Silence gleamed in winter’s morning sun. Its edge sharp enough to slice a stone like a tomato after the armorer was through with it. The brilliant metal shone so brightly that it glowed almost white, its breadth as wide as a grown man’s palm and nearly the same height as its bearer. If Wrena took her eyes off the beauty of the sword, she would be forced to look at the grim reason for it leaving its sheath. The expansive, meaty hand that wrapped its rune-etched hilt was also familiar, for it was her lord father's. White peppered his sandy beard and streaked through the honey wheat hair near his temples, making him look older than his thirty-two years. His face was unreadable in the light of the rising sun, mouth drawn in a tight line and ice-blue eyes shadowed. Her lord father did not have much use of Silence these days aside from evening the scales of justice in the westlands. Wrena had been born in the dove-winged era of peace and had never seen a message arrive from the wings of a harpy calling for war. She hoped they would stall their entrance until she was older and strong enough to wield a greatsword like Silence. If she could break free from the iron grip of nobility first, that was.
The boom of her lord father’s voice broke her from her thoughts.
“Higrin Falsen, you have been brought to charge for treason on account of abandoning your watch and desertion. What say you?” he asked the small sentinel who knelt on the melted snow-soaked earth in front of him. The boy couldn’t be more than fifteen.
“I promise, m’lord,” the boy said. “I didn’t abandon—I would never think to abandon my post, m’lord. There was a scream in the Stillwood and I went to spot the source, but I got turned around, see. I don’t even know how it happened. Swear to the known and forgotten gods, I don’t. Never got lost in those woods in my life.”
“No other man on night watch heard this scream you speak of, Higrin. You were in the Stillwood for a moon before a patrol found you tangled in a game trap,” Lord Terryn said.
“I swear on my life, m’lord, my account is true!” The boy cried. “She’s still screaming—shrieking like mad out there. Can’t you hear her?”
Lord Terryn looked over his shoulder to the sentinel’s commander standing to his right beside Ser Eviyn. The man met her lord father’s eyes and shook his head slowly. No one was enjoying this, but the accounts weren’t adding up in the young boy’s favor.
“In the name of Maddis Hightower, the First of His Name, King and Lord of the Five Kingdoms and The Known Lands of Ileth, by the word of Terryn of House Stillhour, Lord of Westermin and Justiciar of the West, I sentence you to die by beheading,” Lord Terryn said. “It’s my privilege to carry your last words with me, Higrin. Speak them now, if you wish.”
“Mum? Where’s my mum? Please, I’d like to hold her hand.” Higrin searched the small crowd of onlookers with desperation in his large bloodshot, and panicked eyes. Wrena turned her eyes down at her hands clasped in front of her. Her knuckles were white.
A hand of a similar cast to her lord father’s, though smaller, lightly gripped Wrena’s shoulder. “Wielding a Heritage Blade is not always without burden, little harpy,” Wes murmured in her ear. “You must know both faces of the coin. That’s why I brought you here today.”
Wrena steeled herself to heed her brother and looked back up at the boy. He seemed so small now. A dark spot spread down his breeches on his thigh to meet the earth. Tears cast ripples in the growing puddle under his knees. Her throat ached from the strain of trying not to cry. The boy was probably only a couple of years older than her.
Higrin Falsen, she chanted his name in her mind. His name would not be forgotten to her. She would not allow it.
A breath midway through inhaling caught in her chest as Silence carved in an arc through the orange sun rising over the hill. Her lord father brought the sword down in a steady sure stroke. A few moments after the blade hit the earth, the boy’s small and dirt-matted head slid from his neck. She flinched as it thudded on the ground. It rolled and landed with his face toward the blue and orange sky. Those once large eyes were now squeezed shut, his face frozen in a permanent state of fear. Instinct guided her to do the same, but Wes was watching her. She fought to keep her face passive like their lord father’s. Higrin’s body swayed and collapsed like a stack of cards.
The mandated ten witnesses dispersed in a sullen silence. Fur cloaks dripped with the muddied earth wet from last night’s snow that had promptly thawed. Spring may be nigh yet judging by the tiny sprigs of grass peeking up from the ground near the boy’s body. It had been a long and dark winter. But this day felt twice as long and dark and it was only at its inception. Wrena had never seen a man die. Two years ago, Wes had forced her to chop a rooster’s head off to have her participate in the circle of life. The blood had pooled off the block just the same as the boys had, but there had been so much less with the rooster. Blood still spurted in fitful gasps from the neck. The crimson mixed like oil with the puddle of melted snow below it. Her eyes were transfixed and locked on the scene, her body paralyzed but trembling.
