The day begins before the sun remembers to rise.
I’m already running through the corridors, a bundle of fabric rolls in my arms, pins biting through my sleeves. The palace feels larger now that it belongs, even a little, to me—every echo of my steps threading through halls that once swallowed me whole. Being head seamstress sounds like power, but it feels like endless motion.
By the time the first bell tolls, I’ve crossed two floors, three chambers, and five sets of stairs. Fleetlace keeps up easily, her long skirts whispering behind her like gossip, a pincushion bristling at her wrist like a tiny crown.
“You move like a storm, dear,” she laughs, catching the edge of her hat before it flies off. “You’ll set the palace spinning.”
“Then maybe it’ll stop breathing down my neck,” I mutter, shifting the fabrics in my arms.
She grins. “You’ll fit in faster than you think.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” I say, half to myself.
“Wanting’s a luxury,” she says lightly. “We deal in necessity.”
By noon, we’ve stitched until our fingers ache. The first-floor hall is quiet except for the faint hum of passing servants and the tick of the great clock. We’ve taken refuge here with two chairs, one small table, and a sea of half-mended silks that glimmer like bruises under the light.
Fleetlace leans close, her needle moving so fast it looks like part of her hand. “Watch,” she says. “You have to feed the threads toward each other, not through. Seam to seam. Make them kiss.”
I follow every motion, holding my breath. My needle slips once, then again. “How are you doing it?”
She looks up. “The stitch?”
“No.” I keep sewing. “Keeping calm all day, every day.”
That earns me a small, puzzled pause. Then she laughs softly, the kind of sound that feels like wind through curtains. “I count. In four, out four. And I imagine the worst thing that could happen—and prepare the hem for it.”
“It feels like even the air here tries to swallow me whole,” I admit. “I can’t breathe in this place.”
“It comes with time, dear. Though—” her eyes sparkle with mischief, “I’d say someone is choking you just enough not to let you breathe properly.”
I blink, but her look says enough. She means Lady Seraphine.
The almost-queen who ensures every thread of my peace is unraveled.
I let out a tired chuckle. “Forget it.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I actually wanted to ask something else.”
She hums, reaching for another spool of thread.
“Would you… perhaps take my daughter to the autumn festival tomorrow?” I ask, forcing steadiness into my tone. “I can’t go. You-know-who would have me quartered for appearing in public before her wedding day.”
Fleetlace stills mid-stitch. “Oh, dear.” She looks genuinely regretful. “I’m so sorry. I’d love to, but I’ll be up to my elbows in velvet and vanity. The wealthy guests are too lazy to lace their own bodices, so I’ll be dressing them all myself.”
“I understand,” I say quickly, though disappointment pricks sharp. “I’ll find someone else.”
“You will,” she says warmly. “And if not—bring her another day. The lanterns will still be up for a week. I’ll have a baker save her a honey bun.”
We spend another hour in comfortable silence. She keeps teasing the fabric to perfection while I fill a page of notes, each line her secret, written carefully in the tidy hand of survival. Working beside Liora Fleetlace feels oddly easy, like stitching beside an older sister who remembers both the beauty and cruelty of the palace but still chooses to smile at it.
When she waves goodbye at dusk, my hands are sore, my back stiff, but my heart oddly lighter.
***
The sky outside bleeds orange and gold by the time I reach the dormitory. Mira’s soft coughing reaches me before I open the door. Ysabet sits by her bed, spooning a bit of broth into her mouth. The faint smell of herbs wraps around the room like comfort and exhaustion woven together; a mortar sits cooling on the table, green paste drying in its bowl.
“Long day?” Ysabet asks without looking up.
“Long month,” I murmur, dropping my sewing bag on the floor. “Fleetlace nearly had me sewing through air.”
“She’s good for you,” Ysabet says simply.
“I suppose.” I pause, hesitating. “Ysabet… could you take Mira to the autumn festival tomorrow? Just for a few hours. She’s been trapped here too long.”
Mira’s lashes lift. “Lanterns?” she whispers, voice papery.
“Yes, little one. Lanterns shaped like moons,” I say, smoothing her hair.
“I can’t,” Ysabet answers quietly, wiping the spoon clean. “I’m going back to the village in the morning. I need to search for new herbs. The ones I have are losing strength. If I can find something stronger, maybe I can ease her fever.”
I feel my heart sink. “You’ll leave tomorrow?”
“Before dawn.”
Mira’s fingers tug at my sleeve. “Mama… will there be music?”
“If not tomorrow, soon,” I promise, threading my pinky with hers.
The weight of it presses down. I force a small smile. “Then I’ll manage on my own.”
Ysabet touches my shoulder lightly. “You always do. Ask the laundress Merel—she owes you a favor. Or the scullery boy; he adores lanterns.”
“I’ll try,” I say, though we both hear the doubt.
After she leaves, the room feels twice as still. I sit beside Mira, who’s now sipping the last of the soup, her eyes drooping but her cheeks flushed with warmth.
I take the bowl from her hands. “It’s okay, love,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”
Her small hand reaches for mine, fingers barely curling. “Lanterns,” she breathes.
“Lanterns,” I promise. I hold her hand until she falls asleep.
The candle burns low. Threads and sketches scatter across my desk, but I can’t look at them anymore. I look at my child instead—her breathing soft, shallow but steady—and remind myself that every needle prick, every whispered insult from Seraphine, every sleepless night is for her.
Tomorrow, I’ll find a way. Whether anyone helps or not.