Stitches and Silence

The boutique was too quiet. Rain pattered steadily against the windows, and the iron stove in the corner crackled with tired warmth. It smelled faintly of lavender sachets stuffed between bolts of cloth and whatever old tea bag Iris had forgotten to throw out that morning.

Shelves lined every wall, crowded with thread spools, glass jars full of buttons that didn't match anything, and swatches of fabric organized in a way that made sense to no one but her. Sketches of gowns, dramatic coats, and suits with flair curled on the walls, yellowed slightly at the corners, thumbtacked in overlapping layers like a dream she didn't have time for anymore.

A dress form stood near the front window, clothed in a crimson velvet piece that shimmered in the right light—a dragon embroidered across the hem, breathing fire no one had noticed in weeks. Outside, people barely glanced in. The war had made luxury laughable.

A small chalkboard by the register read in Iris's sharp, looping script:

 "Yes, I fix buttons. No, I don't do miracles."

Piles of mending crowded her work table—socks with worn heels, gloves with split seams, pants with knees that had seen too much crawling and insufficient repair. It wasn't a boutique anymore. It was a battlefield triage center for exhausted clothing.

No one came to her for beauty. They came because their coat had ripped again, and they couldn't afford another. They came because she was the last person in town who could make broken things hold together a little longer.

Iris stabbed her needle into the worn heel of the sock, which was a little more complicated than she meant to.

"Shit," she hissed, yanking her hand back. Blood beaded at the tip of her finger. She sucked it clean, muttering around it. "I swear to god, if I have to fix one more fucking hole—"

The boutique was too quiet. Rain pattered steadily against the windows, and the iron stove in the corner crackled with tired warmth. A pile of half-finished mending sat beside her sewing stool. Socks. Gloves. Torn sleeves. Ripped knees. Always the same. Nobody wanted dresses anymore. Nobody could afford dresses anymore.

No one came to her for beauty. They came because their last pair of trousers had blown out in the mud or their kid's only jacket needed new buttons.

The bell above the front door rang.

She didn't look up. "If you're here to sell me rations or religion, I'm not interested."

"It's just me."

Jamie's voice was low, tired. Defeated.

She glanced up to see him dripping, boots tracking water across her floor. His eyes were darker than usual—less sharp, more stormcloud.

She sighed. "Wipe your feet. I just scrubbed."

He obeyed without protest, stepping onto the worn rug by the door.

She nodded at the empty chair across from her. "Well?"

"They're dropping it."

Iris paused, needle hovering above her thread. "…You're kidding."

"Nope. Above our pay grade."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"They said the capital can handle its own mess. We're not equipped to meddle. It was a 'courtesy call' to even let us touch the body."

Iris dropped the sock and leaned back in her chair. "So what—you find a guy beaten to death, dumped in our river, and they're just—what—closing the file?"

"Sealing it. Technically."

"That's even worse."

Jamie raked his hand through his hair. "I swear to god, Iris, I'm so fucking tired of playing nice with people who think this town's just a supply pit for their goddamn war. They don't care. Not about the dead. Not about us."

She stood up suddenly, pushing the stool back with a screech. "They don't care about anyone. I used to dream about designing dresses, Jamie. Dresses. Not sewing holes in wet socks or stitching some drunkard's ripped sleeve because he tripped over his pride."

Jamie looked up at her. His eyes were darker now—smudged at the edges with sleeplessness and something heavier he hadn't named yet.

"I haven't made anything new in months," Iris said, her voice quieter now as if she was admitting it for the first time. "People walk in here and apologize for wasting my time with their rags like I'm not worth anything better. Like I'm the seamstress who patches their lives together one tear at a time."

Jamie's jaw flexed. "You are worth more."

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah? Try convincing the war economy. When choosing between fabric or food, tell someone their jacket's worth a new lining. Try designing a dress that no one will ever wear to a party that no longer exists."

She wiped her hands on her apron again, harder this time. The motion was quick, sharp—almost angry. "I used to dream in colors, Jamie. Whole palettes. I can't remember the last time I wanted to draw. I just fix what's broken. That's all anyone wants now."

