I cannot speak. Was never taught how to write. I sew. I embroider. My emotions conveyed through the pictures I stitch, worn by the elite as pretty things. I pour my magic through my hands, a field beginning to form, a fox hiding behind a tree looking out towards the meadow. On another swath of fabric, colors of blue and orange and red dip down before swirling up in a wave, covering the bottom hem in an ocean of sunset.

Sometimes I have dreams that I stitch into the fabric. Violent ones and good ones. Sometimes they come true. Famines, deaths. But weddings, too, and new life. How can I tell anyone of what I've seen? My throat strains, the curse like a hot knife slicing through my body, unable to shape the words that I want so badly. So I stitch into the fabric and hope they hear me.

The bell above my shop door rings as I stand behind my counter, working. It's an older woman who comes in, her dress in decent shape but out of fashion. I examine her. Her hair is graying and a little wild, hanging around her face like a silver halo.

It's my job to know what colors suit people the best, and I know without doubt she'd look best in yellow. I can picture her, hugged in at the bodice before flowing outwards in a skirt, wildflowers along the bottom. She stares at me. Not in the impatient way I'm used to from new customers, but expectant and a little curious. Her eyes tell me the story about a life of sorrow tainted with kindness.

"I've seen your work," she says, voice soft and smooth in a way that doesn't match any part of her but her eyes. "You have a rare gift. I believe we can help each other." She walks over to one of the dresses I have on display, the black bodice embroidered with a rust colored thread in the picture of a throne. Right above is a broken crown in silver, fractured into many pieces. That was a special piece. One I keep on display for the pure satisfaction of knowing its history.

"I'm guessing the crown princess wasn't too keen to wear this one at her coronation, then?" she says with a small smile playing at her lips, looking back at me. I duck my head down to hide my own smile. No, the tyrant queen wasn't incredibly happy with it. She had demanded a different dress immediately, one without any magic woven into the threads. I had given her what she asked for both times.

I do not lie to my customers. Anymore. I have lied only once, and that nearly cost me my life. The nobleman with gray eyes wanted to predict his future, so he commissioned an overcoat. Sometimes the truth in the pictures is not what the customers wanted to see, and the man's future was a dark one. I have since decided that if I'm going to suffer consequences, then I'd rather suffer for speaking truth than falsities.

"I thought so," the woman says quietly. Then, louder, she says, "Make me a dress with your special skill. It is for an occasion coming up soon, but I'll pay for the rush job. Can it be done in two days?" Her eyes are brown and earnest. I'm not always in the habit of judging my customers, and I know by her demeanor and clothing, this job will take all her savings. I know what occasion this is for. It's forming in my mind's eye. Another meadow. Another fox. And something else that I can't quite see yet. How does this woman know?

She doesn't explain, but I nod, and she leaves the store after paying upfront. Before the woman is out the door, my magic is brimming in my hands. The empty shop hums the way it did the day Mother died - harsh, expectant, unforgiving. I press my palm to my throat, as if words might live there after all, but the skin stays flat, unsummoned. I miss the days when I could laugh and cry and scream without the pain ripping through my body. In the beginning, I kept thinking maybe this curse could be broken, but those were the fantasies of a child.

Already, I know the colors I'll use for the dress. Buttery soft yellow for the fabric, of course. Tight at the bodice before flaring into a skirt at the hips. I pin it to the mannequin, my other work sitting abandoned on a table in the corner. Needle in, out, pull, in, out, pull. I stop only to go to sleep when the light from the windows is gone, and I must light a candle to continue.

I don't dream, but I wake with a memory that isn't mine. And I know, I know what the other piece of the picture is. It's the fox, behind the tree with the meadow in the distance. But now, the fox is looking up, a raven in the branches. It's watching me, eyes clear and with a certain knowing behind them that unnerves me. In the memory, I see the fox tense, preparing to jump upwards, but the raven never looks down. I would think it's a statue if not for the wind I can see blowing its feathers.

I open my mouth to shout a warning, to yell and scare the bird, but it's too late, and the fox has grabbed it, snapping its delicate bones in his jaws. The raven doesn't fight him, doesn't screech or try to escape.

It's dead. Executed.

I make my way downstairs from my bed, contemplating, and begin stitching on the bodice of the dress. The raven, perched in the branches, eyes watching outwards. The tree travels down the skirt to the hem, twisting and twining down where the fox waits, teeth bared and ears bent flat to his skull as he crouches in wait. I switch between brown, orange, and russet, laying fur slick-soft across his spine.

The meadow forms quickly beneath my fingers, flowers and grass blowing in the wind. Like in the memory, I weave in the colors to make the feathers reflect the sun. Memories - real ones - of my mother assault me. The switch over my knuckles when I was too tired to work quickly enough. I miss her, of course. But only some things.

The next day, I'm stitching the last flowers when the bell rings again. The woman, wearing the same dress, the same softness in her face. We are already in the middle of a conversation, her eyes skipping me and roaming over her dress still on the mannequin. She doesn't ask to try it on. She doesn't ask to touch it. She simply lets her gaze wander from raven to fox.

"I was right to come," she murmurs, almost to herself. For a moment, I think she will cry, her throat moving as she swallows hard. Then she nods, back straightening like a soldier, and says suddenly, "Thank you. I'll wear it tomorrow. To my - " her voice breaks. "The - execution."

I flinch. Ah, so that's how she knew. Finally, her eyes flick to me, searching my face for something. I have nothing else to give her except my talent, but she nods again, coming to a conclusion about something only she hears.

"They will say I wore this because I am proud." She holds my gaze. "I only wanted to be understood." Stepping towards me, she takes both my hands in hers, grasping them tightly. "You have given me a gift today," she whispers, the brown in her eyes alight with something I can't name. "You will be repaid."

If the dream was hers, why does its weight settle in my ribs? It flutters and presses against my bones, beating next to my heart with a second rhythm that interrupts the other.

This woman is someone I know. I have never met her before, but I understand her, in a way. I know the tension in her shoulders, the sorrow in her face. She is resilient. And more brave than I could ever hope to be.

Carefully, I pack up the dress, folding it neatly and tying the ribbon onto the box. The woman's hands are trembling when she takes it. The bell says goodbye to her as she leaves. It sounds different this time. This time, it doesn't sound like an introduction. It sounds like a warning.

When she has gone, I look down at my counter and see something new. A feather, inky black and reflecting the sun from my windows. And a single orange thread, snagged on the quill.