“Wrena,” her lord father said.
She snapped her eyes away from Higrin’s headless body. In her shock, she had forgotten she wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Yes, Father?” She asked.
“This is not an affair for a girl of twelve to be witness of. What are you doing here?”
“I—” she started.
“I brought her here, Father,” Wes cut in. “I thought it important for her to see the weight of House Stillhour’s duty to maintain law and order in the westlands.”
Lord Terryn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t recall imparting such duties on you, Westyn.”
“‘We must find our duty in what is laid before us, not in what we imagine it might be’. Is that not what you often tell me?” Wes replied.
“Aye, well, it seems you are imagining this duty, boy,” Lord Terryn said. “If our Wrena were a young man I may commend you, but she is to be a lady of another great house once she is old enough to be wed. I will not abuse her with the violence of men.”
“Father, I—” Wrena began.
“Wrena,” her lord father said. His voice softened and he bent a knee to look eye-level at her. “I understand you like to play knights with your brother and Lori. And I know he entertains the foolish dream.” He shot a sharp glance toward Wes. “You are a lady of House Stillhour. Your time of playing with sticks will come to an end soon, and it’s best you start preparing for it now. I will not have your name—nor your sister's name—tarnished and your prospects of a favorable betrothal scattered to the forgotten winds. I love that fire in your heart, the gods know I do. But it will be the death of me as well as your mother’s if you insist on chasing the fantasy of becoming a lady knight.”
“Would it kill you to believe in me?” She asked.
“Aye, Wrena,” her lord father said. “It would.” He gave her a pained smile as if to say he wished things were different; that she had been born a second son and could fulfill the Known Calling that beat in her heart like a war drum.
“What are our Words, wildheart?”
“Duty Before Dreams,” she answered. His grip on her dream tightened.
You will see, Father, she thought as she stuck her chin up.
Lord Terryn nodded his approval, deeming the matter finished. He straightened himself, shifting his furs closer about him to ward off the chill of the winter morning, and rubbed his hands together to warm them. “We should be off. You will be late for your studies and I won’t have your mother’s wrath for it.”
Wes trailed their lord father and Ser Eviyn and his men as they walked the wet path back to Westermin. Their lord father’s height had been bred into Wes, making him a head taller than most boys his age. Many were sure he would eclipse the height of their lord father and be the tallest standing man in the West. He stuck out like a nugget of gold in a mountain of silver with his golden and waved mane in extraordinary resemblance to the lion on the banner of their lady mother’s house. Practiced with the sword and lance and riding, as well as excelling in his house management and fiscal studies, he was as well bred a son any lord could desire. For many such reasons, Westyn Stillhour was the Sunlit Son of the West, and loved dearly by its people.
A song sparrow chittered gayly in the treeline south of her. What was there to sing about? A boy was dead for being touched by a plagued mind, for hearing the screams of a woman who did not exist, by the hand of her lord father. The same hand that threatened to warp around the neck of her dream and choke it to death. Wrena was numb to the cold around her. The idea of going back to the keep and fumbling through her needlework was torture. The entire party present at the holdfast that morning had moved on, she could hear the men laughing and joking ahead of her. All had quickly washed their hands and conscience of the death of a young lad whose only crime was hearing the cries of an imagined woman from the Stillwood. For a madness that could not be escaped. Her feet felt heavy in the sludge and she fell behind the retinue.
“Come, little sister,” Wes said. He had been yards ahead but now stood right in front of her.
“How old was Higrin, Wes?” she asked.
“Ah, so that’s what troubles you.”
“No—well, yes—but I don’t think he was lying. I think his mind was ill. I don’t know that he could have helped it. He was only trying to do the right thing. Was killing him necessary?”
“If what you think is true, which it very well may be, do you think he would have a normal or easy life?”
“Well….I don’t know. Is it our right to choose?” That was the question that burdened her most.
“It is when it impacts the safety and stability of Westermin,” Wes responded.
“Why not remove him from the garrison then? He was a boy, not a monster.”
“Aye. Just a boy,” Wes agreed. “Madness can spread throughout the lordship and fester in the minds of others in its wake. Not to mention the consequences of a soft hand for the crime of desertion. What you propose could jeopardize the stability of Westermin, Wrena. If Father were to let that boy go and pardon him, what precedent would that set for other would-be deserters? Deserters are the most dangerous lot. A man who knows his life is already forfeit if caught has ripped free from the leash that tethers him to honor.”
