33. THIRTY THREE

thirty-three

THE ART OF STITCHING

I’ve tried keeping myself busy in the healer’s quadrant with Marge. Desperation had me almost offering to scrub the damn floors with a toothbrush, if it meant not having to leave the comforts and safety of these four walls.

Marge watches me suspiciously. “Is there a reason you are so adamant on staying in here lately? I said you were dismissed over twenty minutes ago.”

I scan the room, searching for an excuse. “I know, I know….it’s just—”

My eye catches on a tear in one of the bed sheets. I dash over to it, a bit too eagerly, and grab the material.

“I noticed this was torn.” I nearly vomit out the words, hoping to gauge some sort of response or command from her.

She rests her hands on her waist, cocking her hip to the side.

My breath quickens. “A-and I think we should fix it. You know? Make it really…homey in here.”

She squints. “Homey?”

“Yes, homey! And…I’ve never been taught how to sew. Maybe you can help me practice, so someday I can stitch someone on my own?”

She laughs. “You’ve got a ways to go. But if you’re not going to tell me why you’re so reluctant to leave, I won’t push you. Though, after this, I’m leaving to go bathe. Whether you decide to stay here or not, I’ll leave up to you.”

She points at the drawer with the needles and threads as she takes a seat on the bed. I retrieve the materials, hand them to her, and sit next to her.

Her focus shifts to the sheets. “Stitching someone and sewing aren’t necessarily interchangeable. But if you can get familiar with a needle, it’ll better your stitchwork.”

She effortlessly winds the needle in and out of the torn sheet gracefully. For some odd reason, it reminds me of the way Daeja glides in the night sky. Like a second nature. Like breathing.

She removes all the threads she stitched, giving me a fresh slate. “Here, you try.”

I stare at the sharp delicacy of the needle and the thinness of the thread. Gripping the needle between my fingers as I watched her do, I note the sweat beading on my skin, and I’m already apprehensive under her watchful eyes.

Marge’s voice is soft. “It’s okay to be nervous, but it won’t bite you.”

I glance at her sideways, and lie. “I’m not nervous.”

She chuckles. “Katerina, don’t you lie to me. I know by now when you’re lying.”

I swallow and try to thread the needle. Jerkily, I follow the same stitches she created. “I’m just not good with my hands.”

“And why do you think that?”

“I’ve always had a hard time. My hands get so sweaty, and it makes it hard to grip things. I almost slipped—” I stop myself from divulging mine and Daeja’s flying to her.

I try again. “I…slip all the time with weapons. Swords are so hard for me to hold and swing. My mother used to be an archer, and I can’t do that either. Same with daggers, axes, and everything else I’ve tried.”

The needle develops a mind of its own, jerking out of my slippery fingers and pricking my other hand.

I wince. “Shit.”

“Watch your mouth, woman,” Marge scolds.

“Sorry…” I mumble around my thumb, sucking the blood oozing out of my finger.

“It’s okay to not be good at things. I’m not good at those things either.” Marge stands and hobbles over to the prep area. She pulls open a drawer and digs out something black.

“Yeah, but you’re good at healing. And sewing.” I motion to the needle and thread laying on the torn sheet.

“That came with years of practice. The more you practice, the better you’ll get. We all start off terrible. You’ll get there—you have the drive, and I have no doubts you’ll accomplish whatever you put your mind to.”

I smile at the encouraging words she’s decided to share with me. But it quickly fades as her sincerity reminds me of my mother. She knew when I needed to be pushed outside of my comfort zone and knew when I needed to be encouraged first.

“What’s wrong?” Marge asks, noting the fall of my features as she sits beside me again.

“I just…I thought of my mother. And I miss her.”

Marge gently brushes her hand over mine. “She would be proud of you.”

Guilt swells inside of me as I remember the many years I dreamed of a different life. A life where I didn’t have to fish to provide for my mother and me, where I didn’t have to pick between us going hungry or her getting low on medicine. And now that I’m here, living a different life just like I had begged for, all I can do is miss those times. Looking back, it all seemed so simple.

Here I am today, living a life where all of my decisions are blinded by anger or fear. I almost left without saying goodbye to Marge and Archie. I slept with a man I barely know and can hardly stand, even though my heart belongs entirely to Cole. I should have left long ago with Daeja. But the truth is, I’m a coward.

I laugh, trying to mask the feelings threatening to pull me under. “I don’t know about that.”

“But I know. I’ve seen the way you defend that Archie boy. Heard how you had saved those Blackfell civilians. You saved me from those rebels, despite me giving you no reason to risk your own life. I could have turned you in, and yet you still defended me. You’re patient and kind. Strong willed and ambitious. I’ve seen how furiously you try to learn, whether it be fighting or medicinal.”

I suck my lips in. She doesn’t know the reason I asked to learn about sewing in the first place was to try to furiously avoid Cole. And Celeste.

Maybe Darian, too.

“But I keep making these mistakes...” My vision blurs with tears as I glance down at my hands, attempting to sew again and shoving all the emotions back behind a facade.

Her voice is gentle. “It’s okay. We all make mistakes. Here,” she takes my hand and places whatever she retrieved from the drawer in my palm, “you can have these. It’s my extra pair.”

I unfurl the ball of black to find a pair of gloves. Her gloves.

I shake my head. “I can’t take these.”

“Yes, you can. Besides, I really only wear this pair anyway.” She motions to the ones on her hands.

My thoughts flicker to the last time someone gave me a gift—Cole placing his mother’s ring in my palm and closing my fingers over it.

“Go on,” Marge encourages.

With her insistence, I pull the gloves onto my fingers. Gratitude surges in me at such a generous gift. I flex my hands in the material and smile at her.

