Page 165 of Salt Between the Wolves
The answer escaped before she could stop it. The room fell unexpectedly quiet, not awkward but simply surprised. The seamstress tilted her head.
“You don’t know?”
Eira hesitated before shaking her head. The woman looked thoughtful rather than judgmental.
“Interesting.”
That somehow felt worse.
Another length of fabric appeared: deep blue, then green, then charcoal gray, and finally something the color of sea glass.
Eira stared at them. None of them were white. The realization arrived so suddenly she almost laughed.
Her entire life had been shaped by clothes chosen by other people. First came Frostvein's white silks, white wool, white embroidery, white cloaks, white gowns, and white expectations. Then came Ironfang's dark practical garments of wool, leather, and fur. They had been warmer, sturdier, and far more comfortable, but they had not truly belonged to her either.
The seamstress held up a dark blue fabric.
“What about this?”
Eira touched it carefully. The material felt soft beneath her fingertips, different and unfamiliar. She found herself nodding.
A smile immediately appeared.
“There we are.”
The woman sounded absurdly pleased, as though Eira had solved some great mystery.
Questions continued. Do you ride? Yes. Do you prefer fitted sleeves? Sometimes. Would you rather have pockets? Pockets?
The woman stared.
“Everyone wants pockets.”
Eira frowned.
“I’ve never had pockets.”
The room reacted as though she had confessed to surviving on seawater.
“That’s tragic.”
“It isn’t tragic.”
“It absolutely is.”
The argument continued for several minutes, and to Eira’s horror she found herself participating.
By the time measurements were taken and fabric samples selected, she was almost enjoying herself.
Almost.
The realization felt deeply suspicious.
Eventually the women gathered their things, the boxes disappeared, and the room slowly returned to normal.
As they prepared to leave, the youngest servant lingered near the door.
The girl hesitated before smiling.