“That is if you believe a plagued mind is contagious,” she muttered under her breath. She had no retort to what happens to a man who’s no longer bound to duty or honor, that line of reasoning was a stranger to her.
“Speak with Vitasan Marsun on it if you don’t believe me. I’m sure he can illuminate the finer workings of brain tempers for you to better understand. You still have much learning to do before you presume enlightened intelligence amongst men, little harpy,” he said with a wink. “Now come, before Father realizes we’ve dallied and begs the dinna to double your needlework time. Gods know that would be enough to bring the plague to your mind.”
Wrena groaned. Wes was right, she was too young to pretend she understood madness. She was not a Vitasan. She wasn’t even grown. The only way her lord father and Vitasan Marsun had even compelled her to learn to read was through war texts and the histories of Ileth’s knights. But that morning felt like an injustice for the boy. It didn’t sit right in her gut. The thoughts persisted as mud clung to her dress’s hem during the walk back to the castle. The two-mile journey felt unending, her thoughts and mud weighing heavy on her. Towering oaks of the Stillwood came to focus as she crested the hill leading down to the village proper. The forest backed Westermin to the south while rolling grassy plains outlined the northern and eastern sides. To the west, the Cliffs of Unrest dropped two thousand feet to the shores of the Quiet Sea. She trotted down the rest of the gnoll to catch up with her brother making his way through the village that lay between the northern wild hills and their castle.
Crisp and clean winter wind of the plain turned to steamy air laden with damp hay, animal refuse, spices, and fresh loaves being pulled from ovens. Mothers calling for their children, vendors shouting prices for wares and food items, goats bleating and pigs grunting were a familiar and synchronous choir in her ear as she ventured through the village. She wound her way toward the northern gate entrance of Westermin’s grounds where the blazing forges of their smithy sat just inside. Still far off, Wes’s laugh sounded in her ear as he spoke with Arlo, the blacksmith apprentice. As they came into view, Arlo was covered in soot as usual, his mop of thick blond curls damp and sticking to his forehead from the constant proximity to the swelter of the smithy. A leather apron covered the treated black woolen trousers and tunic he wore that was a stitch too small for the growth of his muscles underneath. He had a ready smile, and always let Wrena swing the test blades he’d forged. She was not one to fancy boys, but if she had to it may as well be a craftsman of her one true love—swords. Arlo noticed her approaching.
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“Lady Wrena!” He called. “I made you something.”
“You made her something, did you?” Wes cocked an eyebrow.
“Aye. The best tiny blade in all of Ileth, I dare say,” Arlo said.
Wrena squealed with excitement as she came up to them. “A blade! To keep?”
“That is if Lord and Lady Stillhour don’t find it, I reckon,” Arlo said.
“Oh, mate, you shouldn’t have done this. I’ll be to blame!” Wes protested.
Wrena swatted Wes on the arm. “They won’t find it, so stop your whining.”
She hopped from foot to foot, eager for the secret gift Arlo was digging for in the back of the smithy. Soon enough, Arlo reappeared from the side store room where he had most likely hidden it to ensure Fin Smith—Westermin’s Master Blacksmith—didn’t find it. Her anticipation couldn’t handle the slowness of his gait so she ran to meet him as he shut the door to the store room. In his hand was a sleek two-palm-length throwing dagger. It was plain, but the shine of it drew a gasp from her.
“Arlo, this isn’t…”
“Aye, m’lady,” Arlo said. A proud grin crossed his lips. “Kleonese steel. Just like a Heritage Blade. Without the ancestral spell-cast runes and lightmage’s kiss, of course. But the steel is of Silence all the same.”
“What…how…” Wrena was at a loss for words.
“I saved all of the shavings from Silence each time she was brought to Lucio for sharpening over the last two years, and got a nice sized bit off—”
“Ho, now!” Wes cut in. “No need to get into the thorny details of it. A blade’s a blade, after all.”
Wrena shifted her eyes warily from one boy to the other. She could push, but that may end up costing her the knife. Better not to press. For now. “I won’t bite the hand that feeds me. May I?” She held out her left hand and wiggled her fingers. Icy cold met the warmth of her palm. She was truly holding Kleonese steel—the faintest vibration tickling her palm affirmed it. Arlo took the blade, promising it was just to show her after she tried to snatch it back, and set her index finger out front then rested the middle of the knife across the tip of her finger. Its balance was faultless, evenly weighed on each side.
