Sunder by Kristin McTiernan Page B

slowly over to the pathetic straw bed and eased herself down, feeling her whole lower half creak with protest. She did not imagine the straw would offer much comfort, but the day had been so long, and she could not recall a time when she had ever been so tired. But now it was time to sleep.
    She let out a contented sigh and leaned back, closing her eyes and hoping tomorrow would bring new hope of leaving this wretched place. Her thoughts drifted to her father when suddenly, a thick and smelly garment landed forcefully on her face.
    “What the hell?” She spat out, ripping the dress away from her head.
    Saoirse was standing at the wooden table on the far side of the room with her hands on her hips. The little girl spoke rapidly in her weird English, pointing to the dresses and then at Isabella.
    From what she could gather, the child wanted Isabella to get up and assist with hemming the dresses. Given Saoirse’s lack of Latin, it was impossible to explain to the simple girl that Isabella had never in her life done any sewing more complicated than replacing a button, and even that paltry repair had been done under duress in primary school. Unbelievable.
    With a heavy sigh, and a great deal of effort, Isabella stood once more and hobbled over to the small table, where Saoirse had already laid out needles, possibly made of bone, and other sewing supplies. But no scissors. Had they been invented yet? She tapped Saoirse on the shoulder.
    “Scissors?”  Isabella also made a scissoring gesture with her index and middle finger.
    The blonde teenager watched her pantomime, looking at her with confusion before breaking into a giggle and shaking her head. Frustration seized her for a moment, but the little girl seemed nice enough (her refusal do the dresses herself notwithstanding); so Isabella took a deep breath and held up a spool of thread and continued her scissoring motion across the strand she held out. That, Saoirse understood, and she smiled with an audible ah and promptly handed over a small knife.
    So she was to let out the hem of dark-ages wool dresses with bone needles and no scissors with only a few candles for light. This should be an adventure.
    They worked on the dresses silently for at least three hours. Apparently, the previous owner of the plain wool dresses had a similar frame to Isabella, but of course had been shorter, hence the need for alteration. And, by the smell of the clothing, this prior owner was also dead now. Isabella’s eyes darted between watching Saoirse’s work and focusing on her own stitching, causing her to prick her fingers more than once. The chaos of inebriated men in the adjacent Great Hall was doing nothing to aid her concentration. Whatever these men did for employment, it seemed they had no pressing matters early in the morning; they celebrated (for what, she did not know) late into the night. It was a miracle the baby did not wake up. Perhaps the child was accustomed to the racket.
    It was about half past the second hour of their sewing when the noise in the hall lessened and the night began to go still. Saoirse finished the needlework on the last of the four dresses. She worked more quickly than Isabella, who had finished one dress in the time it took the teenager to do three. But she had worked hard, and she smiled as she thought of Father Sigbert’s happiness about her willingness to help.
    Saoirse moved away from the table, blowing out the candles as she went, and Isabella took a moment to take in the state of her feet.  Her heels had bloody scabs from rubbing against the oxfords all day, and her ankles were swollen to the point they could now be described as cankles. She had been ignoring the dull ache all day, and focusing on them now for some reason caused a fresh pulse of white-hot fury at the thought of Etienne.
    The sound of digging caught her attention, and Isabella swallowed the adrenaline and calmed her shaking fist as she looked over at Saoirse, whose long blonde tresses