“My carriage will be waiting outside on Yanamer Street,” Lorsa was saying. “If you or your son is not there by tomorrow morning, I will be forced to give this generous offer to someone else. I have my doubts that your humble shop will survive the shame of failing our emperor.”
Then he turned on his heel and left.
“Baba,” I said, rushing to him as soon as the shop door closed. “You cannot go.”
“The emperor’s command cannot be ignored.”
“It’s an invitation,” I said. “Not a command.”
“That’s how it is worded. But I know what will happen if we ignore it.” Baba sighed. “Word will spread that we did not heed the emperor’s calling. No one will come to the shop anymore, and we will lose everything.”
He was right. It wasn’t just about the money or the honor—it was a mandatory invitation. Like being drafted to fight in the Five Winters’ War.
“Now that the war is over,” Baba said, “the emperor needs to show the rest of the world that A’landi is great. He will do so by hiring the best of everyone: musicians, tailors, and painters. No expense will be spared. It is an honor to be invited. One I cannot refuse.”
I said nothing. Baba was in no shape to travel to the palace, let alone become the emperor’s new tailor. And Keton…Keton couldn’t sew the most basic of stitches, let alone garments worthy of the imperial court.
But me? IknewI could do it. Iwantedto be the imperial tailor.
I went to my room and scrubbed my sleeve over the smudges on my mirror so I could see myself clearly. Honestly.
Baba always said I took after Mama, not him. I’d never believed him. I looked at my straight nose, large round eyes, and full lips—yes, those were from Mama. But Mama had been the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, while I…I’d grown up in a house full of men and didn’t even know how to act like a girl.
Finlei used to tease that, from behind, I looked exactly like Keton—reedy as a boy. The freckles on my face and arms didn’t help either. Girls were supposed to be delicate and pale. But maybe,maybeall this could work in my favor.
I couldn’t sing or recite poetry. I couldn’t dance. I didn’t have grace, or charm or wiles. But Icouldsew. Heavens, I could sew.
It had to be me.
When Baba returned to his prayers, I rubbed my finger on the coal from the fireplace and smeared it across my eyebrows. By my worktable was a pair of shears. I grasped them but hesitated. My hands never trembled when they cut cloth—I could cut a straight line in my sleep—so why did they tremble now?
I touched the ends of my hair, which reached past my waist even when braided. I undid the ribbons and unwove the braids. The waves rolled down across my back, tickling my spine.
I lowered my hand, bringing the scissors down with it. What I wanted to do was crazy. I needed to be rational, needed to consider the consequences. But all I could hear was Minister Lorsa telling me I couldn’t go. And Baba telling me I couldn’t go.
My whole life, I’d been told what Icouldn’tdo because I was a girl. Well, this was my chance to find out. The only thing Icoulddo was take it.
I relaxed my grip on the scissors’ bows and pressed the blades against the back of my neck. With one swift motion, I cut my hair at my shoulders. The strands whisked down my back, landing at my feet in a pool of black satin, which the breeze from an open window swept apart as easily as feathers.
My hands stopped trembling, and I tied my hair back the way Keton and all the boys his age did. A strange calm fell over me, as if I had cut away my fears along with my hair. I knew that wasn’t true, but it was too late to panic. Now I needed proper clothes.
I brought a tray of plain winter melon soup and steamed fish to Keton’s bed. He used to share his room with Finlei and Sendo. Our house had felt small then. Now it felt too big. Half my room was storage for fabrics and beads and dyes…and now Keton had this whole room to himself.
My brother was asleep. His lips were twisted into a grimace as he snored. He’d told us he felt no pain even though his legs were broken.
“How can I feel pain if I can’t feel my legs?” he’d tried to joke.
I set down his dinner and pulled up his blanket so it covered his shoulders. Then I reached into his drawer and pulled out a pair of his trousers. I folded them over my arm and began tiptoeing out.
“Maia.” Keton stirred.
I whirled around. “I thought you were asleep.”
“You thought wrong.” Keton’s head settled back onto the pillow.
I sat beside him on the edge of his bed. “Are you hungry? I brought dinner.”
“You’re stealing my clothes,” he observed, nodding at the pile on my arm. “What’s this all about?”
