A Fragile Enchantment

by Allison Saft

Genres: Sword & Sorcery; YA Romance

Synopsis

In this romantic fantasy of manners from New York Times bestselling author Allison Saft, a magical dressmaker commissioned for a royal wedding finds herself embroiled in scandal when a gossip columnist draws attention to her undeniable chemistry with the groom.

Niamh Ó Conchobhair has never let herself long for more. The magic in her blood that lets her stitch emotions and memories into fabric is the same magic that will eventually kill her. Determined to spend the little time she has left guaranteeing a better life for her family, Niamh jumps at the chance to design the wardrobe for a royal wedding in the neighboring kingdom of Avaland.

But Avaland is far from the fairytale that she imagined. While young nobles attend candlelit balls and elegant garden parties, unrest brews amid the working class. The groom himself, Kit Carmine, is prickly, abrasive, and begrudgingly being dragged to the altar as a political pawn. But when Niamh and Kit grow closer, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more—until an anonymous gossip columnist starts buzzing about their chemistry, promising to leave them alone only if Niamh helps to uncover the royal family’s secrets. The rot at the heart of Avaland runs deep, but exposing it could risk a future she never let herself dream of, and a love she never thought possible.

Transporting readers to a Regency England-inspired fantasy world, A Fragile Enchantment is a sweeping romance threaded with intrigue, unforgettable characters, and a love story for the ages.

Release date: January 2, 2024

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

1

As Niamh leaned over the railing of the ship’s deck, she was struck with the sinking feeling that she had forgotten something.

She’d folded all of her best pieces in delicate cream paper, packed her bobbins and fabric shears, and—most importantly—tucked the invitation safely away in her reticule. That was everything. Surely that was everything. But then again, she couldn’t be certain. Keeping track of things had never exactly been her strong suit. And as much as she hated to admit it (and although she was secretly convinced her reticule did indeed contain a portal to a stranger realm, filled only with broken pencils and stray pocket change), there really was no arguing with the truth: everything she held dear, from her favorite pair of scissors to precious years of her life, had a way of slipping through her fingers.

It couldn’t hurt to check for the invitation again.

Niamh rummaged through her reticule and sighed with relief when she found the letter there. Its edges curled in the harsh sea air, and although the parchment looked yellowed with time, in reality it had only been the victim of at least five tea-spilling incidents. By now, she had memorized every inch of it, from the unbroken wax seal of the royal family, worn smooth and glossy by the restless pads of her fingers, to the smudged ink of its contents.

Dear Niamh Ó Conchobhair,

You are cordially invited to Avaland as an honored guest of the royal family, to serve as the royal tailor for the wedding of His Royal Highness the Prince Christopher, Duke of Clearwater, and Her Royal Highness Rosa de Todos los Santos de Carrillo, Infanta of Castilia …

Even now, she could hardly process it. Her, a Machlish girl from a backwater like Caterlow, the tailor for the royal wedding. Finally, all her hard work had paid off.

Two years ago, one of the girls back home, Caoimhe Ó Flaithbertaigh, had traveled to Avaland to visit a distant relative. And when she’d worn one of Niamh’s designs to a ball—a lovely dress of yellow silk, embroidered with metallic thread and enchanted with memories of early spring—she’d ensnared the most eligible bachelor of the Season, the young Duke of Aspendale. Since then, Avlish clients had trickled in steadily, all of them hungry for a taste of the magic that had turned a lowly Machlishwoman into a duchess. Niamh had made gowns for nobles desperate to make their powerless daughters irresistible, for young gentlewomen aiming to marry into the aristocracy, for matrons clinging to their faded beauty. Their ambitions had kept her family afloat these last two years—just barely. After all, few people in all of Machland could afford gowns enchanted by Ó Conchobhair magic anymore.

But now she did not need to worry about her mother, with her swollen joints and fading eyesight, or her grandmother, who grew frailer and more bitter by the day, or the roof that still needed thatching, or the cracked window courtesy of the neighbor boy Cillian and his goat. By some miracle, her work had captured the eye of the Prince Regent of Avaland himself.

Tailoring the royal wedding would give her the clout to open her own shop in the heart of the Avlish capital—and enough money to move Gran and Ma out of Machland and into a cozy townhouse. They’d never have to work or suffer another day of their lives. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Niamh only wished she did not feel so wretchedly selfish for taking it.

