Chapter One – Ashes and Thread
The cottage always smelled like sour milk, burnt fabric, and lavender perfume that clung too long to everything it touched. Lyra Wynthorne tiptoed across the creaky wooden floor before dawn, careful not to wake the tempest she called an aunt. Her bare feet were numb against the cold stones of the kitchen, and her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the chipped teapot. No breakfast for her, of course. Just hot water—enough to wake her bones.
Outside, the sky was a steel gray, threatening more rain. It had rained yesterday. And the day before that. It never washed away the ache in her spine or the blisters on her fingers.
She lit the fire, coughing as the smoke hit her face. Another day. Another set of gowns to stitch, hair to braid, shoes to shine, and egos to soothe.
A door slammed upstairs.
A chorus of three voices followed.
"Lyyyra! Where's the lace I asked for?!"
"Lyra, my nail polish chipped!"
"My corset's still wrinkled!"
The Vexley twins were awake.
Zera and Zina burst into the room like twin plagues. They looked identical—long, glossy purple hair, thick lashes, and violet eyes that always gleamed with cruelty. Today, they were wrapped in silk robes dyed blush-pink, and even those looked too expensive for a house so crumbling.
Behind them came Mira—the youngest sister. She wore a gray smock and clutched a book to her chest. Her short black hair was still damp from her morning wash, her cheeks still flushed. She gave Lyra a quick glance. A silent apology.
"Don't just stand there like a ghost," Zina snapped. "Zera needs her velvet sash ironed, and I still haven't seen the slippers I asked for."
"And my bodice has a snag. If you think I'm showing up to the Marquette girl's party looking like a beggar, I swear—" Zera's voice rose like a blade.
"I'll fix it," Lyra murmured.
"You'll fix it now," her aunt cut in, finally entering the room. Marva Vexley was a narrow woman with a face carved by bitterness. Her mouth curled in permanent dissatisfaction, her sharp gray eyes always scanning for someone to blame. She shoved a basket into Lyra's hands. "Take these to the town square by midmorning. Sell them. We need money, not your excuses."
The basket was filled with scarves Lyra had dyed and stitched late into the night, her fingers raw and pricked from the needle. "It rained all night," Lyra said softly. "The roads are still muddy."
"Then you'd better not slip."
---
By noon, Lyra's dress was soaked at the hem and her hands were cold from carrying the basket through the market. She stood beside a merchant stall made of old crates, trying to smile as buyers passed. Sometimes Mira would sneak away from home to bring her a warm roll, and once she even brought a worn poetry book. But today, Mira was stuck helping the twins.
She managed to sell four scarves and barter for a little pouch of flour. It wasn't enough. It never was.
When she returned home, Garrin Vexley was slouched on the porch steps, one boot missing, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Her cousin had sunken eyes, a constant twitch in his jaw, and a laugh that always sounded desperate.
"You've got coin?" he asked without looking at her.
Lyra held the pouch closer to her side. "For Aunt Marva."
He spat into the grass. "She'll waste it feeding Mira books anyway. Better use it at the tables in town."
"You lost again?"
He turned and glared. "I almost won."
---
That night, Lyra sewed by candlelight, stitching sequins onto a rose-colored gown for Zera. Her fingers were numb, but her thoughts were loud. If she had any power in her veins, she'd curse the fabric to scratch their skin raw. But she had no power. Only thread. Only silence.
Outside her tiny attic window, the moon rose—bright and full behind the clouds. She watched it as her needle worked, over and over again.
Mira crept into the room later, holding a small paper package. She set it on the table.
"A sweet roll. From the baker. I told him you were sick and he gave me two."
Lyra blinked. "Thank you, Mira."
Mira sat beside her, shoulders slouched. "Do you think… there's something else out there? Somewhere that doesn't smell like mold and lies?"
Lyra looked at her, at the hope behind her words. Then she looked down at the dress in her lap.
"Yes," she whispered. "I think there is."
She just didn't know how far she'd have to go to find it.