Days begin before dawn and end when the moon bleeds silver across the floorboards. I no longer count the hours; I only count the stitches. Each thread pulled is a heartbeat closer to saving Mira. Each drop of blood that darkens the cloth feels like a payment the gods demand for mercy.
The hall of seamstresses has become my world. Its air smells of dye and candle smoke, the same perfume that clings to my hair and skin. By the time the others arrive, I’ve already been working for hours. When they leave, I stay behind, sewing until my eyes blur and my fingers burn. The pain no longer startles me—it steadies me.
At night, Ysabet tends to my hands. The light from her small lamp flickers over Mira’s still form, curled beneath a blanket. The child’s breaths are soft, uneven, threaded with faint whimpers.
“You’re doing too much,” Ysabet says quietly, winding a strip of linen around my palm. “The body has limits.”
“I’m not doing enough,” I whisper back. “Her fever returns every week. Her strength fades. I can’t stop.”
“You can break before she does,” she warns, knotting the bandage.
“I’d rather break,” I say simply.
Ysabet sighs, her eyes old with knowing. “Love like that burns through the soul, Lara.”
“Then let it burn.”
***
The palace is a labyrinth of whispers. Prince Aldric is rarely seen except in the throne wing, his face carved into control. I sometimes glimpse him at a distance—speaking with generals, reviewing reports, his every movement a study in restraint. He is a ruler who never allows the world to glimpse his weariness.
Lady Seraphine, however, is everywhere.
“Not good enough,” she says, her voice a blade dulled only by boredom. She glides between the tables where we work, her heels clicking like the measure of a drumbeat. “Even worse,” she murmurs to a trembling girl with blonde curls, plucking the garment from her hands. “Who taught you to butcher silk this way?”
No one answers. We all bow our heads and keep sewing, breathing as quietly as possible.
When she nears my station, I focus on the fabric before me—a cloak for some noble, lined in white fur. My pulse quickens as she stops. Her perfume, sharp and metallic, fills the air.
“Your stitching is neat,” she observes. Her tone carries no warmth, only calculation.
“Thank you, my lady,” I murmur, keeping my voice low.
Her fingers trail along the edge of the cloth. “I’ve seen your work before,” she says softly. “You favor fine seams. Tailor Durden’s hand.”
The needle stills in my grasp. She knows.
I do not lift my eyes. “My father taught me well.”
“Indeed.” She smiles faintly. “He would be proud. If pride could save the living.”
Then she moves on, her skirts brushing the floor. Only when she is gone do I dare to breathe.
Every time she passes, I feel the same fury crawl through me—the memory of Mira’s small voice, the splash of mud, the serpent’s strike. If not for her, my child would not suffer under a curse that steals her life hour by hour.
But anger is a luxury I cannot afford. I sew instead, each stitch a silent vow.
***
At night, when the others have left, I whisper to the younger seamstresses who linger in curiosity. The lamps burn low; shadows stretch long across the walls.
“What about the sons of the maidservants?” I ask quietly, pretending to mend a torn hem. “Are they allowed to live within the palace?”
One girl, shy and freckled, glances around nervously. “Sometimes. If they’re useful. Pages, stable hands, guards. Why do you ask?”
“I’m only curious,” I say, though my voice trembles with the weight of lies.
She tilts her head. “You search for someone?”
“That’s the problem,” I admit, forcing a small laugh. “I don’t even know who.”
“Then how will you find him?”
“I don’t know that, either.” I blow out the match, leaving the hall in darkness.
***
Morning comes like a slap. The knock on the door startles me from a shallow sleep. Mira stirs faintly, coughing in her rest. I hurry to the door before she wakes.
Two guards stand outside. Armor gleaming, faces unreadable. My heart leaps into my throat. Have they learned something? Have my questions reached the wrong ears?
I press my body against the doorframe. “What business have you with us?”
The taller one raises a hand in calm. “We’re not here to harm you,” he says curtly. “We’ve orders to move you.”
“Move us?” Ysabet appears behind me, brows drawn tight.
The guard’s gaze flicks to her, then back to me. “The prince’s orders are not to be questioned.”
My pulse races. “Why?”
“No explanation given.”
I step aside slowly, every muscle tense. “Very well.”
They gather our few belongings—cloth, thread, herbs—and one of them carefully lifts Mira from the bed. I follow close, terrified he might drop her. Ysabet walks beside me, whispering under her breath, “This is strange, Lara. I don’t trust kindness wrapped in armor.”
“I don’t care why,” I whisper back. “If it means warmth for her, I’ll take it.”
The new chamber is unlike anything we’ve known—spacious, with clean floors and a great window that floods the room with light. There is even a small table for meals and a wardrobe for clothes. Mira’s new bed doesn’t creak; it is soft, covered in quilts embroidered with silver thread.
I lower her gently into it and smooth the blanket over her. The sunlight spills across her face, and for the first time in months, she looks almost peaceful.
Ysabet folds her arms, watching the guards depart. “A sudden act of generosity,” she mutters. “That makes me nervous.”
“Perhaps the prince is not as cold as he seems,” I murmur, brushing a lock of hair from Mira’s forehead.
Ysabet’s expression is skeptical. “Or perhaps he’s colder still—kindness can be the sharpest trap.”
I shake my head. “Let me hope, Ysabet. Just for a moment.”
She sighs, her tone softening. “Then hope. But do it with your eyes open.”
***
When night falls, I sit by the window, looking out at the palace courtyard. The lamps sway in the wind; somewhere far below, I can hear the sound of hooves and the distant clatter of steel. I think of the prince’s voice—the way he told me not to live for pleasing others, the flicker of something almost human behind his restraint.
Still, I touch the ring hanging from my neck and whisper to the dark, “If kindness lives anywhere in this place, let it reach my child.”
Behind me, Ysabet tends to her herbs, muttering old words that weave through the air like threads of smoke. Mira sleeps soundly, her breath soft, her little hand clutching the corner of the blanket.
The room feels different tonight—brighter, safer. And for the first time since the curse struck, I allow myself to believe that perhaps the prince’s orders were not just duty, but mercy.
I lean down and kiss Mira’s forehead. “Sleep, my love,” I whisper. “The world is cruel, but maybe not everyone in it is.”