Ash & Bramble Read Free Page B

you?”
    Her only reply is a faint snort. A short time later she whispers, “We had much better-looking young men in our village. I had one myself.”
    The Overseer’s head swivels toward the sound. The switch twitches.
    We sew furiously at our seams until her slit-eyed gaze slides away.
    I sneak another glance at the Seamstress beside me. She bites off a thread and casts me a wink.
    â€œDo you remember your village?” I whisper.
    She gives an almost-imperceptible nod. “Some things. I remember my name, too. It’s Marya.”
    I think about that for a while. None of us is supposed to remember anything. How could she sit here stitching her life away if she had any memories of a Before? I decide that she’s lying.
    â€œWell, do you think he’s handsome?” Marya whispers, when the Overseer is busy inspecting another Seamstress’s work.
    She’s back to the Shoemaker again. She must not remember the time when he was flogged for the dogskin slippers.
    I will never forget it. He was hanging in his chains by the time the whipping was over, but he never cried out.
    Yes, he is very good-looking.
    But handsome is not the word I would use to describe the Shoemaker.
    What would I call him? Resilient, maybe? Or stubborn? Or perhaps stupid, to take the risks that he has. Yet the little candle flame of hope that burns in me leans toward him, as if it senses that he bears the same flame within himself.
    Marya makes her impatience for an answer known in the abrupt way she ties and bites off a thread.
    Finally, I shrug.
    â€œMy young man was a farmer’s son,” Marya whispers, “and I was the best seamstress in the village, well known for my fine needlework. We were to be married, and I was sewing my wedding gown. I chose the softest pink wool, and embroidered the sweetest roses around the collar, and sewed tiny mother-of-pearl buttons up the back.”
    This is too real a memory she’s describing—she can’t be lying. She really is from outside, and she was torn away from that life because of her skills, I guess, brought here to labor for the Godmother.
    Unlike Marya, I do not sew well. Why, then, was I brought here? Did the Godmother make a mistake? What am I? What life did I have before this?
    My Before is a blank emptiness. For just a moment the Nothing looms like a darkness at the edge of my vision. I take a shaking breath and push it back. I stare down at the white cloth in my hands. It is smooth under my fingers. The needle is a sliver of silver. The flame burns warm in my heart. I take another, steadier breath. The Nothing recedes.
    Marya gives me a nudge and a sly wink. “I couldn’t wait until my wedding night.” She opens her mouth to whisper something else. But in her enthusiasm she’s lost vigilance.
    â€œSssso, something to say?” The Overseer peers over Marya’s shoulder, her tongue flicking eagerly in and out ofher mouth. A scaly hand raises the switch and thwack , a red welt slashes across the back of Marya’s neck. Then another and another.
    Marya cringes under the blows. “N-no, Overseer,” she whimpers, all trace of daring gone.
    The Overseer draws back her head and narrows her eyes. “Sahhh. Possibly a chastisement is necessitated. Yes?” It is the post in the courtyard she means, and the whip.
    Marya bites her lip; her hands are trembling and her face has gone petticoat-white.
    â€œA Seamstress’s purpose is to stitch,” the Overseer says, pushing her face up to Marya’s. “Stitch and stitch. Not to gossssip, not to speculate. Stitch.”
    Marya sits frozen.
    â€œSeamstress has nothing Before,” the Overseer continues. “Nothing to come. Understand?”
    Tears drop from Marya’s eyes, watering the silk that has gusted onto her lap. She nods and takes a trembling stitch.
    The Overseer opens her mouth to continue her harangue.
    I poke my needle into a pincushion and