Meyd felt a flutter of alarm. It had always been small, local. Why would the jacket’s work ever draw notice beyond the loft? Then she remembered the gold threads that pulsed when she’d intervened in the manager’s schedule, how the sigil had brightened each time she closed a loop. She had closed many loops.
Meyd thought of the seamstress, of the boy with the bruise, of the botanical collection. She thought of the ledger the man had mentioned and of the dull hunger in the eyes of collectors. She didn’t like the idea of a tool of repair becoming a trophy.