Ring of Fire II(103)

"Well, that's the tough part. He wants to do it before Christmas in Grantville."



"What?" Mary looked aghast. "But you're doing your recital here in Magdeburg on December fifteenth!"



"Tell me about it. I really want to do it, but there has to be some travel time and at least one rest day. And I—we—have to see the music soon."



"Yes, you do." Mary looked determined. "I will see to that."



"Thank you."



Mary leaned over and placed her hand over Marla's. "You will be a great success, my dear, both in your recital and in Maestro Carissimi's work as well. Believe that."



Marla watched as her new mentor picked up her coat and walked out of the room. She was still impressed at how much strength of purpose and will was enclosed in that small lady, and she was very glad to have her support.





Tuesday, November 16, 1633



"I can't wear that."



Franz winced a little at the sharp tone in Marla's voice. They were in Mary Simpson's parlor, gathered with Mary and a seamstress. It was Mary's first day back from her trip to Grantville. She had called the women together to address the question of what Marla would wear for her concert performance. Franz had quietly shadowed Marla, as was his wont. He could have told Mary that Marla would reject the down-time styles, but as the lone male in the room, he wisely chose the course of silence.



Affronted, the seamstress looked first at the young woman who had spoken, and then at Mary Simpson. Marla caught that glance, and before Mary could say anything, she continued, "I'm sorry, no offense, but it's just . . . too much. Too much fabric, too much bulk. I wouldn't be able to move freely. That outfit would restrict me in playing the flute and the piano."



The seamstress' daughter, who was modeling a clothing ensemble similar to what the seamstress wanted to prepare for Marla, did a slow turn, showing off her mother's fine work. Franz admired the quality of the tailoring; it was equal to anything he had ever seen in the prince-bishop's court in Mainz. But, somehow he doubted that he would ever see Marla wearing anything like it.



"Are you sure?" Mary asked.



"Yes," her young protégé answered firmly. "I mean, look at it: underskirts, overskirt, bodice, blouse, jacket, large sleeves, ruff collar. At least it's not an Elizabethan ruff, but still . . ." She laughed a little. "Mary, without shoes I'm four to six inches taller than most of the down-time women. What looks dainty on them would start to look ponderous by the time it's scaled up to my proportions, besides the fact it would make me so bulky I'd have trouble getting through doorways and sitting on chairs."



Franz nodded agreement from his seat by the stove.



"Not to mention," Marla frowned at the model as she concluded, "that after a few minutes of performing in that rig," the seamstress bristled a little—she wasn't sure what a 'rig' was, but it didn't sound complimentary—"I'd be sweating like a pig." Turning to her mentor, Marla said, "I understand why I can't wear my prom dress . . . bare arms and shoulders, and all that."



"That's right," Mary replied. "After that little episode at The Green Horse, you should understand the problem of down-time perceptions now."



Marla shrugged. Franz felt the flash of anger he felt every time he thought about what had happened a month ago. Marla had been able to put it out of her mind by the day after, but he still wanted to hurt someone . . . preferably the fool who had accosted Marla. His fists balled . . . or at least his right one did. The pain from his crippled left hand as it tried to close jerked him out of his mood. He forced himself to relax, rubbing the stiffened ring and little fingers on the crippled hand.



"I'm willing to accommodate perceptions." Marla had quieted. Perhaps she hadn't put that unpleasant event totally out of her mind after all. "But only to some extent, and definitely not if it interferes with my ability to perform." She stood, stretched her arms out, and performed her own slow rotation in front of the other women. "Mary, Frau Schneider, look at me. I am five feet nine and one-half inches tall in my bare feet, and I weigh somewhere around one hundred fifty pounds. I am not a small woman, and you can't dress me like I am. I may not know yet what will look good on me, but I'm very certain that what I've seen today will not work."



"Well, what do you want, dear?" Mary asked.



The young woman sat down again with a pensive look. "I don't know." There was a pause. "I just want to look . . . elegant." The momentary expression of longing that crossed her face tugged at Franz's heart.