Read Ash & Bramble for Free Online Page B

keep my head down and stitch. I have filched every scrap of silk cloth and silk thread that I can, and when the Overseer is busy with the other Seamstresses I work it. My rope is narrow and braided and well stitched, and with every hour that passes, it gets longer, but it is not yet long enough. When the Overseer slithers closer to see what I am up to, I hide my silk rope workings under my apron, and she blinks her slitted eyes and flicks her forked tongue and goes away again. The other Seamstresses cast me sidelong looks, and some of them pass me scraps of silk under the table, but they say nothing. Even Hump stays silent, though perhapsshe is waiting until later so my crime will be all the greater when I am caught.
    Except that I don’t plan on getting caught.
    I lean closer to Marya to whisper. “I’ll take you with me when I go.”
    Marya doesn’t answer. She stares down at the apron she is stitching, her face blank. With a chill, I realize that she is not really Marya anymore, just Seamstress.
    â€œYou can go back to your village and marry your handsome boy,” I whisper when the Overseer’s back is turned. “You will be happy again, after that.”
    Marya’s faded blue eyes blink. But she doesn’t speak.
    To my surprise, on one afternoon when a damp chill is lurking in the corners and my fingers are stiff with overwork, Shoe comes into the sewing room. His glance at me is swift, just a flash of green, but it is enough to set my heart pounding.
    I keep my head carefully lowered, but my skin prickles with awareness of him. The set of his shoulders. His frown as he discusses a requisition with the Overseer in a low voice. Like picking at a loose thread, I have been thinking of him since we parted ways. I imagine him up there in his little room, his fair head bent over his work, his hands quick and competent. I’m curious about him. What does he think about? Does he ever imagine the world outside the fortress walls?
    We don’t kiss , I told him before. I wonder what it would feel like to kiss him.
    But I stay rooted to my seat with my head lowered over my work. Before he goes, I steal one quick glance at him. The skin over his high cheekbones is flushed, and I know that he is as aware of me—of my every move and breath—as I am of him.
    And then he goes.
    I barely know Shoe, really. Yet I don’t want to leave here without him.
    I KEEP MY ears pricked, and when the Overseer is busy, I scoot forward to sit on the edge of the bench so my skirts come down to the floor. I play out my thin, silken rope to see how long it is, hiding its coils under my skirt as I measure it. How many arm’s lengths will I need? More than this, I think. Carefully I reel in the rope again, coiling it on my lap, under my apron. It makes a heavy heap no bigger than a curled, sleeping cat. It is not enough, but it is almost enough.
    It will hold Shoe’s weight, I think. If he will come with me.
    A sudden movement jolts me out of my calculating. Marya lurches from the bench. Her eyes are wide and staring; her mouth is a determined line. The apron she’s been hemming falls to the floor.
    Across the room, the Overseer’s back is still turned.
    Marya stands, swaying.
    â€œWait,” I whisper.
    With a trembling hand, Marya presses my shoulder,keeping me in my seat. She does not speak. Then she stumbles to the door, opens it, and slips out. For a moment I stare after her—it’s too soon—I’m not ready—does she want to end up at the post?—and then I jerk my eyes back to my work so I can pretend I didn’t see her go. But my every muscle, every nerve, is clenched with dread. My ears strain to hear a sound from outside the sewing room, the sound of Marya’s screams as she is captured again.
    But there is nothing. Only silence.
    Candles flicker. The other Seamstresses keep their heads lowered as they work, but I can feel their tension as they wait.