Jamie stood slowly and crossed the room, his boots soft on the scuffed wooden floor. He lowered himself onto the seat beside her, elbows on his knees, gaze steady on hers.

They sat silently for a few seconds, the silence that pressed, not rested. Rain tapped lightly against the windowpane like it was trying to break in.

"Iris," he said, voice low, "they're not going to do anything. About the body. About the murder. They're passing it up the chain, and the chain's already rusted through."

"Because the capital can't be bothered," she murmured.

"Because we're not important enough," he corrected. "Because some dead man in our river isn't convenient for their schedule. And if I push? If I keep pushing? I'll get transferred, reassigned, or buried under so much red tape I'll choke on it."

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp. "Then don't let them bury it."

"I won't," he said. "I don't care if they take my badge. I'm not letting this fade into paperwork."

"You'll get in trouble."

"I'll get in something." His voice cracked a little, the weight of it finally catching up to him. "At least then I'll know I still fucking matter."

Iris stared at him. Not past him. Not through him. At him. How you look at someone when deciding if they're about to fall apart—or if you're going to fall apart with them.

She nodded. Just once.

"Then I guess I'm in it too."

Jamie blinked, surprised. "Iris—"

"Don't," she said, cutting him off gently. "You always show up for me. Let me show up for you."

Jamie smiled for the first time all day. It wasn't wide. It wasn't bright. But it was real—and that was rare enough to count.

"Good," he said. "Because I don't think this is the end. Not even close."

Iris leaned back, her arms crossed tight across her chest. "Then we better make some tea. Sounds like we've got shit to do."

Jamie was about to respond when motion outside the rain-blurred window caught Iris's eye.

She turned her head—and went completely still.

Rolling up the narrow street like it didn't belong there because it absolutely didn't was a carriage.

Not the usual clunky wagon for producing hauls or battered mail carts that coughed smoke and creaked like dying animals. This was something else entirely.

The carriage was deep burgundy, so dark it nearly looked black under the gray sky. Gold trim ran in delicate, sweeping patterns along its panels, curling into designs that looked like leaves and flames. The windows were polished to a shine, framed in etched brass. Even the wheels were absurdly clean—gleaming, not caked with mud like everything else in town.

Two black horses pulled it, tall and sleek, their coats brushed to a mirror-like gloss. They didn't fidget or snort. They moved like they knew they were beautiful.

The carriage slowed. Then stopped, right in front of Miller & Thread.

Jamie leaned forward, frowning. "That's not from around here."

"No shit," Iris whispered.

The driver—dressed in dark gray, trimmed with gold piping—hopped down, landed lightly in the mud, and didn't flinch at the mess. He stepped to the side and opened the door with practiced precision.

Out stepped a woman.

She moved with ease, which made Iris sit up a little straighter just from watching her. Her cloak was forest green, velvety and heavy, lined with cream-colored satin. It swept around her like it had its own personality. Her boots were soft brown leather—not scuffed, not damp—and somehow completely untouched by the mud.

Her face was striking but not harsh—angular in the way that suggested noble blood and good breeding, with eyes that flicked over her surroundings like they were both beneath and worthy of interest. Her hair, dark blonde and perfectly pinned under a short-brimmed velvet hat, didn't move in the wind.

She didn't glance around for directions. She didn't hesitate. She walked straight to the boutique door and stepped inside.

The bell chimed above her like it always did, but it sounded… different this time. Polite. Almost reverent.

Jamie stood instinctively. Iris didn't move.

"Good afternoon," the woman said, her voice smooth and unbothered by the cold. She looked around the cluttered boutique like it was something rare and delightful. "I do hope I'm not intruding. I was passing through town, and your display caught my eye."

Iris blinked. "My—?"

"The dress in the window," she said, offering a light smile. "Velvet. With the dragon embroidery. Beautiful work. Brave, too. Most people wouldn't bother with detail anymore. But that? That's unforgettable."

Jamie shifted his stance beside the counter, his expression unreadable.

