The Art of Not Being Seen
The candles had burned low by the time Karim threaded the last needle, and the silver light bleeding through Elena's tall windows told him dawn was no more than an hour away. He knelt on the cold marble of her dressing room, a pincushion strapped to his wrist like a soldier's bracer, and studied the hem of the gown pooled around his sister's feet.
It was beautiful, the dress. He would give it that much, even if it hurt to admit beauty could come from anything touched by this house. Layers of pale gold silk fell from Elena's waist like captured sunlight, embroidered with threads so fine they seemed to shift color when she moved—amber to champagne to something almost white, like morning mist burning away. He had spent eleven nights on those embroidered cuffs alone, his fingers cramping around the needle until he could no longer feel where metal ended and bone began.
"You're pulling it too tight," Elena said, looking down at him with the particular expression she reserved for servants and insects. "I can feel the stitches against my ankle."
"My apologies, my lady." Karim loosened the thread without looking up, his voice even, practiced, a smooth river stone worn down by years of…
