Ash & Bramble Read Free

comes in. A gruff whisper to the Overseer, and we are ordered to put down our work and stand. Like the others, I obediently get to my feet. The guard leads us to the cobblestone courtyard where we do our exercises. The fortress looms at our backs, gray and impenetrable, the clock like a blank face in its tallest tower; the bramble-covered wall surrounds it. The sky overhead is cloudy. Flecks of ice fall from the clouds and prick at us like needles.
    In the middle of the courtyard is the stout wooden post, but this time someone is chained to it. A young man, a boy really, about the same age that I seem to be, with sandy hair. I can’t see any more of him because he has his forehead pressed against the post and his eyes closed. He is shirtless and shivering in the icy wind.
    We Seamstresses are lined up to watch, joined by otherworkers, all dressed in gray. The Overseer stands beside me; a row of guards in light-blue, lace-trimmed uniforms faces us.
    â€œWhat is happening?” I dare to whisper to the Overseer.
    Her slitted eyes gaze straight ahead, at the boy chained to the post. “A chastisement is necessitated.”
    A punishment, she means. “Who is he?” I ask.
    â€œShoemaker,” she answers.
    â€œWhat did he do?”
    â€œAsked too many quessstions,” the Overseer hisses, with a meaningful glare at me. “Stay silent, Seamstress.”
    We wait. My bare feet are frozen and I am shaking with a combination of cold and fright. I open my mouth to ask another question.
    â€œHush,” the Overseer breathes, and strangely, she sounds frightened, too. “She comes.”
    A subtle change washes over the courtyard. The guards straighten, the air grows more chill. At the post, I see the Shoemaker stiffen; his manacled hands clench into fists.
    The Godmother enters. I know at once that it is her; she is exactly as I imagined. She wears a swansdown cape and muff, white as snow. She glides past the other workers, then past us, the Seamstresses. As she passes, to keep from trembling, I grip the thimble in my apron pocket; as always, the silver warms under my fingers. At the same moment that I peek up at her, the Godmother glances aside at me, hesitating ever so slightly. Her eyes are silver-blue and as beautiful and cold as ice. Her glance hits me like a wash of freezingwater, and for a moment I am Nothing, not even a Seamstress, and I look quickly down again. I am lost, adrift, and then the thimble in my hand flares with heat. I cling to it and the Nothing recedes.
    When I look up again, the Godmother has seated herself in a carved chair on a dais raised above the cold cobblestones. She makes no speech; she simply waves a languid hand, and a pig-snouted guard steps forward, takes one or two practice swings, and proceeds to whip the Shoemaker bloody. The courtyard echoes with the sound of braided leather meeting flesh. I can’t help but keep count. Ten lashes is enough. At twenty I am sure the guard will stop. At twenty-five I find myself flinching with every blow. At last, at thirty, the guard stops. All is silent. On the dais, the Godmother gets to her feet, smooths her gown, and steps onto the cobblestones.
    My face feels stiff as I watch her leave. A group of workers follows.
    â€œHatters,” says the Overseer, unexpectedly. She points out the other workers as they depart. Lacemakers, Bakers of gingerbread, Candlemakers, Glovers, Spinsters of gold into straw, and the Jacks of all trades, who can make anything, she says, from a sharpened spindle to a glass coffin.
    â€œWhy are we here?” I ask desperately. “What are we for?”
    The Overseer blinks, a slow flick of a lid sideways across her slitted eye. “We serve her. That is all.”
    That is all. And now I know that drawing the Godmother’s attention is the last thing I’d ever want to do.
    F OR ANOTHER LONG stretch of time I sew. My stitch-soldiers line up at ragged attention and then wander off on