the first time we’d made eye contact all morning. I was expected to look at her whenever I was in her presence, of course, but she rarely returned the favor.
She scowled. “Put your hair up,” she said. “There’s no need to let it hang down your back like a harlot. Whom are you trying to attract?”
I pulled my worn shawl over my head and wrapped my hair inside it, then tied it in a large knot behind my neck. Visions of Piety’s waist-length hair sprang to mind, but I ignored them. Never mind that binding my hair up tightly gave me headaches—in Stepmother’s eyes, my only motive was to lure away one of her daughters’ many suitors.
Piety and Chastity appeared at the top of the stairs. They walked down slowly, gracefully, posing for each other as they went. Their soft cotton nightgowns floated around their ankles. I scratched at my rough linen bodice.
“I want bacon,” yawned skinny Piety. She smirked at Chastity, who was watching her plump figure and would have only dry toast this morning. Each sister secretly envied the other’s shape, but of course they would never admit it.
“My dear girls,” crooned Stepmother, “Nick is going into town today. Please tell her your wishes for your new wardrobe—particularly your ball gowns. She’ll want to start working on them right away.”
Oh, yes,
I thought.
I can’t wait.
Piety wanted a white gown, cap-sleeved. “Bridal,” she sighed, her eyes glazing over. “Cream lace all over and orange blossoms in my hair.”
Chastity cut in. “Satin for me,” she purred, “bright white, like an angel.”
Piety prodded Chastity’s round arms. “She’ll want long sleeves,” she snickered.
Chastity yanked Piety’s hair, and they both shrieked.
Stepmother glared at them, and they sat down quickly and silently.
“I should go,” I said. “I’ll need as much time as possible.”
Chastity snorted. “You’ll get as much time as we give you,” she said.
“Where’s my bacon?” asked Piety.
T HREE hours later, I finally walked out the door, wondering when I would ever have time for my own work. As I hurried to the Woodshire town center, one meager street of little shops, I contemplated ways to get supplies. There was more than one abandoned machine along the overgrown road into Woodshire: I passed a rusted-out water heater, a chisel plow, and a small, bent carriage frame. I eyed all of them eagerly, but the metal was too degraded to be reworked or even salvaged. The only parts worth saving were the thin rubber tires on the carriage wheels, but even they were dubiously weathered; besides, Mother’s workshop was fairly well stocked already. And I needed plenty of things for the Exposition that I’d never find at the side of a road: fine cloth for a new dress of my own, for instance, if I wanted anyone to take my wares—and me—seriously. Stepmother had credit at the milliner’s, but she’d receive an itemized list of her charges at the end of the month. I couldn’t add anything extra for myself without her knowing.
I realized as I thought these things that I had already decided to attend the Exposition, that I wasn’t just daydreaming about it. The ball didn’t interest me as much, but if I could show my work, the designs I had begun conceiving during late nights in the workshop, maybe I could finally become a real inventor, like Mother had been.
The milliner and tailor was a dour middle-aged man named Mr. Waters, slow to speak and rather joyless. But he was always honest and fair in his trade, and I respected him.
He looked up through a scruff of lank salt-and-pepper hair when I entered the shop. The bell on the door frame rang a second time as the door bounced shut behind me. Curtains covered the windows, protecting the many-colored bolts of fabric from sun damage. I consulted my scribbled list, depressed by the Steps’ lack of imagination.
“Good morning,” I said, as cheerfully as I could muster. “I need white today.
She scowled. “Put your hair up,” she said. “There’s no need to let it hang down your back like a harlot. Whom are you trying to attract?”
I pulled my worn shawl over my head and wrapped my hair inside it, then tied it in a large knot behind my neck. Visions of Piety’s waist-length hair sprang to mind, but I ignored them. Never mind that binding my hair up tightly gave me headaches—in Stepmother’s eyes, my only motive was to lure away one of her daughters’ many suitors.
Piety and Chastity appeared at the top of the stairs. They walked down slowly, gracefully, posing for each other as they went. Their soft cotton nightgowns floated around their ankles. I scratched at my rough linen bodice.
“I want bacon,” yawned skinny Piety. She smirked at Chastity, who was watching her plump figure and would have only dry toast this morning. Each sister secretly envied the other’s shape, but of course they would never admit it.
“My dear girls,” crooned Stepmother, “Nick is going into town today. Please tell her your wishes for your new wardrobe—particularly your ball gowns. She’ll want to start working on them right away.”
Oh, yes,
I thought.
I can’t wait.
Piety wanted a white gown, cap-sleeved. “Bridal,” she sighed, her eyes glazing over. “Cream lace all over and orange blossoms in my hair.”
Chastity cut in. “Satin for me,” she purred, “bright white, like an angel.”
Piety prodded Chastity’s round arms. “She’ll want long sleeves,” she snickered.
Chastity yanked Piety’s hair, and they both shrieked.
Stepmother glared at them, and they sat down quickly and silently.
“I should go,” I said. “I’ll need as much time as possible.”
Chastity snorted. “You’ll get as much time as we give you,” she said.
“Where’s my bacon?” asked Piety.
T HREE hours later, I finally walked out the door, wondering when I would ever have time for my own work. As I hurried to the Woodshire town center, one meager street of little shops, I contemplated ways to get supplies. There was more than one abandoned machine along the overgrown road into Woodshire: I passed a rusted-out water heater, a chisel plow, and a small, bent carriage frame. I eyed all of them eagerly, but the metal was too degraded to be reworked or even salvaged. The only parts worth saving were the thin rubber tires on the carriage wheels, but even they were dubiously weathered; besides, Mother’s workshop was fairly well stocked already. And I needed plenty of things for the Exposition that I’d never find at the side of a road: fine cloth for a new dress of my own, for instance, if I wanted anyone to take my wares—and me—seriously. Stepmother had credit at the milliner’s, but she’d receive an itemized list of her charges at the end of the month. I couldn’t add anything extra for myself without her knowing.
I realized as I thought these things that I had already decided to attend the Exposition, that I wasn’t just daydreaming about it. The ball didn’t interest me as much, but if I could show my work, the designs I had begun conceiving during late nights in the workshop, maybe I could finally become a real inventor, like Mother had been.
The milliner and tailor was a dour middle-aged man named Mr. Waters, slow to speak and rather joyless. But he was always honest and fair in his trade, and I respected him.
He looked up through a scruff of lank salt-and-pepper hair when I entered the shop. The bell on the door frame rang a second time as the door bounced shut behind me. Curtains covered the windows, protecting the many-colored bolts of fabric from sun damage. I consulted my scribbled list, depressed by the Steps’ lack of imagination.
“Good morning,” I said, as cheerfully as I could muster. “I need white today.
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