Wes let out an appreciative whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself, Arlo. Soon you’ll be taking over for Fin.”
“Honestly, Arlo, this is everything to me,” emotion bobbed in Wrena’s throat. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you for such kindness.”
Arlo looked as if he was shrinking under the weight of the praise. He smiled with his eyes cast down and his shoulders slouched as if her gratitude boasted the weight of a dragon. The poor boy wasn’t used to so much. Fin was a fair, but brutal master to apprentice under, and Arlo had grown up in the Dorsey orphanage where affection and care were as rare as the metal in her hand. At ten he’d left the eastern kingdom to find a smithy to train under, and tales of House Stillhour’s Master Blacksmith in Westermin had prompted him to make the two-month trek to appeal to Fin. It had taken Arlo another six months of showing up at the forge before he arrived each morning for Fin to accept to apprentice him. He had been learning under him for the past four years now. The older man came across as a severe old codger, but he had a soft heart underneath it all. Wrena wondered if working in the inferno of the smithy day in and day out did that to a person—that they’d become the iron or steel that they wrought. Fin was warm enough to her, though, thankfully.
“It was no trouble, m’lady,” Arlo said as he shuffled nervously. “Do you want to learn how to throw it?”
“Oh, gods, yes, “ she breathed out, “but I’m already so late for my lessons with Dinna Lestreyne. I’ll try to come back here around three hours past midday and see if you’re available.”
“All right, lady Wrena and lord Westyn. Fair tidings 'till then,” Arlo said as he gave a mock bow. Wes and Wrena shared a joint chuckle then raced the rest of the way to the main keep.
The rearing onyx griffin holding the scales of justice in its fierce fore-claws folded over itself in waves on the golden banner of House Stillhour sitting atop the central tower of the moss-adorned keep. The large flag flapped a cheerful homecoming to her and her brother as they entered the courtyard. House Stillhour’s Master Armsman, Lucio, and lesser armorers were hard at work on Silence and other weapon and armor repairs at the base of the armory gatehouse in front of them from where they entered the courtyard. Wrena loved the sound of the blade scraping in a rhythm on a whetstone and the clang of worked metal that rang out from one of her favorite places in the castle's grounds. Familiar men of the Westermin garrison called out greetings to the little lord and lady of the house. Many smiled and greeted Wes by name with a slap on his back. He had naturally befriended all fifty men regularly on duty during the day. He was fast to remember the name and subtle details of the people he met, causing the men-at-arms, the bannermen of the surrounding vassals and strongholds, and most everyone in the westlands to favor the Sunlit Son. A small corner in Wrena’s heart envied his comfort with smallfolk and noble folk alike. An even larger space envied his being born a man and heir of House Stillhour. But she loved him fiercely and buried those ill-mannered feelings, for he, along with Lori, trained her in the skill of the sword when they could.
To look at their natural companionship one would assume they were the twins of the family. Many incidentally did, despite their two-year gap in birth. Wes didn’t spend as much time with his twin sister. Neta was the living breathing mold of the perfect noble lady. She excelled in most all feminine arts, whereas Wrena was a pig in a maze with a needle and thread and her etiquette lessons. Their lady mother seemed to partake in everything but understanding Wrena’s love of knighthood and honor, her mouth opening to admonish more often than to praise. Praise seemed to be reserved for docile and pure-of-heart Neta. She was adept in needlework, etiquette, dance, and the Hrishelli language of the western realm across the Quiet Sea. She was also accomplished in playing the harp and the viol. In the teeth of their many differences, Wrena could not be too sour with her sister. With at least one female success and with Neta being older, that allowed room—diminutive room though it may be—for her to slash a new and exhilarating path forward. If the torchbearer’s light was on her sister succeeding in securing a favorable marriage, Wrena could theoretically glide through the shadows and pursue knighthood in earnest.
Lady Joenn Stillhour, however, had hands enough for two torches.
“Wrena Stillhour,” her lady mother said, her arms crossed against her slender frame. The gold of her waist-length hair was pinned half back and muted in the cloud cover of the morning, though it still shined in a way uncommon to the westlands. Her grey woolen dress was layered with an emerald top coat with a golden and ringed clasp from which a charm of a dove dangled. The sleeves draped like raindrops at her delicate wrists and flared in billows at her hidden feet. Everything about Lady Joenn spoke of grace. Her face was another story, it spoke of the lioness in her. And Wrena knew that look; reprimands for her absence were inward bound.