When she’d told Gran

she was leaving, she’d looked at Niamh as though she didn’t recognize her. Your grandfather died fighting the Avlish to guarantee that you would have a life here in Machland. You and your magic are what those monsters tried and failed to snuff out. And now you want to use your craft to make clothes for them? I will never recover from that shame.

Bringing shame to her family was the very last thing Niamh wanted to do. Every day of her life she’d been reminded of how lucky she was to live freely on Machlish soil, of just how much she owed to people like her grandfather. A good, obedient granddaughter would have torn the invitation to shreds right then and there. A good, obedient granddaughter would have instead proposed marrying someone who could give her stability—and children who might inherit the same magic flowing through her veins. She might not find happiness, but at least their culture would survive another generation.

But in that moment, with a letter from the prince regent in her hands, Niamh could not content herself with obedience. Whether Gran approved or not, whether it meant betraying her ancestors or not, she had to take care of her family in the only way she could.

She had to pay back the debt she owed them.

Niamh tucked the letter away and turned her face into the salt-laced wind. Out in front of her, the Machlish Sea rippled like a swath of gray fabric, foam stitched like a panel of lace across its surface. Glittering in the predawn light, all that water felt as endless as possibility.

“Docking in Sootham ten minutes!” a ship hand called. “Ten minutes to Sootham!”

She startled, banging her hip against the railing. “Oww…”

The pain faded quickly enough when she fixed her gaze on the city rising from the sea. Mist trailed off the coast, as white and gauzy as a bridal veil, and the barest thread of sunlight illuminated the jagged skyline. Niamh curled her fingers around the railing, practically vibrating with anticipation. It was all she could do to keep herself from swimming the rest of the way to shore.

When the ship at last ground to a halt and the dockhands tethered it to the pier, she collected her belongings and headed toward the gangplank. Her fellow passengers surged around her, shoving and shouting. More people than she’d ever seen in her life thronged on the deck. People cradled their squalling babies against their chests. Children with their bones pressing against their skin clutched their mothers’ skirts. And girls no older than her glared right through her, with dirt beneath their nails and eyes as hard as iron. They all reeked of desperation and hope. All of them had no doubt left their homes and families behind to seek work here in Sootham. For the first time, Niamh feared that Gran was right. Perhaps she really had never learned that the world was cruel.

Niamh did her best to stay afloat, crushed as she was between shoulders and traveling cases. At one point, her feet lifted off the ground entirely. The rank, sharp stench of bodies was nearly unbearable, and by the time she stumbled onto the docks, her legs wobbled as though she were still out at sea.

She made her halting way forward, her fingers digging into the damp, fraying ropes that

corralled them. Despite her disorientation, she managed to step over the rats scurrying across the dock and, by some miracle, resisted the impulse to apologize to them. At last, her feet touched solid ground. She looked up—and considered the possibility that she had boarded the wrong boat out of Machland.

The Sootham waiting for her at the end of the pier was nothing like she expected. Where was the glamor and gloss? The sprawling parks and bustling streets? Here, buildings slumped together wearily, as though they could barely manage to hold themselves up. The scent of sewage and brackish water settled thick over her.

No, this had to be Sootham. But if she could not find her way to the palace, she had nowhere else to go. She did not have enough money to return home, not that returning home was an option at all. She couldn’t bear to watch her mother work through another sleepless night, magicless but determinedly sewing by the sallow glow of the shop’s lacemaker lamp, or to see what even the simplest enchantment took out of her grandmother. Their livelihood rested on Niamh’s shoulders now. She was strong enough to bear it.

Niamh drew in a deep, steadying breath and squinted through the gloom. There, a short distance away, she spied a carriage beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. It was unobtrusive but lovely, painted an elegant lacquered black that shone even through the haze. Embossed on its side, in ruby red and brilliant gold, was the royal insignia: a rose, its petals pearled with golden droplets. She could almost believe that the carriage was something out of a fairy tale—that as soon as she looked away, it would settle down onto the earth, transformed back into a pumpkin by the cruel light of day.

As she approached, a footman stepped down from the back. He cut a statuesque figure, serious and stark and impossibly tall in his fine livery. Niamh shivered. Standing before the carriage in the dull lamplight, he looked for all the world like one of the Fair Ones, ready to spirit her away to the Otherworld. He peered down his nose at her with cold blue eyes, and at last, with the utmost condescension, he asked, “Miss Niamh O’Connor?”

