“It was for my father...” Raucous chuckling ensued—was what Dahlia had braced herself for, anyway, but in reality, not a single laugh was heard; rather, her audience vented their exasperation with sighs. She fought every urge to dash out of the room as she stared a hole into the glass in her hand.
“Did your father wish for an embroidered handkerchief, Master Dahlia?”
“He mentioned that he had never received one, and I asked him if he would like one from me. I doubt any father could possibly reject his little girl, so I made it for him while I was still in primary school.”
“I had a feeling that was the case. Was he happy to receive it?”
“He seemed to like it, at least.”
“I’m sure he was genuinely delighted.” Griswald nodded repeatedly, like he really meant what he said. For what it was worth, he supposedly had a daughter of his own; maybe he would have liked to get an embroidered handkerchief from her as well.
“Four daughters and I still have never received one...”
“Oh, Sir Alfio...”
“Well, each gave hers to her own fiancé, so no problem there, but still—I’ve never gotten one. Who did my wife give it to...?” Alfio filled his glass up with liquor, neat. Wait. What happened to going easy on the booze today?
No one could answer his question, but the others could join him in the wallowing. “Tonight’s drink burns, all right...”
“Wish I had a daughter too...”
“You’ve got three sons, don’t you? Well, my two girls have gotten to that age where they respond to anything I have to say with merely a yes or a no...”
“Well, once they get married, you won’t even get that anymore...” The older knights at the other table joined not only in the grumbling but in ordering what seemed to be too much alcohol.
“You have it better than me, sir—you’re married! We don’t even have plans to get wedded.”
“Yeah, and what about me, pal? I haven’t even got a partner at all.”
“What more is there to say about someone for whom spring has never sprung?”
Over at the other table, the younger knights couldn’t look each other in the eyes. When someone brought over a case of dark ale, they each popped a top.
Wait. I know I’m repeating myself, but what happened to going easy on the booze today? The situation around Dahlia seemed to be spiraling, and she was at a loss for words. Randolph softly nudged a plate of roasted chestnut toward her. She began ripping bits out of the flat side of the peel.
Dorino looked at her for some time. “Oh, I’ve got a good idea! Ms. Dahlia, why don’t you back-embroider Volf’s undershirt? He’s the only Scarlet Armor without one.”
“K-hmpf!” As for the knight in question, his drink must’ve gone down the wrong pipe when he heard the word “undershirt.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. In the early years of the Kingdom of Ordine, they fought against a lot of monsters and stuff. In hopes that they would come back safely, men preparing to go into combat would get the back of their undershirts embroidered, and those who did tended to survive—so the story goes.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s an old-timey practice. Knights nowadays don’t really go out to fight much anyway.”
As far as Dahlia knew, people in Ordine mainly stitched designs on gifts for loved ones. She’d read that nobles gravitated toward handkerchiefs and other accessories, but according to different books, the embroidery could also have many different meanings.
“It’s become more popular lately among our squad, actually, and Volf is the only Scarlet Armor without a stitched shirt.”
“Volf never goes home, and even if he does, he doesn’t have sisters either.”
“And with his face and whatnot, it’s not like there’s anyone else he could ask for help. That’s why I was wondering if maybe you could do it, Ms. Dahlia.”
As his friends began to object, Volf cleared his throat. “I dunno about that...”
“Um, may I ask who did the embroidering on your shirts?”
The first to answer her question was Griswald. “My wife stitched on our family crest.”
“I’ve got four undershirts with Fabiola’s name!”
“The product of the seamstresses at her work, then.”
“Hey.”
It seemed that women sewed on their names too, though it probably wouldn’t have been wise to find out who’d actually done it for Dorino.
“My mother and little sister put our family name on mine. When they came to visit, they handed me two dozen shirts.” Randolph’s family must’ve really cared for him.
“Two whole dozen...”
Dahlia learned that back-embroidery could feature a family crest or name, the wearer’s name, a small needlework design—there didn’t seem to be any hard-and-fast rules. It could also be done by the knight’s family, fiancée, lover, relatives, and so on. One of the knights mumbled that his maid had done it for him, which earned him a couple of pats of condolence on the back.
“If back-embroidery doesn’t have any particular rules, then maybe I can do it too.”
“You’re so busy, Dahlia—you don’t need to force yourself to do it. It’s just a good luck charm anyway,” Volf softly said.
But even if it was just a good luck charm to grant him a little safety, she had to do it for him. “I’d like to stitch the backs of your shirts if you’d be happy with me doing it, Volf. If you give me all of your undershirts, I’ll embroider all of them for you.”
“Um.” His golden eyes grew wide, and they blinked once. “Thank you for offering me your time, Dahlia.” With how uneasy he looked, he must’ve had a whole load of undershirts, but she could just do one at a time.
“I’m so happy for you, Sir Volf!”
“There ya go, Volf! Now you’re gonna live forever!” Dorino and Kirk clapped Volf on the back, then walked out of the room.
Then, Volf had two large hands on his shoulders. “Volf, drink as much as you like tonight. I shall escort Miss Dahlia home should you be unable to move.”
“That’s a good idea, Randolph. Why don’t you and I see who can drink more tonight? I’ll even do sweet honey wine with you.” There went his last bastion of inhibition.
Dorino returned with a case of booze, followed by Kirk with all the glasses he could carry in both hands. Bottles, glasses, and a second round of food filled the tables, and the knights began making merry. They shared their thoughts about the portable warm air circulator and chatted about their private lives—it was touching to see them even more relaxed than they had been at the riverside. With a smile, Dahlia accepted a glass of an amber liquor.
Enjoying the scene of their rowdy squadmates and their advisor were two veterans. They each had a silvery goblet in hand, filled not with alcohol but warm chicken soup—they had reached that age at which a strong drink after a long day was too rough on the body.
“So, the kid’s getting his undershirts all back-embroidered, eh? I’d expected Volf to be celebrating, but it doesn’t seem like Master Dahlia realizes what she’s said.”
The eyes of the other vet, who was leaning against the wall, curved. “Unfortunately, her face does not say ‘I don’t want anyone else embroidering your shirts’ either.”
It was true that back-embroidery was an age-old tradition, but that had only become a trend within the squad because of the camp stoves. On the underside of each one was the name Rossetti—just as, in the early years of the kingdom, women had embroidered the backs of the shirts of men going into battle. The hopes and wishes of now and of yore were the same: for their loved ones to return home safely; that much hadn’t changed. The handiwork was usually done by someone intimate—family and close relatives, but naturally, fiancées and lovers as well.
“You who fight for me, I shall support from behind” was its meaning, and to embroider all of a man’s undershirts could be taken as extending the meaning to “I want you all for myself.” It was unlikely—rather, it was certain that Dahlia had no intention of saying so. The redheaded magical toolmaker, with roasted chestnuts between her fingers, was devoting all of her attention to the vice-captain, who was explaining the skybat’s finer points.
“Can’t help but feel for him, our Scarlet Armor, the Black Reaper...”
Volf avoided looking at Dahlia as he downed a glass of whatever his friend had poured him, and his friend returned the favor. The Black Reaper or Dark Lord was ever calm on the battlefield, dauntless in the face of danger. Alcohol never shook his composure either, that heavyweight of a sea serpent. Yet his youthful cheeks were dyed a beautiful red tonight, and not by monster blood.
“Indeed. Volf is finally able to remove his armor.”