Mira Threadwell's Arc

Chapter 13 of 13

Mira ran back to the storehouse with the marshal's mark still wet on the first panel. Inside, a bright lantern hung over the work table, its core glowing warm against a shell of pale ice. The remaining panels lay spread beneath its light, half-stitched, needles still pushed through cloth. But the partner's stool was empty. Dawn pressed gray against the high window. On the table, beside a tall carved post the partner used to hang spare thread, sat a small ice perch shaped like a resting owl. A folded note was tucked under one claw. Called to the lodge. Inspector demanded my token. Finish without me. Your stitch, your name. Mira touched the perch. The ice was no longer cold. The partner had been gone a while. She sat down and worked. The lantern threw steady light across every seam. She matched the locking stitch from the compass, panel after panel, her hands moving without doubt. When the sky began to pale, she carried the stack to the lodge fire pit, where the marshal waited with his seal. He pressed her name into each one. The crowd watched in silence, then began to clap. By full morning, fighters were lining up at her table, coin in hand, asking for cloaks stitched by Mira Threadwell. The guild rule still stood, but her name on a garment now meant something no inspector could strip away. She kept the small ice perch on her shelf, and the lantern burning low, and got back to work.