To Die For

Chapter 2 - Riley Emerson

"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"
"We'll be good," I say, clutching my sister's arm, "It's broad daylight."
He looks up from the war reports on the table in front of him. He's not finished with breakfast. And the sun doesn't shine past the chem fog.
"You can't expect us to look nice at your party if we don't have a thing to wear," Shaye says, holding my arm too.
"There hasn't been any trouble in town," I reason.
"Fine," he sighs a little, "Be back before noon."
We grin, clutching each other and bouncing, then we bolt before he can change his mind.
"You don't even want to meet the boys he's bringing to party," she says.
"No, but I do need more thread from town," I say going for our coats, "Hurry, before he remembers I'm untrustworthy."
"Riley," Shaye sighs, a bit, but her mood won't be damped. She wants a pretty new dress.
"Come on, I'll find ribbons for your hair you'll so pretty," I say, tugging her hand, "And if we get new fabric I can finish your dress."
"And yours, we're both going," she says, as we set out the great front steps. Our mother will still be asleep, which is the only reason we got to go.
"I'm probably going to get out of it to be honest," I say. She's the pretty one. Most people don't even remember there is a younger Emerson girl, which is fine by me.
"Father is desperate enough for money to marry us both off," Shaye predicts, linking arms with me, the dark clouds billow over the sun leaving everything a hazy green grey. The sun won't shine for another week at this rate.
"And good luck to him finding someone who will have me," I say, cheerfully, "If they're going to pay they'll want a pretty girl." Shaye is the pretty one. I know how I look. I don't care.
"Yes, and then he'll get killed someplace," Shaye says, idly, "I don't know if I'd care so long as he handsome. Come on, if you ask father he'll find you a handsome one to die quickly."
"No man is clever enough to tempt me," I say, "Come on, let's race."
"This is exactly why mother says you're a pain you know that?"
"Clearly," I laugh.
We run down the muddy lane towards town. And I do win. I always do. There's no military vehicles this time of day. Only a few other stragglers on the road. Mostly going for daily chores. We're alone giggling and leaning on each other, glad to be on our way to the finer shops.
"I'm thinking yellow for you," I say, turning my hands into a frame to study her face.
Shaye laughs, "Yellow never looks pretty."
"Try it. It will on you. Ribbons braided into your hair and then with you in gold pearls around your neck?"
"Mother will never let me borrow the pearls."
"That's why we don't ask first, trust me, you shall look beautiful," I say, tugging her closer.
"I trust you. Unfortunately," she mutters, rolling her eyes.
Town is quiet as shopkeepers slowly open. Men too old to fight in the war, and wives and children. All the young men off at war, age fifteen and on. Most of the ones from school I don't recognize when they get back. Missing eyes and limbs, dead stares. I tip my head up to search for some sunlight past the clouds. But there is none. It's a grey cloudy day. Normally we'd not be allowed to walk into town ourselves but our father has some sort of policy to not argue with me before noon.
The finer shops are already open, and a few ladies are in doing buisness, picking out better cloth, or occasionally meat. The men aren't back to go hunting and it's against regulation for women to go beyond the fences.
"When I'm married rich I'll have fine jewels to wear," Shaye says, hand on her hollow neck, as she looks at herself in the reflection of the glass. "The problem is I'll also have a husband."
"Not if I kill him," I say.
"Riley," she laughs.
I smirk.
"No he'll die in war first," she says, softly.
We walk into the fabric shop. The shopkeeper is busy with other customers, so we can move to the racks of fine cloth in peace. Old salvaged things, and then rows upon rows of freshly dyed and spun wool. I walk to a box of threads, every color ever thought of. I select two strong rolls, of shades of soft aqua blue. I have to finish my dress if I'm going. I slip the spools into the pocket of my coat, carefully. Shaye sees me, glaring. I smile back. We don't have the money for it. We both know that. The nicer stuff is locked up away from my light fingers. But this will do.
"This is pretty," Shay says, touching a roll of bright yellow wool.
"Needs to be a bit lighter, here," I say, moving down to some old satin that's been salvaged.
"There's not enough for a dress," Shaye says, moving over to look at it with me.
"It is if there's a bodice out of leather," I say, holding up a pale yellow vest that's soft leather, "Tight across there, and lower on one side, I use wide stitches in blue, make it a pattern, then thicker across the chest, you'll look like the sky."
Shaye frowns.
"Have I been wrong before?" I ask.
"Can we afford both of those?" She asks.
"Of course we can," I say, with the confidence of someone prepared to steal them.
I snatch another roll of bright blue thread quickly tucking it into my pocket.
"I don't have shoes," Shaye says.
"I can make the train long enough, cover your feet," I say.
"Okay, but they'll look."
"Their eyes stop about here, trust me," I say, slapping her ass. She laughs, gripping my arm. We're only two years apart but Shaye has always been the quiet one. Our mother says I'm like another son, but she says it like she wishes I weren't her daughter.