She pats my leg, rises, and hobbles toward the door. “Alright, well you can stay here and keep practicing for as long as you want. But I need to go bathe. I’m quite tired from the last few days.”

“Hey, Marge?”

She turns to look at me over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

For the first time since I’ve known her, she actually smiles at me. Really, truly smiles. The gesture lightens her face, the wrinkled lines in the corners of her eyes deepening. She dips her head, then slips out the door.

After a few breaths, I steady my hands and thread the needle again and again, until I feel I’ve mastered the shake in my hands. The material of the gloves keeps my hands from slipping and blocks the needle from piercing my skin. The stitches in the material aren’t nearly as neat as Marge’s, but at least I can say I’ve done it.

At least I can say I’ve tried.

I debate staying in the healer’s quadrant for the rest of the night. I could sleep in one of the beds to avoid the walk to my room. Placing the needle and thread back in the drawer, I gather what courage I can. With a deep breath, I push the door open. The sun has settled behind the horizon, the last of its rays coloring the sky in yellow, oranges, and reds. Chatter and laughter surge from the center of camp, and as I walk toward my room, I run into Archie.

“Hey, Kat! I’ve been looking for you!”

“Ahh, sorry. I’ve been practicing stitching in the healer’s quadrant.” It’s an excuse, but at least it’s true.

“I suppose next time you’ll sew me up?” He winks.

“Probably not yet. Though, hopefully, there isn’t a next time where you need stitches!” I scold.

He loops an arm around my neck and pulls me into a tight side hug. “No promises. You hungry?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, you can still sit with us! Cole and Celeste have been waiting for you.”

He leads me to where the tables are, lined with almost everyone from the squad. I pick Cole out first. Next to him is Celeste, completely enveloped in the sight of him as she speaks. Her hand caresses his back as she leans in to whisper into his ear. His eyes are glued to me, completely distracted from Celeste. A new surge of nausea rolls over me, and I break our eye contact.

Celeste looks out across the crowd before settling on someone in the group. I follow her gaze to Darian.

Darian stares back at Celeste with lowered eyebrows and rolls his eyes, breaking their eye contact. His face is emotionless as he throws his head back to guzzle down whatever is left in his flask, and he disappears off toward his room. Sadness flickers in Celeste’s polished features as she watches him leave—a split second of longing and yearning. It vanishes so quickly, I almost wonder if I imagined it.

I stiffen as I recall the day I walked into his room. The letters and what little I saw scrawled on the bottom of each one.

‘Love, Celeste.’

I have to force my mouth closed. Does Cole know? And is that why Darian hates Cole so much?

Archie and I take a seat across from Cole and Celeste.

Celeste beams as we settle into our seats. “Kat! We were wondering where you were.”

I’m tempted to tell her only my friends call me Kat. “Ahh, yes. Sorry, I was practicing stitching with Marge.”

“Not a worry! Listen, I was just telling Cole how I would love to steal you for tomorrow.”

Cole whips his head in her direction, as if smacked out of his stupor. “If I may, Celeste, we desperately need Kat here at the outpost.”

He’s lying.

His fingers thrum against the wooden table, fidgeting with a noisy speed. I don’t provide much value to the outpost—as a soldier or a healer. He must feel awfully obligated to save me from any such one-on-one times with his betrothed.

Celeste waves a hand. “Nonsense! I’m sure Marge wouldn’t mind. Katerina deserves a break—I’ve heard she’s not only been apprenticing with Marge but also training with your squad? Besides, I would enjoy her company to Windmere.”

“Windmere? Why would we go there?” I arch an eyebrow. The thought of being separated from Daeja stealing my breath.

Celeste turns her radiant smile on me. “To go dress shopping, of course!”

“ Dress shopping? What do I need a new dress for?”

Archie whines disappointedly. “Aww man, I want to go!”

“Sorry, ladies only!” Celeste laughs, sneaking a glance at Cole. “We are throwing a small dinner celebration for our betrothal.”

Gods, she’s so smitten. My mind jumps to them together: kissing, touching, tangled in the sheets. I have to stop myself before I vomit or blurt out the truth of our situation.

Instead, I fight for an excuse. “That’s alright. I have a dress here I can wear.”

“You can save that. I want to take you out for a new one! You don’t even have to worry about spending a dime. It’ll be my treat.” She places her hand over Cole’s, who subtly flinches at her touch.

“You know, I could always switch places with you. I would look incredible in a dress.” Archie waggles his eyebrows.

It drags a chuckle out of me.

“I’ll fetch you in the morning, and we will make our way there together,” Celeste announces, saying it in a way that cuts off any more of my refusals. She’s making this incredibly difficult to get out of.

I lock into her blue, doe eyes. “How are we supposed to walk to Windmere and back in a day?”

“No, we wouldn’t walk, silly girl!” Celeste laughs. “We’re going to take the carriage.”

My eyes round. Only the wealthy had carriages and horses. Horses were tasty meals for dragons, so if you owned one, it meant you had the means necessary to keep them guarded. I should have known by the elegant sweep of her dress, the rich colors adorning the layers. She looks so…out of place in this rugged, dusty, monotone place of a camp. Gems dripping from her earrings scatter prisms of light across the room every time she moves her head. Gold bands encircle her fingers, but no engagement ring—Cole’s mother’s ring is missing.

I flick my gaze to Cole, and he’s already staring at me.

I push up to my feet. “Great. I’ll meet you in the morning then. I’m pretty tired, so I’m going to turn in early.”

Celeste and Archie both groan in detest.

Archie pulls at my sleeve, pleading. “But you just got here!”

I offer him an encouraging smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Tomorrow, I’ll have to put on my best show yet, pretending to be Cole’s sister.

Pretending to be someone I’m not.