Slumber: Tales of Dormiraa, #1

By Cassandra Dean

From Award Winning Author Cassandra Dean comes the first in her fantasy series where a gallant Tailor is sent to find a lost princess...

The Tailor has been tasked to find the princess…
Upon decree from his king, Sebastian, Tailor to the entire kingdom of Dormiraa, embarks on the mission to fetch the Princess Thalia home, her seven year Royal Tour over. He didn't expect to find her working with clockwork and gears, encased within a coffin of glass. He did not expect the sight of her wild black hair to set his heart to pound, or the flash of her dark eyes would heat his blood. He did not expect he would want her so badly, not when he could never have her.

The princess must become the Queen…
Thalia has always known she must return to the capital to prepare for the throne. She did not expect her father to send the Tailor to fetch her, or that this man with his extravagant clothes and subtle cosmetics would intrigue her so well. There was something about him, something that spoke of danger and secrets, even as his wicked mouth and knowing eyes made her yearn. However, not everyone desires the princess's return.

When they are attacked, they can only turn to each other. Will they overcome status and secrets to discover a love for all time?

Previouisly published, this retelling of Sleeping Beauty and The Glass Coffin will delight fans of CL Wilson, Milla Vane, and Kati Wilde.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SeaDub Publications
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215970584

Cassandra Dean

Cassandra Dean is an award-winning author of historical and fantasy romance. She grew up daydreaming, inventing fantastical worlds and marvellous adventures. Once she learned to read (first phrase: To The Beach. True story), she was never without a book, and when she realised she could write her own, she never looked back. Cassandra is proud to call South Australia her home, where she regularly cheers on her AFL football team and creates her next tale. Cassandra Dean is an award-winning author of historical and fantasy romance. She grew up daydreaming, inventing fantastical worlds and marvellous adventures. Once she learned to read (first phrase: To The Beach. True story), she was never without a book, and when she realised she could write her own, she never looked back. Cassandra is proud to call South Australia her home, where she regularly cheers on her AFL football team and creates her next tale.

Book preview

THE TAILOR SEBASTIAN FOUND the princess in a coffin of glass.

He’d not before seen a coffin, as they were used by healers only when their patients were near enough to death as to require a wooden one. Turned on its side, the princess worked inside the coffin, the hundreds of tiny panels that made the coffin what it was distorting her image. Golden light from the wide, high window above refracted through the facets, casting a soft glow about the workroom and lighting the intricate designs of steel and copper that wound through the panels.

Crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall, Sebastian watched the princess. For a full turn of the season, he’d searched—three months that could have been spent in more useful pursuits. He’d missed the autumn season, and then the mid-autumn season, and looked to miss pre-winter as well. For the tailor, head of the Fashion Houses and second only in consequence to the throne, missing the seasons was as close as it got to a complete and unmitigated disaster, or so his undertailor would have him believe. His second-in-command had a tendency to exaggerate, but, in this case, Sebastian didn’t believe him far wrong. He hated to think of the state of his Houses, not to mention that, for a tailor appointed so recently, such an absence would breed discord and dissent. He’d have a task before him upon his return.

However, he couldn’t have refused. The king had bid the tailor find and fetch the long-absent princess, and Sebastian could not say no. It was a test, the king still unsure of Sebastian’s appointment. He was too young to be the tailor, to be the head of the Houses, to be in a position of power at all. The king had sixty years plus two, and Sebastian was but seven and twenty.

His lips twisted. Or eight and twenty, or six and twenty.

In any event, the king believed him too young, and his position was ineffectual and unstable if the king did not trust him. Dormiraa was a land of fabric and fashion, and those who created it ran the world. He’d sacrificed much to become tailor, had lied and cheated and stolen, and he would not suffer doubt from his king. So he’d undertaken this ridiculous quest, had sought the princess, and would fetch her home to the loving embrace of her father and her kingdom. Never mind that his Houses were in disarray. Never mind he had deadlines to meet. As long as he found the princess and fetched her home, all would surely be well.

Rubbing his lip with his gloved thumb, he watched her tinker away. He’d heard much about the princess; he couldn’t have avoided news of her if he’d tried. Prior to her Trip, she’d been all the newssheets had spoken of, all the people wanted to hear. They loved their wild princess, loved her extravagant parties, her decadent retreats. When they had read reports of the enormous sailboat devoted solely to her pleasure and her friends, the public had practically fallen to raptures. She’d courted scandal wherever she went, had seemed to delight in the chaos she created, and her people had loved her for it.

Then she’d turned eight and ten, and her father could no longer pretend his daughter was simply a motherless child prone to fancy. She had become an adult and, as such, had to learn the ways of maturity. As per tradition, the heir would be confirmed to the throne on her twenty-fifth birthday to begin the arduous task of learning the realm. In ages past, prior to the Confirmation, the heir had been sent on a Trip, a time apart from the trappings of royalty to learn of the common folk. Princess Thalia had been sent on her Trip, but what should have lasted a year or two had turned to seven.

