Ash & Bramble Read Free Page A

missions of their own instead of marching in perfectly straight hemlines. At the striking of the fortress clock, I go with the other Seamstresses to the courtyard for exercise; I eat unsalted lentils and oats twice a day; I sleep on a cot under a scratchy woolen blanket.
    And I stitch.
    Then one afternoon, the door at one end of the sewing room flies open and someone bursts inside. The candle flames waver in the wind of his arrival. The Shoemaker from the courtyard.
    I sit up and take notice. He has clean features, and I can’t quite see what color his eyes are. He carries himself stiffly, his shoulders slightly hunched, and he is thin—too thin, as we all are.
    â€œA glass slipper?” the Shoemaker protests, holding up a scrap of light-blue paper. “A shoe made of glass ? I’m a Shoemaker, not a Glassblower!”
    At the Shoemaker’s unexpected fierceness, a few heads bob up, surfacing from the placid stitch-stitch-stitch for a moment, bleary eyes taking in the scene, hearts beating with the pitter-patter of curiosity and fear. Then the heads jerk down again.
    The Overseer glides up to him. The shoes he makes must be matched to the dresses we stitch, so she’s not surprised tosee him. “Certainly some mistake,” she hisses. “Show me the requisition.” She peers at the blue square of paper. “Sahhhh. A simple misspelling. The slippers are supposed to be fur. Fur slippers.”
    The Shoemaker frowns and runs a hand through his ragged hair. “I don’t know. It says verre , that’s glass.”
    â€œYesss, but it’s supposed to be fur. Vaire . See?” The Overseer taps the requisition form with her switch.
    â€œI don’t think so.” The Shoemaker shakes his head, decisive. “No. Last time I tried doing it my way I was sorry after.”
    He’s talking about the thirty lashes at the post. Through careful questioning, I’d found out his crime. He’d made dogskin slippers instead of the doeskin ones that had been ordered. The Overseer told me he claimed he’d misread the requisition, but I have my doubts about that. The Shoemaker is like me, someone who asks questions when he shouldn’t. I wouldn’t put it past him to design subtle mockery into a pair of slippers, even though he must have known how dangerous even such a small rebellion would be. But lashes with a whip are far worse than welts from a switch, and apparently he’s learned his lesson.
    â€œCould you do it with a pattern?” the Overseer asks. “Using mirrors, perhapsss?”
    The Shoemaker gives a stiff shrug, suddenly resigned. The blue requisition form flutters to the floor. “I’ll work something out.” As he turns to leave, he catches me lookingat him. I slide my hand into my pocket and grip the silver thimble. It gives me strength. I don’t dare offer up a smile, but he must understand the suggestion in my eyes, for he frowns and then gives the slightest nod in return.
    Green. His eyes are green. How could I have failed to notice it before? His eyes promise that there really is something outside the grim gray of the Godmother’s fortress. The green of a forest. Escape.
    I feel a strange, faint flame kindle in my heart.
    After the Shoemaker goes, the Seamstresses are unsettled. Whispers are heard; the Overseer’s watchful gaze darts here, there, trying to catch us out.
    The Seamstress next to me, the one who gave me the cloth for my welts, leans over and speaks without taking her eyes from her work. “Do you think the Shoemaker is good-looking?”
    I sit up straighter. Sneaking a quick sideways glance, I realize that she is not much older than I am. Her short hair is chestnut brown and her fading blue eyes might once have been merry.
    At the far end of the room, the Overseer’s head comes up, alert, her mouth open to sense the air. I bend over my work. Without looking at my neighbor, I breathe, “Do