Spin the Dawn(15)

“You can’t be tired yet, young Tamarin?” Norbu said when I passed his station. “Why don’t you get some tea?”

It was a good idea, and I nodded to thank him for it. The tea reserves were kept in an anteroom in the hall, and I filled a cup, taking a long sip.

When I returned to my table to pick up my shawl, I cried out. Someone had spilled tea over my fabric! The paints were smeared all over the silk. The lady I had painstakingly drawn to resemble Lady Sarnai was no more than a blob.

Who had done this? I looked at all the tailors, but they ignored me.

I bit my lip and bunched up the ruined silk. Tears welled in my eyes, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt me.

“Had enough, pretty boy?” Yindi shouted at me.

Norbu clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Young Tamarin, if you need extra silk, you are welcome to take my scraps. I’m going to sleep.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. “But I’ll manage.”

“Norbu,” the others cried, “you’re going to bed already?”

“I work best alone,” he said, stifling a yawn. “And in the morning.”

I shoved my damaged silk into my satchel and followed Norbu out, my face hot from trying to suffocate my tears.

The corridors were open to the balmy night air, poorly lit by moonlight and hanging lanterns. I counted the doors, all gray with bronze latches, until I reached my room.

I collapsed on my cot. This had been my one chance to become more than a seamstress who hemmed pants and sewed buttons in Port Kamalan. This had been my chance to become an imperial tailor, the best in all of A’landi, to have my designs worn by royalty and admired throughout the land.

And now?

I drew in a tight breath. Finlei wouldn’t want me to give up like this. Neither would Sendo. And Keton…I have to win this position to take care of Baba and Keton. So they won’t starve and I won’t have to marry Calu. So I won’t be a failure.

I dried my eyes on the edges of my sleeves, then got up and lit a candle to survey the damage to my shawl. The flowers I had spent the afternoon painting had smeared. Even if I blotted them out, my design was ruined. The only way to hide the damage was to start afresh, maybe embroider over the tea stain and smeared paint. A difficult task, given I only had the rest of the night to work.

Sitting cross-legged, I exhaled, took out a sheet of parchment from my satchel, and wearily started to sketch.

Stay awake!

I leaned my head against the wall, promising myself I would only take a short break. When next I blinked, my candle was out, a pool of wax at the bottom.

“Demon’s breath!” I cursed. I must have fallen asleep.

I lit another candle and stared out at the moon to see how much time I had lost.

My temples throbbed and a low hum filled my head.

I reached for my bag, fumbling for needles and thread, but my finger caught the bow of Baba’s scissors instead. Strange. I thought I had put them under my cot.

I slipped them into my satchel with the rest of my tools. But what good were scissors now that my shawl was ruined?

Calm down, I told myself. What do you do whenever you’re in a situation like this? You don’t panic and make more mistakes. You calm down. You take a walk.

Holding a lantern in one hand, I went back to the Hall of Supreme Diligence. It was empty now, and I walked by each of the other tailors’ creations. Master Boyen’s drapery was masterful, Master Garad’s beading exquisite. Longhai had crafted a swan, embroidered trees around it—beautiful enough to hang as a work of art. And Yindi, impressively, had embroidered nearly the entire shawl.

The pages of my sketchbook rustled, far too tremulously to have been touched by the wind. Unnerved, I set it down and went to the closest window.

No ghost, I told myself. Just a bird.

With a sigh, I placed my lantern on my table and began to embroider.

The humming in my head was louder now. I looked down, feeling a strange trembling at my side. At first I thought it came from my scissors, but that was impossible, so I ignored it.

Then they started glowing.

I grasped them to snip a loose thread and found that I was unable to put them down. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I could see the shawl, completed—just as I had sketched it. But there was no way I could accomplish it in the hours remaining.

But you can, a voice assured me. My voice, but more confident somehow.

The scissors glided over the shawl, possessed in a way that my hands could only follow. Invisible threads repaired the cloth’s damage, giving it life anew, and colors from my paint pots soaked into the silk, while the smeared paints dissolved and scattered until my design was back in place.

Impossible as it appeared, the scissors not only cut but embroidered. The thin silver blades split and gathered my threads and flosses to dance through the silk, embroidering intricate flowers and birds, trees, and mountains with precision and elegance.

With magic.

Magic I couldn’t stop. My hand wouldn’t let go of the scissors, no matter how I tried to pry them away, no matter how much I wanted to put them down. I was under a spell, drunk with their power.

If not for the soreness that swelled between my fingers, I would have thought I was dreaming.

With a final snip, the scissors became dull again, their glow vanished.

Completely spent, I collapsed onto my table and slept.