Sebastian had no notion of why the princess had stayed away so long, why none had been sent to fetch her. There had been speculation in the newssheets, and servants and courtiers alike created their own theories, but none knew the truth. Maybe he could persuade the princess to tell him. What a fine and lucrative bit of information that would be. It would be fair payment for the indignities he’d been forced to endure, the first of which was bloody finding her.

The princess’s whereabouts was a tightly guarded secret, so much so that even he, the man who was to fetch her, had received a general somewhere west when he’d requested her location. His lips twisted. How very helpful the king’s steward had been. The mealy-mouthed man had barely been able to conceal his disdain as he’d looked down his too-thin nose at Sebastian.

Even lacking the steward’s help, Sebastian had tracked her down to this ramshackle gear shop in Dornse Keep. The city itself was wretched, too large and too busy and too full of people who seemed to believe bathing would melt their skin. He’d spent three bloody days searching the foul streets for her, all the while convinced he would never scour the reek of the city from his clothes, his wigs, his very bones. He was so close to the end of his blasted quest, he could taste it.

The discordant note of a missed strike rose from the coffin, followed by a terse mutter. By the Maiden, was the princess cursing?

A sudden, terrible thought occurred. Was it the princess? Surely a princess wouldn’t curse as if she was a dockworker Maybe his source had lied about the gear worker being the lost princess. Maybe this wasn’t her at all, and he would spend another three months trying to find the erstwhile royal.

No. If it killed him, this would be her. He was not going to waste any more time on this.

So decided, he intoned, Princess, in the clear, strong voice he used to quell conversation.

The woman in the coffin—the princess, damn his eyes—started, and a loud clang split the air, immediately followed by one of those horrendously vulgar curses. Pulling out of the coffin, she glared at him.

His breath strangled in his throat. Heat stormed through him, his cock hardening in his too-thin breeches. Thrice-damned god, but she was arresting.

Wild ebony hair escaped from the band holding it back while furious black eyes pilloried him, full lips pursed in displeasure. Her worker’s clothes revealed more of her form than they should, the homespun shirt opened to the middle of her breast bone. The undyed fabric seemed too rough for such fine skin, the dull off-white hue a contrast with dusky flesh. The brown leather harness of her trade nipped in her waist and cupped her breasts, while trousers outlined full hips and long legs, the latter encased in knee-high boots of soft brown leather capped with steel. Quite insanely, he wanted to taste the damp skin revealed by her shirt.

What do you think you’re about? she demanded.

She had to be the princess. Only royalty could deal such a stare.

About? he said.

She folded her arms beneath her breasts. He tried not to notice how her action plumped her flesh deliciously through the leather. Do not come into a workroom and startle a gear worker, especially if she’s wielding tools that could harm her, the object she works on, and your fat head once she recovers herself.

My apologies, Princess. He offered his most charming smile and ignored how the darkening of her scowl made him harder. I am the tailor, and I have been sent to fetch you home.

Scowl deepening, she looked as if she would retort, but then her brow cleared. Princess?

He merely smiled.

Resignation replaced anger, and she dropped heavily onto the bench holding the coffin. I am to return?

Praise be to all the gods, it was the princess, and, damn it, he was still hard. Arranging his hands before his groin, he said, Yes, Princess. The time for your Confirmation is upon us.

She nodded, her gaze running over him absently.

Setting his shoulders, he cocked his hip a little, arranged a smug smile upon his features. He knew what she saw. His deep-purple dress coat reached to mid-thigh, broad at the shoulders and nipping in at the waist. It didn’t require buttons to hold it in place, instead flaring open to reveal the bright yellow waistcoat with orange metal buttons and, underneath, a snowy white shirt. His cravat was brown shot with gold, and he wore his best kidskin gloves to disguise the scars on his hands. His trousers fit impeccably, and, so he didn’t overwhelm with brilliance, they were a circumspect dark gray, patterned with the faintest of herringbones. For this occasion, momentous indeed, he’d chosen a wig comprised of chestnut-brown curls, carefully coiffed into a charming profusion about his face. His cosmetics were light, not much more than a darkening of his lashes and the faintest hint of rouge on his cheeks. He was fetching the princess from her den of squalor, not being presented to the betters of the land.

A crease formed between her brows. My father sent you?

He could hear the disbelief in her tone, faint though it was. He did, Princess.

He sent the tailor? That is who you said you were, correct? The tailor?

I am, he bit off. Absurdly, her doubt annoyed him.

She cocked her head. I’m to understand my father saw fit to deprive himself of the counsel of the tailor to fetch me? It could just as easily have been done by a steward.

Yes. It could. Even he could hear the sour tone in his voice.

She raised a brow at that, and he knew he had in no way concealed his ire at the king for sending him on this quest. Ah well.