The Pale Verdict
The hem of the silk gown required forty-two stitches to hold the weight of the brocade, a count I made with the precision of a ledger, because in Ashford, a seamstress who counts wrong is a seamstress who starves. The fabric was a pale, aggressive ivory, stiff with the starch of Mrs. Sterling’s vanity, and it sat on the table like a carcass, waiting to be skinned of its flaws. I held the...
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