Gossamer Beauty

Amie studied the gossamer thread, checking for any hint of flaw in the fabric. The thread, from a species of mountain spider, was very strong, but the fabric had to hold a lot of weight. Any flaws could cause a wardrobe malfunction. No, a disaster, a calamity.

She had seen this happen once. An older woman, whose age was no longer hidden by the lotions and cosmetics that produced youth, had had her dressed rip at the bodice at a minor function. Amie recalled the horror on the woman's face, and the speed at which she and her husband left after that. And the way the others stared at her now exposed bosom. The lady retired from public view after that. Or was retired. Her husband was seen with another gossamer beauty on his arm.

Because that's what they were. That's what Amie was. A gossamer beauty. Expected to look pretty and perfect. But what was the alternative when you weren't born a man? Amie was a Varellian! She was descended from the gods. She couldn't be expected to wait on others like a servant. She was a work of art in her own right, wearing dresses that were also works of art. But the frivolousness chafed like a flawed thread.

There were no flaws on this fabric that Amie could see, even with the magnifying glass she held. The translucent fabric felt smooth to her educated fingers and shimmered in the light. It didn't rustle, or make any sound at all, like other fabric did. It seemed that Amie had, at last, found the fabric for her wedding dress. She had already rejected many lengths.

She had everything else she required for the dress. She had been collecting golden threads, sparkling topaz, and the tiniest pearl beads since before she entered womanhood. She also had several rolls of the same thread used for the fabric.

Her husband in waiting would be pleased to know she had her fabric at last. For they certainly would not be able to marry till the dress was made.

Next up, she needed to ensure she had the help she required. It needed to be help she could trust. People skilled at embellishment. This was the only way it could be completed within a reasonable timeframe. If Amie had to do it herself, it could easily take two years or more. As it was, it would be months before it could be completed.

***

Lukas stood at the entrance to the balcony, covertly admiring the gossamer beauties in the garden below. His affianced was the most beautiful, of course, but she was away working on her wedding dress. She was altogether far too interested in matters that were strictly men's business, matters such as mathematica and philosophy. But he would rectify that. He would install a sense of decorum in her. He would make her truly the work of art she was destined to be. Even if that required a few pinches and slaps, though he feared a few beatings might well be needed. She would conform to his expectations.

The beauties below had the decorum Amie lacked. He tried to study them to see what needed to be changed in his fiancé. Yet his mind continued to drift back to the light within Amie’s topaz eyes. The light that had entranced him, and that seemed to be missing from the eyes of every other beauty he saw.

***

Amie and her aunts examined the shimmery white dress on the dress form. Amie’s fabric truly was perfect.

The four women studied the fabric, gems, and thread and pondered the best arrangement. The trick was somehow making a semi-transparent fabric into something modest enough for a wedding day.

Amie had a number of designs and patterns drawn out already, and her aunts produced their sketches. There was plenty of time to get this right before adding a single pearl.

***

On the day of their wedding, Amie shimmered as much as her dress. Her hair was intricately bound with gossamer threads and pearls. Her dress flowed exactly as she had hoped, with the sleek lines of the pegasus in flight, her family's spirit animal.

She barely remembered anything from the ceremony. Except her fiancé, now her husband. She took in every detail of his face, of the long elaborately braided hair hanging down, of his perfectly trimmed goatee. She remembered the gentleness of his hands on her waist as they danced that first dance. And the second, and the third.

She could not recall the taste of the food, but she savoured the taste of his lips. He tasted of cinnamon and honey. The odours of the room were strangely muted, yet his muskiness permeated her nostrils.

***

The dress, the work of art that Amie had painstakingly created hung carefully in the wardrobe. On the other side of the wardrobe door was Amie. Tear streaked, and bruised, her arm hurt from where she had been thrown into the door handle. The pain in her arm distracted her from the pain in her heart as she looked at the door Lukas had just walked out of. That she heard being locked.

That would be one mighty big bruise.