Three Heartbeats

"Moira praised my invisible stitches. I wondered if she knew I had also mastered the art of an invisible expression."

The light had begun to fade by the time we finished the final alterations, the afternoon sliding into early evening with the imperceptible stealth of a pickpocket. Candles had been lit throughout the workroom, their warm glow softening the angles of the space and turning the silk of Lady Aberfoyle's gown into something otherworldly—a garment that might have been spun from moonlight and shadow rather than mortal thread.

My fingers ached. I had not realised how much strain the delicate work would place upon muscles I scarcely knew I possessed—the small tendons at the base of each finger, the joints that had bent and flexed for hours over stitches so tiny they all but vanished into the weave of the fabric. I flexed my hands beneath the table, wincing at the stiffness, whilst Agnes made her final inspection of our work.

"You've done well, lass." Agnes held the gown up to the candlelight, turning it this way and that. The silk caught the flame and transformed it, the colour shifting from midnight to violet to something that defied naming—a shade that existed only in the space between heartbeats. "Your stitches are neat and even. Nearly as invisible as they should be."

"Nearly?" I could not keep the note of anxiety from my voice.

"Nearly is good, for a first attempt." Agnes lowered the gown carefully, draping it over the form that had been brought out for this purpose—a headless mannequin with Lady Aberfoyle's measurements, its fabric body shaped and padded to match the curves and planes of the noblewoman herself. "Perfection comes with practice. Years of it. What matters is that you have the instinct, the feel for the work. That cannot be taught."

The praise, grudging as it was, warmed me more than I had expected. I had come to the Emporium hoping for employment, for a chance to support my family through honest labour. I had not anticipated how much I would want to excel at this craft—not merely to keep my position, but because there was something deeply satisfying in the work itself, in the transformation of raw materials into objects of beauty.

"Moira will want to see it before it's wrapped for delivery," Agnes said. "Martha, would you fetch her?"

Martha nodded and rose from her seat, setting aside the embroidery she had been working on. She moved towards the velvet curtain with the unhurried gait of someone who had made this journey countless times before, her footsteps whispering against the worn floorboards.

In the quiet that followed her departure, I became aware of how empty the workroom had become. Elizabeth had not returned from her duties in the front of the shop. Jane had finished the waistcoat and left perhaps an hour ago, murmuring something about a sick mother who needed tending. Only Agnes and I remained, two women surrounded by the tools and materials of their trade, waiting for judgement to be rendered upon their work.

"You should eat something." Agnes nodded towards a small wrapped parcel on one of the shelves—my midday meal, brought from home and forgotten in the intensity of the afternoon's labour. "You'll faint dead away if you try to walk home on an empty stomach, and then where would we be?"

I had not realised how hungry I was until she spoke. The bread and cheese my mother had packed that morning—how long ago it seemed now—suddenly called to me with an urgency that was almost painful. I retrieved the parcel and ate quickly, trying to finish before Moira arrived, unwilling to be caught with crumbs on my lips like an urchin at a feast.

I had barely swallowed the last bite when the curtain parted and Moira swept in, Martha trailing in her wake. The proprietress moved directly to the mannequin, her grey eyes fixed upon the gown with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.

She said nothing at first. Her fingers traced the lines of the alterations—the taken-in bodice, the raised hem, the reworked sleeves—with the delicacy of a physician examining a patient. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable, until I had to press my fingernails into my palms to keep from speaking, from filling the void with nervous chatter.

"The work on the hem," Moira said at last. "Whose hand?"

"Mine, madam." The words came out steadier than I felt. "Agnes showed me the technique, and I—"

"Quiet." The command was soft but absolute. Moira leaned closer to the hem, examining my stitches with an attention that made me feel as though my very soul were being weighed and measured. I could see the candlelight reflected in her eyes, twin flames burning in those storm-grey depths.

Another eternity passed. Then Moira straightened, and when she spoke, there was something in her voice I had not heard before—something that might, in another woman, have been called approval.

"Excellent work." Her eyes met mine, and I felt the weight of her assessment like a physical touch. "You have a deft hand, Miss Stewart. The instinct for invisibility that this craft requires. I think you'll do well here, provided you remember our conversation about discretion."

"Thank you, madam." Relief flooded through me, warm and dizzying. "I won't forget."

"See that you don't." Moira turned back to the gown, and I thought the interview concluded—but then she did something that drove all other thoughts from my mind.

She reached into the folds of the skirt, her hand disappearing between the layers of silk with the practiced ease of long familiarity. When she withdrew it, she held a small, folded piece of paper—no bigger than my palm, sealed with a blob of unmarked wax. She slipped it deftly into a hidden pocket sewn into the inner lining of the bodice, a pocket I had not noticed during all the hours I had spent working on the garment.

The entire motion took no more than three heartbeats. If I had blinked, I would have missed it entirely.

But I had not blinked. I had seen the paper, had caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a series of numbers inked in a hand both elegant and urgent. A code, perhaps. Or a cipher. Something meant for Lady Aberfoyle's eyes alone, concealed within the folds of her gown like a secret whispered into the seams.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I kept my face carefully blank, my gaze fixed upon some indeterminate point beyond Moira's shoulder, praying that my expression betrayed nothing of what I had just witnessed. Information is her real stock in trade, Agnes had said. The dresses are just the wrapping paper.

Now I understood what she had meant. Now I had seen it.

"The gown will be delivered to Lady Aberfoyle's residence first thing tomorrow morning," Moira said, her voice betraying nothing, as though the last few moments had not occurred. "Agnes, see that it's properly wrapped and ready. Miss Stewart—" She fixed me with that penetrating gaze once more. "You've earned your wages today. Go home. Rest. Tomorrow will bring new challenges."

"Yes, madam." The words emerged automatically, my lips forming them whilst my mind remained elsewhere, still turning over what I had seen, trying to make sense of it.

Moira studied me for a moment longer—a moment in which I felt certain she could read every thought, every question, every flicker of dangerous curiosity. Then she nodded, once, and swept from the room, leaving the scent of her perfume behind like a warning.

The silence that followed felt different from any that had come before. It was the silence of a held breath, of words unspoken, of knowledge shared but not acknowledged. I stood very still, my hands clasped before me, acutely aware of the space where the gown hung upon its form—the hidden pocket now carrying its secret cargo, invisible beneath the shimmering folds.

Agnes moved first. She crossed to the mannequin and began the careful work of preparing the gown for transport, her movements brisk and businesslike. But as she lifted the skirt to fold it, her eyes met mine across the fabric—just for an instant, just long enough.

She had seen. She knew I had seen. And neither of us would ever speak of it.

"Best get yourself home, lass." Agnes's voice was steady, unremarkable, as though the last few minutes had contained nothing more significant than a routine inspection. "It's been a long day, and tomorrow will come soon enough."

"Aye." I found my voice, though it felt strange in my throat—too normal for what I now carried. "Thank you. For teaching me. For..." I trailed off, uncertain how to finish.

"For nothing you need thank me for." Agnes's hands smoothed the silk with care. "You did the work. You earned your place today." She paused, then added, more quietly, "Mind you keep earning it."

I retrieved my shawl from its peg, my fingers clumsy with exhaustion and something else—something that hummed beneath my skin like a plucked string. At the velvet curtain, I turned back. Agnes had not moved, her attention fixed upon the gown, but I had the sense that she was listening, waiting.

"Goodnight, Agnes."

"Goodnight, Elspeth." A pause. "Sleep well, if you can."

The words followed me through the darkened shop and out into the Edinburgh evening, carrying with them the weight of everything they did not say.