I said. Looking over my shoulder Marta tutted at my work. “Yes, something’s wrong. Those were supposed to be pansies, but they look like … Well, nothing.” I looked at the blobby shape I had embroidered into the hem of one of Lady Isla’s gowns. Upside down it might be taken for some sort of purple dog’s head, but Marta was right: it wasn’t a pansy. I picked up my little stitch-ripping knife and started to remove the stitches. “You know that’s not what I meant, Marta,” I said as I worked. She put down the bolt of silk she had been carrying and spread it out on the cutting table. “I know, Creel, it’s just that talking about it will only drive you mad. We haven’t heard from Shardas, and that’s that.” If Marta hadn’t been pale and rather trembly when she said this, I would have been angry with her. But she cared about Shardas and the others, too, and was as worried as I was.
