold and clammy against her skin. It was horrid, but the sensation cleared her head of any thought of sleep. And in that moment, she felt a