Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 50: We're On the Same Side

Isolde shifted in her seat.

The sitting room felt stuffy. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass window, tinting the rosewood furniture. A basket of cranberry muffins lay in the centre of the table. Six young women sat on stiff-backed chairs; all of them were dressed in identical white gowns, with embroidery spread open on their lap.

A girl set down her needle. "Does anyone have any pink thread?"

Isolde held out a spool. "I have some."

Her cheeks coloured. "Thanks."

The other girl took it. Her eyes flicked to the bandage on Isolde's head, and then back to the floor. Isolde pulled her thread through the embroidery, surreptitiously glancing at the clock. Truthfully, she hated this sort of thing; she'd invited herself to the crafting session mostly as a way of ingratiating herself with the other girls at the convent.

Alas.

Isolde turned back to the girl. "You must be new here. I don't recognize you from before." She drew the needle. "What's your name?"

The girl fiddled with the snowflake at her throat. "Valerie."

Isolde nodded at the other girl's embroidery. "That's a beautiful swan."

"Thank you," Valerie whispered.

Silence stretched out like winter taffy. Isolde ran a finger over her embroidery. The thread was fraying slightly, making her bow pitch to the side. Not that you could tell it was a bow-and-arrow in the first place. Julian would have told her it looked more like a drunken harp.

A lump rose in her throat. Isolde reached for the basket.

"Muffin, anyone?" Isolde offered.

Everyone shook their heads. But at least they responded, Isolde thought, even if it was nonverbally. Progress.

Isolde threaded the needle. Another fifteen minutes, she decided, then she'd make her excuses. There was a lot to get done today. She'd sent out a letter to Edgar and Devan three days ago, but she ought to follow up. Send another encoded letter. There was a chance that it had been intercepted or it had never reached them; you never knew, with ravens. The birds made their own minds about what mail to deliver.

Isolde glanced at the clock.

One of the girls murmured something, leaning over the inspect her friend's work. Isolde crossed her legs. Uncrossed them again. She'd never been very good at making friends; that was Julian's area of expertise.

Still.

She had to try.

Isolde lifted the basket. "Who made these?"

Valerie blinked. "Pardon?"

"The muffins," Isolde clarified.

"Oh," Valerie said. "I did."

Valerie's hand shook as she pulled the needle through. She wasn't looking at her, Isolde realized. Was it her eyes? She knew they were so dark that they put people off, sometimes. Or maybe it was the glass leg. Or maybe, a little voice whispered, it's just your personality.

Isolde reached for a muffin. "Do you mind if I try one?"

Valerie threaded the needle. "Go ahead."

Isolde took a bite. Dry sand filled her mouth, and she almost gagged. Good heavenly gods, what was in those? Carpet fibres? Dust? The tears of an unborn child? She forced herself to chew. To smile as she swallowed.