Mao flew down the stairs, her feet barely touching the aged wood. She landed roughly, hitting her knees, but it barely slowed her. Pushing upward, her hands grazed the wall to avoid crashing into it as she raced down the hall. Her feet skidded as she turned, crashing into the living room in a rush.

  No one was there yet, but she knew she was coming. Her hands flung open the blinds, eyes staring outside, searching. “Where…”

  She scanned the far side of the cavern until she spotted the lone single light, a distinct yellow instead of blue. With a squeal she shoved away, spinning around to view the room.

  It was a disaster.

  Actually, that was putting it nicely. A shiver ran up her spine as she realized that there was nowhere for the seamstress to work. Pulling her hair upward, she grabs a random string and ties it back.

  “Right…at that distance…We have…An hour?” Mao gave a determined nod to herself and was off.

  She started with the papers everywhere. There were too many to organize, but she could at least stack them against the back wall. Except there was broken glass, so she rushed to the kitchen for a broom and bin.

  “Why are we the only Horsemen without servants?” She hissed to herself, sweeping glass and dust into the bin. Setting that aside she got to work on the papers. First one stack, then two, then three, and then…

  “Stop counting!” The girl snapped. Her feet thudded as she gathered dishes, whisking them out of sight. “When was the last time anyone ate in that room?”

  Back and forth she went; make a neat pile here, toss something broken out there. Sweep the floor when she could see it. Dust the table, fluff the pillows, smack the rug, open the window and lean out to cough.

  “This is too much work!” She whined, her chest heaving as she fought off the attack of dust. When she opened her eyes, she was looking straight at the seamstress who arched one brow at her from the bottom of the stairs outside.

  “O-oh…hi!” Popping back in, she hollered to her father that she was here. Mao had worn her cleanest shirt and loose skirt that had long been too short.

  Flying to the door, she pulled it open and beamed at the woman. “Come in, come in.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Ah, yes, I am Mistress…Oh you’re just pulling me in.” The door snapped shut behind the flustered woman with a sense of finality.

  Mao herded her into the living room, motioning for her to sit. She had done her best but the house was too dirty for an hour cleaning to fix. The seamstress cast a strained look around and slowly sat down on the couch.

  Using her foot to bring up a stool, Mao sat and then jumped up.

  “Do you want a drink? A snack? I think we have…something.” She cast a helpless look around, and the woman raised a hand.

  “No need. I am Mistress Landragon.” Landragon looked at Mao, her eyes critically scanning the top of her head to her bare feet with a disapproving tut. “When was the last time you had proper clothes?”

  “Oh…I grew.”

  “When? A week ago?” Her brow arched, clearly not amused.

  “A…A while ago.” Mao admitted it with a small sigh. She did not want to talk about her old wardrobe. Her gaze flickered downward, hands curled into fists atop of her thighs. Landragon heaved a sigh, but before she could press for more details, a shadow fell across the room.

  “What are you doing here?” Kumori’s tone was scathing, his strange eyes locked onto the seamstress as if she were an intruder into his lair. Which, of course, she was.

  Mistress Landragon stood, offering him a pointed nod of greeting.

  “Greetings, Horseman of Fames.” She kept her gaze downward, but her back remained straight and proud, “You invited me to make a dress for your daughter.”

  Mao held her breath, gripping her hands together until her knuckles turned white. What if he changed his mind?

  “Yes…Of course…” Her father’s eyes, her eyes, swept over her briefly. “...Nothing too fancy.”

  Just as quickly he appeared, he left. His footsteps were silent and the air itself breathed a sigh of relief. Mao noted that Landragon looked at her with…what? Pity?

  The hair on her neck stood up, cheeks burning red with shame but the seamstress merely clucked disapprovingly.

  “Right then. Stand.” Mao scampered to her feet as Landragon circled her. The ruler in her hands, a long string, snapped and wove around her as if it had a mind of its own. “Who made this?”

  “My mother…Before she passed. I’ve uh…mended it.”

  Landragon ran a thumb over a clumsy stitch that barely removed a hole and nodded her head curtly. “I see.”

  Mao bit her bottom lip, slowly hunching her shoulders as the woman continued to work. Landragon prodded her lower back, grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to straighten.

  “You mustn’t hunch, dear. Bad for the back.” Landragon raised her arms, continuing her work in a brisk silence.

  “I…I was hoping to have a pretty dress.” Mao whispered the words, and ducked her head when Landragon glanced at her out of the corner of her eyes.

  “Of course. With your height you could pull off most anything.”

  Mao blinked, her eyes widening as she regarded the woman before her. Mistress Landragon was clearly being careful with her words, but she was writing down a lot of measurements.

  “Right…I shall return in three days with your gown. Keep it out of sight.” Patting Mao’s cheek in an almost gentle manner, Landragon gave her one last nod and critical look over. Mao had the urge to cover herself, though she wasn’t exposed.

  Then Mistress Landragon left.