The woman turned back to Iris and extended a gloved hand as if this were a routine stop on an afternoon stroll. "Maribelle Quinn," she said casually. You have a lovely shop."

"Oh," Iris stammered, setting down the sock she'd been holding like it had personally betrayed her. "I—thank you. Iris Miller."

"Pleasure," Maribelle said smoothly. "Is the piece in the window for sale?"

Iris's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her brain scrambled to catch up with what was happening.

Outside, the dragon dress gleamed faintly in the softened light. It was displayed in the front window on her aging mannequin, which leaned slightly to the left and had a stubborn squeak when she turned it. But somehow, the garment still held its presence.

It was made of crimson velvet, deep and rich like crushed wine. The sleeves were full and tapered at the wrist, with tiny black buttons that glinted like beetle shells. Gold embroidery spiraled around the hem, climbing up the bodice like curling smoke—until it formed the shape of a dragon.

The creature stretched across the side of the dress in full flight, wings extended, tail trailing in threads so fine they shimmered like breath. Its scales were done in overlapping gold and onyx thread, each hand-stitched, its eye a single bead of red glass. A tiny flash of fire stitched at the edge of the skirt completed the illusion—it looked like the dragon was exhaling flame into the air around it.

Iris had started it during a breakdown and finished it on a hope. No one had ever asked about it before.

She cleared her throat. "Um… yes. I mean, it's for sale. Technically."

Maribelle turned from the window and tilted her head. "Technically?"

"I didn't think anyone would actually want it," Iris admitted. "It's just something I made for myself. For fun. For the window. Most people just need patching."

"Well," Maribelle said, stepping closer to the display, her gaze never leaving the dress, "I'm not most people."

Iris blinked. "No. You really aren't."

Maribelle smiled at that—just a flicker at the corner of her mouth.

"How much?" she asked casually like she was buying bread.

"I—I'd have to check," Iris stammered. "It wasn't priced. I didn't—uh—I don't usually sell full pieces anymore. But I could—"

Maribelle raised a hand, stopping her gently. "I'll pay whatever it's worth to you. But I have a request."

Iris glanced at Jamie, who hadn't said a word. He looked like he was studying the back of Maribelle's head like he studied crime scenes.

"A request?" Iris echoed.

Maribelle stepped closer, her tone dropping just slightly. "I'm attending a gala at the capital's southern estate in two days. I'd like to wear the dress there. But I don't trust leaving it with the staff or letting anyone else pick it up."

"Why not?"

"Because I've had things stolen before," Maribelle said simply. "There will be other noblewomen there—some with better titles, some with worse taste. If I send someone else, I risk never seeing it again."

Iris furrowed her brow. "You want me to deliver it? To the capital?"

Maribelle nodded. "You created it. You're the only one I trust to guard it. And I imagine you could use the exposure. A design like this shouldn't be sitting in a dusty window."

Iris opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "I mean—I've never been to the capital. I'd need time to—"

Maribelle said calmly. "You made it. That alone gives it value. And I believe in rewarding good craftsmanship."

She reached into her satchel and pulled out a slim envelope, tucking it into Iris's hand with deliberate gentleness. "Consider this a bonus if you're willing to deliver in person. For your trouble—and your talent."

Iris looked down at the envelope. It was thick and heavy, cream-colored, sealed with wax stamped in the shape of a fox with a flame in its mouth.

Maribelle gave a small, knowing smile. "Something tells me you're not one to let your work get lost in the wrong hands."

Iris blinked. "No. I'm not."

"Then we understand each other," Maribelle said lightly.

She turned to Jamie. "And you must be her husband."

Jamie coughed. "Uh—no. Just a friend."

"Pity," Maribelle said without missing a beat. "Lucky friend, nonetheless."

Then, just like that, she swept out the door, her cloak flaring behind her like a gust of forest wind. The bell chimed overhead, oddly delicate for such a moment.

The burgundy carriage rolled forward moments later, disappearing down the street like it had only been half-real.

Iris stood in stunned silence, the envelope still in her hand.

Jamie finally said, "Well… that wasn't suspicious."