"What are you wearing?" She asks.
"I've got purple fabric left over, and my boots," I say.
"You can't wear boots!"
"You can wear boots with anything, it looks like fashion," I say, linking arms with her as we walk up to the front counter. The shopkeeper is an old man, grizzled from the wars and with a peg leg not fit for service anymore.  We come in every few weeks, he never gives his name.
I push Shaye back a bit. She has the money, but it's not enough. It's all our mother gave us for the week and it won't pay for ribbons let alone the fabric.
"I just came to check out umm—our father paid last week when he was in town? For us to pick out new fabric, for the feast," I say, smoothly.
"When was this?" The shopkeeper shuffles through a set of crumpled papers on his desk.
"Ah—last Wednesday? Morning? I'm sorry he said that was all we needed to say—,"
Last Wednesday morning his wife minded the shop. He'll blame her for writing it down when in reality she's more careful than he is. We've got a decent line behind us. Now he's pressured not to keep everyone waiting.
"Were we supposed to have a receipt? Our mother's not up yet—," our mother's to be feared and everyone knows it. She used to go on hunts beyond the fences when she was a girl. She swears that's why she forbids us from doing the same thing.
"Go on then, I'm sure it's here somewhere," the man mutters.
We both bounce, thanking him swiftly as we bolt from the store, fabric clutched in our arms. The boardwalks between the shops are getting busier, and slick from the soft misting rain. I hold the precious fabric carefully, tucking it under my coat.
"Why did you do that? I had the money," Shaye hisses.
"He won't dare bring it up to our mother next week he'll think it's his error. And this way we can buy whiskey, and a new record for you to practice dancing to," I say, holding her hand, "And if he's drunk he won't notice you dancing."
"Are you sure you have enough for your dress?"
I"m not wearing a dress. "Yes, anyway it's not my party is it?"
"He'll find you a husband as well, he wants the money," Shaye guarantees.
"I know," I say. He will eventually. We're a good family name. And some other good family isn't going to care I'm not beautiful. Shaye will always be first, once they've sold her they'll sell me. That much is certain. 
"At least then we'll be rich," she says, trying to cheer me.
"At least we'll be rich," I force a smile, "Come on, let's go to the oddities shop."
The oddities shop has most anything salvaged from the dig sites. Sometimes that's old records and occasionally clothes, but mostly things we don't know what to do with but that are shiny and pretty anyway. Sometimes I can use them as ornaments for our dresses, but usually not. Simple and understated is best especially when I'm salvaging cloth for clothes. Even if it's artfully remade from scraps, it must look intentional. So long as the choices appear to be on purpose, there's nothing to mock it's just a bold choice.
Shaye selects a record she likes. I don't plan on dancing anyway, so I agree to anything, looking through the trinkets and selecting a few shiny bits of metal that I simply slip into my pockets. I don't know if I can do something with it but it's worth seeing.
We return home before our mother is up. The muddy road is more heavily travelled on the way back and I barely save our fabric from getting splattered with mud. I go directly up to my room to start work on her dress. Shaye goes to give our father the whiskey. She's favorite anyway.
I know my sister's measurements so I don't need her to get started laying out the fabric. I know just what I want to do in my mind's eye but now I just need to see it before me, on the table. Then to start pinning everything together once I've got it cut, and chalk out the lines. This will take all night.
Shaye comes up to join me when I'm just pinning the skirt. I don't need her for a model yet and she knows it, wrapping her arms around me from behind.
"Father says some of the old families are coming," she says.
"He wouldn't marry you to them, even if they had enough money," I say.
"Not the really ancient ones, old bloods, no, but they get cross if they're invited," she says, twisting a finger in my hair, "Don't dance with them."
"I won't dance with anyone," I laugh. There are old families, like us, who've had money since before the last time the world ended. Then there are ancient families, that never seem to die, they may or may not have any money to show for it, but their ancestors spent too much time in the wilds, mixing with unknown creatures. Centuries ago we'd worship them. But all that's no longer. Who knows what stories they tell? But they're generally not to be trusted.  That said they tend to have feuds and stir up trouble, namely if they aren't invited to participate in things like this.
"He said he won't marry me to them but they've no money. But anyway, don't dance with anyone you don't know. You can tell by their eyes mother says," she says.
"He'd better not. I'll kidnap you," I say, squeezing her arm. "And if any of them do try to dance with you I'll pull you away."
"Really all you have to do all evening, is say you just saw me, I'll likely be reading," I say.
She sighs, pressing her face into my shoulder, "You do that."
"I plan on it. Now, go on, put on that new record, father will be drunk enough not to care," I smile. She kisses my cheek. I look back down at the soft rippling fabric under my fingers, creamy butter yellow, and soft sky blue thread. This will take all night, then I'll start on mine. And if I'm lucky my parents won't notice where I keep getting new thread.