Clearly, he’d expected someone different. Niamh fought every instinct she had to smooth down her hair or adjust her skirts. Four days at sea, she was certain, had not been kind to her. She offered him her most winning smile. “That’s me.”

He took her traveling case from her, holding it as he might a wayward kitten by the scruff. “Well, then. I suppose you had better come with me.”

---

The exterior of the royal palace was all resplendent white stone, with rows of windows and massive columns standing like soldiers beneath a portico. It looked like something from the ancient world, clean and precise and utterly imposing. The very sight of it took her breath away. It was magnificent, but in truth, it rather hurt to look at. In the ruthless glare of sunlight, everything shone.

“Wow,” she whispered, pressing her face against the cool glass of her window.

How could so much wealth possibly exist in the same city she’d landed in? She couldn’t believe that this was to be her home for the Season. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would run into someone she knew from home. The last she’d heard, her friend Erin Ó Cinnéide was set to be transferred to the palace. How glorious it’d be, to see her again after so many months apart

Every noble family hired an enormous temporary staff for the Season, and most of them came from Machland. From what she’d gleaned from her friends’ letters, it was brutal work, but at least it was work at all. Machland might have its independence, but it didn’t have much else. The earth was still recovering from the Blight and the people from their losses. Nearly everyone Niamh grew up with had deserted Caterlow, off to pursue dreams of a better life across the Machlish Sea.

The carriage slowed to a stop before the palace, and Niamh spotted a woman—the housekeeper, she assumed—lurking by the doors with her arms crossed primly behind her back. In her stodgy black gown, she was a bruise against all that blinding white.

The footman hopped down from the carriage and opened the door for her. Another standing in wait in the driveway collected her belongings. All of her luggage was ferried away before she could open her mouth to thank him. As soon as she stepped out of the carriage, Niamh felt entirely overwhelmed. Without her traveling case, she had absolutely nothing to do with her hands. In the face of complete disorientation, it was somehow the only thing she could worry about. Niamh ascended the stairs to the veranda, doing her very best not to gawp at the splendid gardens or the artfully weathered statues in the yard. But when the housekeeper turned the full brunt of her gaze upon her, Niamh drew up short.

The housekeeper was a formidable woman, no older than her grandmother but built like a draft horse. Her hair was pulled back severely from her even more severe face. Her attention gave the impression of a knife aimed directly at Niamh’s throat. She had no idea what to do. Erin worked in a grand house, and while her letters home contained veritable tomes full of court gossip and noble entanglements, Niamh had never paid them much mind. She began to suspect she should have.

Niamh curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you. Niamh Ó Conchobhair.”

No reply came. When Niamh finally dared to look up again, the housekeeper was frowning at her with grave disapproval. “Can you do anything about that accent?”

For a moment, Niamh was too stunned to speak. Gran had warned her that the Avlish harbored just as much resentment as the Machlish did. She had not, however, expected their disdain to be so transparent. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. My apologies.”

“Pity.” She clicked her tongue. “You may call me Mrs. Knight. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, has asked to see you. There are some things he wishes to discuss about your employment.”

Her spine went ramrod straight. The Prince Regent of Avaland wished to see her? About her job? Surely Mrs. Knight could fill her in on anything regarding her stay here. “Me? Are you certain?”

“Quite,” Mrs. Knight said dispassionately. “His Highness likes to be involved in the running of his household. He is a particular man.”

Now Niamh saw the shape of it. By particular, she meant meddlesome. If he

saw fit to concern himself with the affairs of one Machlish seamstress, she couldn’t imagine how he ran an entire country.

She knew little about the royal family. Only that eight years ago, the king’s health suddenly declined, and he never returned to public life. His wife died four years ago in a tragic accident. Their oldest son, Prince John, had been appointed by Parliament to rule as regent until his father recovered or—gods forbid—died. As for his younger brother, Christopher, Niamh knew nothing of him—only that he was to be wed in a month’s time.

But if the prince regent was a particular man, she couldn’t meet him in this condition. She smelled—if she was being generous—stale after four days on a ship. Gods only knew what her hair looked like. It was surely more knot than braid by now. “I fear I am not fit to be seen—”

“That much is apparent. However, His Royal Highness does not like to be kept waiting once he’s set his mind on something. Come along.”

Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Knight disappeared into the house. Niamh followed her—and then stopped cold in the doorway. On the other side was another world entirely, as shimmering and strange as the realm of the Fair Ones, Domhan Síoraí.

