A Brother's Price

that the parlor and women’s room isolated Jerin’s bedroom from the rest of the palace. She demonstrated how one of the parlor settees could be wheeled to block his bedroom door and used as a bed. Surely even the most paranoid of sisters would feel safe with their brother in this apartment.
    Jerin recalled that in his sisters’ adventure novels, there were always secret passages to the men’s quarters. The daring heroines used them to save their true loves from heartless mothers, cruel sisters, abusive wives, and vile kidnappers. He sighed over the banks of windows, evidence that no secret passage could open into his bedroom; Ren wouldn’t be visiting him late at night.
    A squad of servants, obviously younger sisters of the majordomo, brought up two copper bathtubs. They set one in his bedroom, the other in his sisters’ room to share, and poured buckets of steaming water into them. All the while, the women sent curious glances his way. It made Jerin blush—these strangers preparing a place that he’d step naked into.
    “The Queens have commissioned tailors for you,” Barnes was saying. “They’ll be here in an hour.” The tub filled, the servants filed out. Barnes followed them to the door, then turned, indicating a length of tapestry fabric hanging from a loop in the ceiling. “This is the bellpull here. Ring if you need anything.”
    Jerin glanced to his sister and saw the slight frown Eldest wore when irritated. Was she as baffled as he was but too proud to ask? Summer and Corelle studiously ignored Barnes, which probably meant they were also ignorant. Luckily men were expected to be naive. He cleared his throat and asked quietly, “I don’t understand. Ring what?”
    Barnes looked surprised. “The bellpull. You pull on this, and it rings one of the bells down in the kitchens to let us know you want something.”
    “Really?” Summer exclaimed. “How does it do that?”
    “There are cables on small pulleys run through the walls, going down to a rack of numbered bells. You pull here, and your bell in the kitchen rings. If you want anything, just ring.”
    Jerin nodded, wondering what “anything” constituted. With a tub, towels, and chamber pot at hand, he could not guess what more they could want.
    “The Queens keep country hours, so dressing gong is at six and dinner gong is at seven,” Barnes continued.
    “Dressing gong?” Jerin asked.
    Again the startled look from Barnes. “It’s like a bell sound, deep and not so sweet. Brassy, one could say, kind of like hitting a slipper against a big kettle lid.”
    “What’s it for?” Jerin pressed on.
    “So you know it’s time to dress for dinner,” Barnes said.
    “You expect us to take that long to bathe?” Summer half laughed, nervous that things were vastly different with the nobility.
    Barnes worked her mouth, considering words carefully before saying, “Dress in one’s dinner clothes as opposed to one’s daily wear.”
    That stunned all the Whistlers speechless.
    “Will that be all?” Barnes asked after a moment.
    “Yes,” Eldest murmured finally. “Thank you.”
    Barnes backed out of the room, apparently a habit from serving royalty, and closed the door. The Whistlers stared at the shut door in silence.
    “Dinner clothes.” Eldest crossed to bar the door. “They have clothes just for eating?”
    “Apparently,” Corelle said.
    “Daily clothes. Dinner clothes. Party clothes.” Eldest counted on her fingers, squinting. “1 think we should have asked for the reward in money and stayed home. We could have bought the store and a husband for the cost of these clothes.”
    “A good husband is worth it,” Summer murmured. “Besides, we can resell the clothes in our new store later for at least half their cost.”
    Jerin glanced at his wedding chest, thinking of the clothes within. What would he wear for dinner?
    “We’ve got an hour before the tailors come,” Eldest said. “Let’s hurry with the baths.”
    The tailors were a family of at least seven women, with a goodly chance of many more not in attendance.
    The eldest was a small, bird-boned woman with sharp features and a bright chirpy voice. Her salt-and-pepper hair was twirled up into a bun by way of a charcoal pencil, joined by a hemming guide and a pattern roller. A flock of younger sisters followed in her wake, carrying colorful ribbons and swatches of fabric. It was obvious by the way they migrated about the room, emitting pleased twitters over the rich