“Please do me the honor of telling me truthfully where you have been off to this morning. Imagine my shock when Dinna Lestreyne relayed that when you were not in the solar with Neta, she went to your bed chambers to fetch you and you were not there either. Now you come traipsing in the courtyard with your brother, covered in filth and hair mussed like a brambleweed.”
“Good morning, Mother,” Wrena said, her voice light and proper in an attempt to defuse her lady mother’s admonishments. “You see, there was a,” —what could she say to get herself out of this mess? She scrambled for a new excuse—“a family that has been faring poorly this winter. They have six children to feed and the father died. Tragic death, really. He—”
“Oh, Wrena.” Her lady mother tilted her head and placed two fingers against her temples. “If you’re going to weave falsehoods, at least make them somewhat believable. I know where your father and brother were this morning. It’s a fair assumption that you found your way there, too. I may have been born during winter but I was not born this winter, child,” Lady Joenn said, the exasperation in her voice as clear and chilling as the morning’s air. “You will go to the solar immediately and begin your needlework. And Westyn, I assume your lord father will handle your part in this if he hasn’t already. But do not mistake me for an ignorant. As heir to House Stillhour, you have a duty, even now, to your sisters to do right by them and model their path. Do not steer this house to ruin.”
Wes kept his head held high. “Yes, Mother.”
“Now, off, the both of you,” their lady mother said. “And Wrena, wash up and put on a fresh dress. Dinna Lestreyne will have a fit if you soil the cloth and thread.”
?
Everything was crooked and wobbled. Damn that needle and thread to the unknown. Wrena sighed and looked up at the stone ceiling. Her face relaxed, the ache in her brow easing from the furrow of concentration she had held for the past hour. If the unknown realms existed, surely that room was one of them. The Stranger and his minions placed her in purgatory every day for hours and hours there. Without the haunt of her required work in the solar, the chamber was quite comfortable and inviting, however. Tapestries woven and embroidered by the ancestral ladies of House Stillhour adorned the walls. Scenes of famed hunts, honorific deeds, and grand feasts of their house gifted vibrancy and color to the space. The family’s private sitting chamber boasted a large hearth surrounded by four supple leather winged chairs and two settees, each draped with sable and fox furs for added warmth in the mild westlands winters.
In the chair to Wrena’s right, Neta chatted contentedly with her friends as she worked. She didn’t need to look over at Neta's project to know that it was perfect. Everything Neta touched seemed to turn to gold. Dinna Lestreyne called her hands delicate and soft, often cooing about how her needlework was as beautiful as the artist’s face. It was true that Neta had been blessed with the lion’s share of beauty in the family, taking greatly after their lady mother. She had Lady Joenn’s vibrant golden hair and high cheekbones and rose petal lips, but held their lord father’s ice-blue eyes. As she had blossomed in her entrance to womanhood, her lovely fair face was known to make war-hardened men weepy and soft. The dinna’s glowing praise did not often make it Wrena’s way. Once, Dinna Lestreyne had compared her hands to warhammers. That had made Wrena smile, which had earned her a swat on her scrutinized hands.
She studied her work again, looking for some way to salvage it. She deemed it a lost cause and set the needle down. Neta, Lissa Wilburn, and Elynor Case were whispering in conspiring tones, stooping their bodies towards one another from where they each sat. Wrena glanced furtively around the room and noted that the dinna was absent. Maybe she could slip out and go to the yard to watch the boys practice before she went to meet Arlo.
“Where are you going, eunuch?” Lissa asked her. The girl had a face like a rat that twitched in contempt just the same as one sniffing out rotten meat. The red fire of her hair matched the temper of her soul, which seemed appropriate to Wrena. She was the fifth-born child and sole daughter of House Wilburn, vassal to House Stillhour. As the only girl in her family—her mother having died in childbirth to her sixth son—she often spent time in Westermin claiming to see her older brother, Lori, who was a ward of House Stillhour. In truth, Neta was Lissa’s closest friend and companion and she loathed being surrounded by only men at House Wilburn. But the girl was cruel to Wrena. A few years ago, Lissa had started calling her a eunuch, saying that she was secretly an ugly sexless little man due to her proclivity towards masculine arts. Wrena had dubbed her the Rat of Westermin in her mind.