“Oh,” she breathed.

The palace surpassed her wildest imaginings. Everything was elegant and opulent, from the ornately carved wainscoting to the bright fabric of the upholstery and curtains. Every piece of furniture glittered: a gold inlay on a pillow here, a chair leg capped with a brass lion’s head there. And the rosewood herringbone floor … It deserved an apology for enduring the soles of her filthy traveling boots.

“There is no time to gawk,” Mrs. Knight said.

“Sorry!”

Mrs. Knight veered off down a corridor. Goodness, the woman could move. Niamh had to stumble to keep pace with her. As they passed, servants threw themselves out of their way and snapped to attention. Some of them even bowed, as if Mrs. Knight were the prince regent himself. Others, however, glowered at her with a barely leashed resentment. Niamh startled, training her gaze instead on the hard set of Mrs. Knight’s shoulders. She supposed that no boss could be universally loved.

Finally, Mrs. Knight stopped in front of a door twice as tall as Niamh. Mounted above it was a golden statue of a hawk, its talons extended toward them. It seemed rather excessive, but the portent was not lost on her.

“His Highness will receive you here,” Mrs. Knight said. “You will address him as such, and afterward as sir. Do you understand?”

Niamh nodded. Never had condescension been so welcome. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and her throat felt entirely too dry. She hoped she didn’t vomit on this beautiful rug. That would almost certainly get her sent back to Caterlow—or straight to debtors’ prison.

Slow down, she reminded herself, just as Gran had told her a thousand times before. If you slow down, you’ll make fewer mistakes. She rocked her weight onto her toes and shook out her hands to dispel her nervous energy. Then, with a deep breath, she entered the drawing room.

Niamh opened her mouth to announce herself—and promptly tripped over a run in the

carpet. She swallowed a sound of surprise and caught herself before she toppled headlong into an urn full of greenery.

“Are you quite all right?” Her host, His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent of Avaland, asked with a note of mild alarm.

Her cheeks burned furiously with humiliation. “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.”

By the time she regained the courage to look up again, he had risen from his seat. She guessed he was no older than thirty, but his weary, dour bearing belonged a man twenty years his senior. His dark brown hair was combed uncompromisingly into submission, with nary a strand out of place. His coat was simple and black, tailored in perfect, straight lines. Even his wedding ring, a simple band of gold, revealed no sign of wear. Everything about him, from the slash of his eyebrows to the harsh angles of his cheekbones, screamed order. He looked like a man carved from marble, perfectly at home in a palace from an era long gone.

But it was the young man standing beside him that Niamh couldn’t look away from. He was no older than her own eighteen years. In the morning light, his golden eyes burned with an intensity just north of hostile. And when his gaze locked with hers, she swore her heart stopped. She steadied herself on the back of an armchair.

His features were narrow, as sharp and steely as a blade, almost … Well, she’d call him dangerous, but in truth, he was built like a sewing needle. She could break him in half if she really set her mind to it. He wore a black coat with peculiar notching in the lapels, a waistcoat of charcoal silk, and a black cravat knotted unfussily at his throat. She had never been one for a monochrome palette—it was quite unfashionable for daywear, not to mention boring—but his clothes were so impeccably tailored, she almost didn’t mind it. His hair, the near-black of damp earth, was swept back into a bun at the nape of his neck.

He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

But the moment he opened his mouth, the spell he’d cast over her shattered.

With positively glacial hauteur, he asked, “Who are you?”

 

2

Surely, Niamh had misheard him.

Or perhaps he was joking. Yes, that had to be it. No one, especially a noble, could be so unaccountably rude. But when she forced herself to laugh, the mood didn’t lighten. The young man stood there with his arms crossed and his knifepoint eyes leveled at her. Glinting within them was a challenge—and also an obvious trap.

Only a fool would take that bait.

“Niamh Ó Conchobhair.” She curtsied as low as she could, hoping that was the proper thing to do. Oh, why had she not listened when Erin prattled on about the intricacies of Avlish high society and their absurd formalities? “It is an honor to meet you.”

This clearly did not answer his question. If anything, it only served to displease him further. “I’m sure,” he said acidly. With that, he turned to the prince regent again. “Why am I here?”

“This,” the prince regent said, with barely restrained irritation, “is your tailor, Kit.”

