Ash & Bramble by Sarah Prineas Read Free Book Online Page B

and come around the table to see him better.
    He’s fallen asleep while working. One relaxed hand isholding a charcoal pencil; on a piece of paper he’s been noting numbers, shoe measurements, I assume. His handwriting is neat, and he’s made a sketch of a shoe. Blue-green satin , it says. Match to tea dress . Low heel .
    I study his face. A lock of shaggy hair has fallen over one eye, and my fingers itch to brush it aside so I can see him better. I lean closer.
    Marya was right, I realize, and my stomach gives a little flip. He is very good-looking. I still wouldn’t call him handsome, exactly, because handsome is really just a bland regularity of features. But even in sleep, there is something about Shoe’s face that draws my eye. Maybe it’s the clean line of his jaw, or the set of his mouth, so grim and almost stern when he is awake, but softer now, or the way his stubbornness is belied by the surprising length of his eyelashes.
    The pencil falls from his hand, rattling against the tabletop. His eyes blink open, and he stares at me, barely awake, as if he can’t quite believe that I’m here.
    â€œHello,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
    He straightens, rubbing his forehead, making his hair stick up. “Hello,” he says blearily. He shakes his head and his eyes focus. “Pin,” he says more sharply, pushing himself to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
    I steady myself, leaning my hip against the table. “I had to ask again. I want you to come with me.” Carefully I reach out and rest my hand against his chest. Under my fingers I can feel the rough weave of his shirt and then the warmth ofhis skin, and the accelerating beat of his heart.
    His hand reaches up to cover mine. Then he shakes his head, as if he can’t speak.
    â€œWhat do you think is out there?” I ask. I step closer and turn my hand in his so we are palm to palm. Our fingers interlace.
    â€œI don’t know,” he says. “Wolves on the hunt. Fog and nothingness.”
    â€œYou’re afraid,” I say starkly.
    â€œOf course I am.” He pulls his hand away from mine. “There’s no Before for the likes of us, Pin, and no After, either.”
    He truly believes that his entire world is bounded by the bramble-covered wall that surrounds the fortress. “So you really won’t come?” I ask.
    He looks down at the floor and shakes his head.
    Tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. I blink them away. “Can you just do me one favor?”
    He gives me a wary nod.
    I lift my bare foot and waggle it at him. “In a few days, call for a model again. That’ll give me an excuse to leave the sewing room so I can get out of the fortress. Will you do it?”
    â€œYes,” he says, his voice rough.
    The tears threaten again, and I turn away because I don’t want him to see me crying, I want him to think that I am strong. He doesn’t speak as I move to the door, turn the knob, and go out into the hallway, where I bend to pick up the box of candles.
    Then the sound of a quick step and as I stand I feel his warmth at my shoulder. “Pin,” he whispers. “Come and say good-bye before you go.”
    I nod and hurry away.
    T HE O VERSEER IS nervous; the guards come in and out of the sewing room, extra vigilant. Marya’s attempted escape is being whispered about throughout the Godmother’s fortress, even though we are warned that to be caught mentioning it is a crime that will be punished by fifty lashes at the post. There will be inspections, we are told, and extra vigilance, and punishments.
    I have been ready and waiting for a long time—or what seems like a long time in this place where time passes so slowly—before Shoe calls again for his model. The thin silken rope that I made is coiled around my waist under my loose woolen dress and shift. My silver thimble is clenched in my hand, and it burns like a hot coal.