“Please stop calling her that, Lissa,” Neta said.
“I don’t need your protection,” Wrena grumbled. She sank back down into the settee. There was no use in trying to leave when the attention was on her. “What were you all whispering about, anyway?”
Elynor looked up at her from where she sat at the hearth's edge with her doe-like grey eyes. The daughter of Ser Eviyn Case, Westermin’s master-at-arms, had a sweet face framed by chestnut ringlets and a mild temper. Neta and Wrena referred to her as Ely the Sweet after her kindly spirit and pleasant company in the castle’s cold halls. Of all the girls in Westermin, Wrena favored sweet Ely, despite her affiliation with the Rat. Elynor looked about the room, likely ensuring the dinna’s continued absence. “We were talking of the news from the Crownland,” she whispered.
“The rumors, you mean,” Neta corrected. “The news of the babe being born is old, even Wrena who never pays attention to court and house standings knows of that. The color of its hair, though, is what spreads across Ileth like a storm.”
“The color of the baby’s hair? Surely it’s black like that of the king’s and Princess Maddelyn’s,” Wrena asked with slight interest. As long as it kept her from her needlework.
The Rat snorted. “Do you think we would be discussing the baby’s hair if it were simply black, lady Wrena?” She said Wrena’s title like it was a disease and turned up her nose.
Neta gave her friend a warning look. She had a difficult time being dominant even if circumstances allowed her, but she did not tolerate discourtesy. Lissa crossed her spindly arms and rolled her muddy green eyes, sitting back in her chair. The Rat was checked. Wrena allowed a small lift to the corners of her mouth.
“Why so much dramatics around a little hair color? Out with it,” Wrena said.
Elynor leaned in closer towards Wrena’s legs, her hands holding each other in front of her chest. “The baby’s hair is silver!”
Confusion blanketed Wrena’s face. Silver? But that would mean…
“I see your brain is struggling to work it out, so let me help you. That further cements the rumors of Ser Fenner and Queen Priar,” the Rat said.
“But the queen and baby have not ended their seclusion, how can we know the color of his hair?” Wrena asked.
“Stewards and servants talk just like the rest of us, I suppose,” Neta replied. “I don’t know that I’ll believe it until the viewing procession and rites of knowing happen. These whispers of the queen and Ser Fenner have been taking on wilder lives each time they pass lips. I worry for the knight when they reach the king’s ears. He’s so beautiful. It would be a shame for him to die such an ignoble death.”
“Isn’t his lord father the Justiciar of the North, Lord Cyril Cressane?” Wrena asked. She was terrible at remembering anything not involving knights and great battles, but she hadn’t recalled hearing of the northern heir becoming a knight. She really ought to pay better attention to court gossip.
“Obviously,” Lissa said.
Wrena shot the Rat with a threatening glance. “I’m asking because I thought he was the only heir to House Cressane. They’re the ruling house of the North, how was he able to become a knight?”
“Who knows what goes on in that fox den,” Elynor shivered. “I hear they’re all conniving savages who slit their bastard’s throats when they sleep in the cradle.”
“Miss Elynor!” Dinna Lestreyne said aghast as she shut the door to the solar. “What troublesome talk for ladies and young girls. And to not even have the decency to work your needles while you gossip like smallfolk.”
Silence fell in the chamber as all four girls quickly picked up their projects and resumed their work. Wrena was dismayed to find that her thread had slipped the needle. Stranger’s hells, she loathed threading the needle. A shadow fell over her lap as the dinna approached from behind the settee. The reproving click of her tongue filled Wrena’s ears as she tried in vain to get the thread tip through the eye.
“Wrena, Wrena, Wrena,” Dinna Lestreyne said in dissatisfaction as she surveyed Wrena’s stitches. “These are horrendous, child. Crooked, wobbled, loose. Take them all out and try again.”
She moved over to look at Neta's. “Absolutely exquisite as usual, my Lady Neta. Such beautiful foxglove flowers you’ve crafted.”
Tears welled in Wrena’s eyes. She did not want to bring shame to her family, but she hadn’t the first clue how to mold herself into the perfect lady like her sister. She gazed glumly at her sister and her friends who each had neat rows and cross-works of perfect stitches. The thread finally acceded to the eye of the needle. Wrena ripped out all of her disastrous stitches and tried not to think about how the red reminded her of Higrin Falsen’s head falling to the ground.