Your tailor. All the blood drained from her face as the reality of her situation set in. This horrible, abrasive man was the prince regent’s brother. The second son of the King of Avaland. Prince Christopher, the Duke of Clearwater. The groom.

Kit did not deign to look at her. “Ah. So this is an ambush.”

“I did not realize that an introduction would be such a terrible imposition to you.” The prince regent lowered his voice. “You will have to forgive me for thinking you might like to speak with her before I had her take your measurements.”

“Why would you think otherwise?” Kit’s expression grew downright mutinous, and every syllable bristled with resentment. “I am yours to command.”

That was when Niamh heard the sudden splinter of ceramic—and a brittle crash as it struck the floor. She turned toward the sound and nearly leapt out of her skin. The holly in the corner of the room had begun to seethe, and the veins of its leaves glowed gold with magic. Its roots pushed viciously through the crack in its container. New growth burst forth and arranged itself into perfect, layered topiaries. The prince regent’s anger, it seemed, was as neat and fastidious as the rest of him.

Niamh recovered from her shock enough to pray that her jaw had remained shut. With every new generation, magic faded a little more from the world. It was rare indeed to encounter such potent magic in this day and age.

She had grown up on horror stories of the Avlish royal family’s power. How it had caused the Blight by depleting the soil. How during the War of Machlish Independence, briars had torn from the earth and skewered men like living bayonets. Niamh had always suspected those legends were exaggerated. Now, she wasn’t so certain what the Carmines were capable of.

How could the prince regent’s father have wielded such power so callously? If he hadn’t, maybe her family would not have known such hardship. Maybe fewer of her people would have had to board that ship. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to leave behind everything she knew to care for the ones she loved. Anger roared to life within her, so suddenly she shocked herself.

But the prince regent seemed far too preoccupied with his brother to take any notice of her. He sighed through his teeth. The sparks of gold dulled in his eyes, and once again, he became the very picture of composure. As if by conjuration, a footman detached himself from the shadows and procured a pair of shears from his breast pocket. He set to work pruning the holly back into a manageable size, and the steady clip, clip, clip of the blades cut up the silence. Another servant appeared to sweep up the broken shards of the vase, there and gone in a matter of seconds.

“We will finish this discussion presently. In private.” The prince regent, clearly beyond finished with Kit, turned to Niamh. His expression was unbearably earnest, as though he was speaking to a slighted highborn lady rather than a Machlish girl. After the dark turn of her own thoughts and how

dismissively his housekeeper had treated her, it knocked her off-kilter. “I am terribly sorry, Miss O’Connor. My brother has forgotten himself.”

Kit made a sound that was not quite a laugh. “Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it here.”

Indignation swelled within her. She was a person, not a piece of furniture or a pawn in his ridiculous war-by-proxy. Perhaps he should think twice before treating his brother—the de facto ruler of the kingdom, no less—with such blatant disrespect in front of a stranger. Before she could think better of it, she said, “I take it you are not interested in fashion, then?”

The very air rang with tension. Both princes regarded her with open surprise, and she did her best not to wither beneath their attention.

Oh, gods. What had she done?

Kit’s scowl slotted back into place. “No. I think it’s a waste of time.”

His curt dismissal stunned her. He didn’t even bother with perfunctory politeness as he insulted her life’s work. As cheerfully as she could manage, she said, “I am quite passionate about it myself.”

“Is that so?” He sounded surprisingly curious, which gratified her enough to actually consider her answer.

There were far too many ways she could answer that question. Because sewing was the only thing she was good at. Because she was the only one in two generations who had even a glimmer of her family’s dying craft, and it fell on her to preserve it. Because despite all the pressure, all the long hours, all the tears, little in the world made her happier than making other people happy. In the end, she settled on something safe but true. “I like beautiful things, and I like making things that make people feel beautiful.”

“What nonsense.” He spoke with such sharp and sudden disdain, it was as though she’d pressed on a bruise. “Beauty is nothing worth dedicating your life to. It’s the domain of sycophants and peacocking fools.”

Niamh recoiled. He was not just rude; he was mean. And entirely unreasonable, frankly. He was the one who was getting married. He was the one wearing shoes that cost more than she made in a month. He was the one wearing a silk waistcoat that practically begged to be engraved in a fashion magazine. Silk! In summer, no less. She hoped he would sweat through it. She hoped he—

“Show some respect to our guest, Christopher,” the prince regent said sharply. “She is common, but she is divine-blooded.”

