Stitches & Scissors
The smell of the heat wafted up at Sela as she lifted the iron off the tiny round stove. She left the cooled one in its place, turning back to the ivory muslin spread out on her board. Tall spools of satin, tweed, silk, and more leaned against wall to her right. The left was covered from top to bottom in racks of thread, trims and lace spilling out of their drawers, jars of buttons lining shelves near the ceiling. She glanced toward the giant cutting table swathed in green plaid satin and evening sunlight, Momma bent over it with a furrowed brow.
Momma scootched the pattern over another inch, tissue paper barely hanging over the fabric’s selvage as she reshuffle the rest of the pieces, pausing to shove her lace trimmed sleeves up again.
“It’s not going to fit,” Papa said softly from his chair by the window, his own sleeves folded back in neat cuffs. His needle bobbed chaotically in and out of the bodice in his lap, yet Sela knew in its wake were perfect minuscule stitches, each holding an even measure of magic. “Not if you want the plaid to line up. Just get out another bolt, Darling.”
“It’ll fit.” Momma’s lips pinched tighter, tissue paper crackling and shushing as she flipped a skirt panel over. “Wouldn’t even have this problem if Miss Temperance hadn’t seen those new fashion plates. And asking for a waist trimming charm. Doesn’t the girl want to breathe?”
Sela turned to Papa, careful to keep the iron moving so she didn’t scorch the delicate fibers before her. “If the dress is cut from two different bolts, won’t the enchantments have trouble sticking?”
“Yes,” Momma snapped, Papa’s mouth half open.
He gave Momma a mostly patient smile before answering Sela. “If I double stitch it wherever the two meet, it should be fine.”
“Except you don’t have time to double stitch it.” Momma tweaked the position of a piece, repeating the same for each of the others. “We still have three other orders due by the end of the month, and I’d rather you not fall into bed every night exhausted and half blind.”
“It’s good to work hard and go to bed tired,” Papa said, bringing his work closer to his face and squinting, the irony causing Sela to smirk. “Makes for deeper sleep.”
Mama arched a brow at him, her pursed lips twitching with mischief. “There are other things that make for deep sleep as well, dear husband.”
Selah’s face burned hotter than the iron in her hand and she spun, clunking it onto the stove and snatching the other too fast, nearly fumbling it.
Papa chuckled. “Save your fingers, Sela. We need those.”
She risked a glance up, wary of looks her parents were possibly exchanging. But Momma was back to scowling at the table and Papa winked to Sela before refocusing, his needle speeding up.
Sela’s iron hovered as she absently fingered the cotton on her board.
Papa was a Tailor, able to layer enchantments with a needle and thread better than anyone in the city.
But Momma had her own kind of magic in Sela’s eyes. The small kind that most didn’t consider magic; like always knowing when the bread was done baking, never running out of ribbon mid hem, or perpetually smelling nice, like honey and sandalwood.
“Ah-ha!” Momma straightened, chin lifting in triumph. She snatched the scissors from her apron, their sharp edges gleaming in the golden sunbeams. She flashed Papa a grin equally as brilliant. “I told you.”
Sela smiled.
Small magic like puzzling out a pattern that shouldn’t fit.
