“Got it,” I said, glad for Kostya’s solid presence and for my middle sister’s ability to calm my crazy. Beryl had a knack for quickly evaluating what needed doing, and then assigning tasks. I’d grown up resenting her bossy side, probably because she’d practiced on me incessantly when we were kids, right up until she entered junior high school and turned to bossing her gaggle of friends.
She and Kostya peeled themselves away from the Clementine sandwich and started on their tasks. I went to the nearest worktable and rested my hands on its surface. I knew of witches and others who could read objects simply by touching them. I wasn’t one of those Magicals—not counting my ability to identify fibers, which I figured was a learned skill, not one I had been born with. I kept my eyes open for meandering threads, ignored the cool presence of the thing on my neck, and concentrated on the table.
The polished wood was scratched, the edges nicked and dented. I trailed my fingers along the surface as I walked its circumference, counting two wide drawers on each side. Crouching, I scanned the wide shelf underneath. On it were two dozen or so oblong oak file boxes, the kind that might have housed oversized index cards. Each one had a hinged lid and a label tucked into a tarnished brass pull tab and label holder. I recognized my mother’s handwriting, but not the language.
I turned my attention to the drawers. Inside the first one, scissors and cutters of all sizes and purposes were arrayed on dark brown velveteen. The next drawer held tools for measuring. On the other side of the table, one drawer was filled with delicate-looking needles—the kind used for stitching, embroidering, and other techniques. The last held trays of knitting needles, crochet hooks, and similar tools.
I had some idea how to use most of what I was looking at, though I was impressed with the sheer quantity of items devoted to every imaginable mode of needlework. Glancing over my shoulder, the armless mannequins garbed in unfinished projects called for closer inspection. I’d make time for that once we had Rémy out of our hair.
“Did Mom have any assistants?” I asked. How she managed to raise us and run the shop—which we knew about—and create custom garments and make love matches—which she kept secret—was baffling.
Beryl looked up from the desk. “Not that she ever mentioned to me. I think Dad recruited Alderose to help him with his work, and Mom knew I’d be more of a liability than a help.”
I pointed to the row of unfinished hats. “What about a milliner? Did she work with someone who made hats, or do you think she did all of this herself?”
“I have no idea, Sissy. We really need to talk to Dad. Maybe Rosey can convince him to help.”
I hmmed in agreement and returned my attention to the wooden boxes. Lifting the lid of the first one, I spotted a card filled with tight writing sitting atop a muslin-wrapped bundle. I lifted the bundle and placed it on the table, keeping the card close by. Around me, Kostya grunted with the effort it took to heave a roll of fabric off one of the shelves. Beryl was opening and closing the desk’s drawers and muttering under her breath.
I followed suit, mouthing a silent prayer that whatever lay inside the bundle in front of me didn’t come equipped with sharp claws or a curse aimed at whomever did the unwrapping.
Underneath the muslin was a layer of tissue paper. The parcel was secured at its middle with a narrow, sky-blue satin ribbon and finished with a bow. Finis was written in black ink on one of the ends of the ribbon. I tugged it loose, unfolded the crinkly paper, and examined the layers before venturing further. I wanted to put everything back, in order.
Small squares of fabric were held together with a long hatpin topped by an oval drop of turquoise glass. Underneath was an unsealed envelope. Inside the envelope was a hank of light brown hair tied with another bit of ribbon and a tiny card. The name on the card was also written in my mother’s hand.
There was more, including a twist of yarn, a vial of beads, a card wound with beading thread, and a special beading needle. All the items were shades of blues and browns. I also spotted a piece of paper, which I promptly unrolled. On it were front- and back-view drawings of a doll wearing a long dress. What caught my eye was the design on the dress’s back of an elaborate and detailed set of wings.
I replaced everything inside the box as I had found it and lifted another box onto the tabletop. This one appeared to be unfinished. Its contents included an unadorned cloth doll made from the same muslin in which it had been wrapped. I put it back and set about moving the remaining boxes to the top of the table.
A few of them held more plain muslin dolls and no embellishments, envelopes, or drawings, which I gathered meant they hadn’t been assigned. As I went through each box, I continued to hope that the contents of at least one would call to me, offering up story threads or—preferably—blindingly blatant clues.
I found them in the tenth box. Inside was another wrapped figure, the first one I’d come across with embroidered facial features. What gave me pause were the tiny horns done in a raised, couching technique, complete with silver threads, to either side of its head.
I studied the card included in the box. Something familiar about the writing nagged at me. I opened the drawers,