Niamh had never heard the term divine-blooded before, but it was obvious what he meant: an ceird, the craft, magic. If the Avlish believed their magic came from the divine as well, perhaps Avlish and Machlish myths were not as different as she’d been led to believe.

Long ago, so the stories went, hundreds of gods sailed to Machland and made it their home. Before they hid themselves behind the veil to the Domhan Síoraí, some had taken mortal lovers and passed down their magic to their children. Every person with an ceird claimed they could trace their ancestry back to one of the Fair Ones. There was Luchta, who crafted swords and shields that turned the tide of battle; Dian Cecht, whose remedies could cure any wound; Goibnu, whose feasts could satisfy a man's

hunger for a decade; Bres, who could end any quarrel with his silver tongue; Delbaeth, who could spit fire like a dragon; and of course, her namesake, Niamh. She had always thought it cruelly ironic that she was named after the Queen of the Land of Eternal Youth.

“As you wish, Jack.” Kit rounded on her once more. “Let’s see it, then.”

She understood his unspoken threat: Give me a reason to not put you back on that ship. He didn’t think himself above her; he knew he was. From the moment she’d received the prince regent’s invitation, Niamh knew it was not a reward for what she had achieved but the beginning of a new trial. Here, as a commoner, as a Machlishwoman, she would have to work twice as hard to earn her keep. Determination burned up all of her fear, and all that remained, smoldering within her, was the need not only to prove herself—but to prove Kit wrong.

“Gladly.” It came out with far more fire and venom than she intended. “But I will need my things brought to me.”

The prince regent—Jack—hardly even lifted a finger before a footman slipped out of the room. “At once. Please sit and make yourself comfortable.”

She sat gingerly on the edge of an armchair. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

After only a minute, the footman returned with Niamh’s traveling case. She pawed through her meager worldly possessions, painfully aware of how coarse her life must have seemed to them, until she found her embroidery hoop, a pair of scissors, a spool of thread, and a pincushion. She measured out and snipped off a length of thread. When she dared to glance up, Kit was staring at her with an intensity that almost made her lose her nerve.

No, she reminded herself. He will never have seen anything like you.

Hers was far from the flashiest magic in the world. Once, in a time irrecoverable, perhaps a cloak made by an Ó Conchobhair could bring entire armies to heel. But Niamh had never wanted to change the world. Her clients sought her out for her designs but also for her craft. Whatever she sewed possessed a subtle compulsion. No one could quite describe it, other than this: when you saw someone in a Niamh Ó Conchobhair piece, you felt something. Niamh had transformed a young widow into the very picture of sorrow. She had allowed wallflowers to vanish into the recesses of a ballroom. And two years ago, she had made Caoimhe Ó Flaithbertaigh into a duchess.

Niamh blew out a calming breath. She could do this.

A half-finished handkerchief was pinned in her embroidery hoop, one she’d worked on during the long voyage to Avaland. She’d painstakingly stitched wildflowers into it, so vivid that they seemed to be real, pressed and forgotten in a scrap of silk. She’d used thirty different colors of thread, after all. Just looking at it filled her with a longing for things she’d had and lost. As magic swelled within her, she thought of summer. It was always the best time of year in Caterlow, when all the children would run wild and barefoot through the fields, when the breeze off the sea cooled the sweat beaded on her forehead. Those days had always seemed

 endless and brimming with possibility, happy in a way that felt inexhaustible. She’d stitched those memories into this piece, memories that had kept her afloat on the black waves of the Machlish Sea.

She was ready.

Something tugged sharply in her chest, no more painful than the prick of a needle. And then, her magic spooled out of her. The thread shimmered, as though she held a delicate beam of sunlight between her fingers. Its soft glow bathed the room, dancing on all the golden picture frames, on all the gleaming brass buttons studding the couches.

Kit swore, so quietly she nearly missed it.

Everything else fell away but the two of them and the tender ache of yearning threaded into the eye of her needle. His lips parted, and the light of her magic made his eyes luminous. Heat bloomed across the back of her neck, and her stomach fluttered strangely. If she did not know better, she’d say his expression was full of wonder.

No, she had to be imagining things. She tore her gaze away from him and began to sew little embellishments of gold into the design. By the time she finished, the petals looked shot through with sunlight, and all the leaves pearled with dew. As carefully as she could, she snipped off the loose thread and removed the fabric from the hoop.

“It isn’t much, ...