Page 35 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
My eyebrows rose as I took in the full-length windows covering one wall.
“It’s north-facing,” he said, watching me inspect the space, “so you’ll have consistent light, like an artist’s studio. I thought you could work standing at that table and use this one when you wish to sit.” He indicated a surface near the windows.
The first table was large and waist-high, clear on all sides—it would be perfect for cutting fabric.
One side of his mouth rose as he took in my hand resting on its surface. “I got the correct height, then.”
“Youdid all this?”
“Who else?”
“I thought one of the servants…” The different tables for different tasks. The abundance of lamps filled with pure white fae light. The armchair by the fire, ideally placed for cosy hand sewing in the evening. Each detail had been so carefully chosen and placed, I’d assumed it had been done by someone who sewed, Hil perhaps. Lord Hawthorne would never have risked scuffing his shoes shifting furniture, why would a fae lord be different?
And yet, apparently Lysander was.
He raised his eyebrows as if seeking my approval. Surely my opinion didn’t matter to him all of a sudden. “Some of the equipment I ordered won’t arrive until the morning”—he winced—“but it’s a start, and the—”
“It’s perfect.” And although I could lie while he couldn’t, it was the truth.
A slow smile worked its way across his face like sunlight at dawn, lifting his lips, sparking in his eyes, brightening every feature. This was no mocking smirk. It made my heart skip a beat.
He made a low sound, somewhere between relief and pleasure. “Good.” A pad of paper appeared in one hand, a silver pen in the other. “Now, tell me what else you need.”
* * *
We sat up late,and I listed the materials and tools I required. He noted every item, nodding, asking questions for clarity. Not once did he question the cost or why I needed a particular thing.
Despite the weariness in my limbs, when he walked me to my room, my mind raced with excitement to get my hands on needle and thread again. The last time I’d gone so long without sewing had been during the plague when I’d been too ill to know what was happening around me, never mind lift a pair of scissors.
At the door to my chambers, he thanked me again and paused like he might say more, but he only turned and went to the room next to mine, at the end of the corridor. He’d placed me near him. To ensure I didn’t escape.
And when I entered my room, there were none of my things. Even the clothes I’d worn when he’d chosen me—myclothes—were nowhere to be found.
Because this wasn’tmyroom. This wasn’t my home. I’d been taken by a fae lord who could kill five sluagh without breaking a sweat. No amount of sewing could save me from that.
However thoughtful he seemed, his strength dwarfed mine. If I angered him, he could destroy me without batting an eyelid.
Damn it, I should’ve stipulated in our bargain. Idiot.
My chest tightened as I crawled under the covers, fully dressed.
No matter how kind he’d been, I was still at his mercy and vulnerable. I needed to protect myself, and I needed an escape plan.
Taking the Measure
The next morning, I went straight to the workshop. Although it was early, boxes of supplies had already appeared, and I dived in, taking stock. On the low table by the window now stood a cabinet full of little drawers, and I sorted all the different pins and reels of thread into them. In a plain needle book, I arranged needles for darning and beading, appliqué and basting.
Each thing given a home eased the tightness in my chest that had remained all night.
The night after my escape attempt, I’d slept so deeply, I hadn’t dreamt. But last night the sluagh had made an appearance in my sleeping world, attacking the sickly yew. Every hack of their bone claws into the tree had cut my heart. I’d shouted at them… and their empty eye sockets had turned on me.
Even in the dream, I’d trembled, realising how stupid I was to try to stop them.
Shuddering, I pressed my hand into the worktop and continued going through the deliveries.
When I opened the velvet-lined box of scissors, an “oh” fell from my lips. Each pair sat in a hollow carved to its perfect shape, like Lady Hawthorne’s fine silver that I’d caught a glimpse of at a fitting as she’d taken tea.
Thread snips. Pinking shears with scalloped rather than zig-zagged edges. Little embroidery scissors shaped like a stork. Each one was a work of art, and when I tested the tailor’s shears, theysnickedas though they could slice the air itself.
