Chapter 14
On the autumn of my eleventh birthday, I sewed my first dress.
It was originally a hemp bedsheet, sky blue with narrow pin stripes.
I had made the pattern by laying down on the fabric, tracing around myself with chalk, and cutting out the rough shape.
I stashed the pieces underneath my pillow whenever Ma entered my room and asked what I was doing.
“Nothing!” I’d say, standing from my bed, Grandma’s needle and thread behind my back.
Ma tutted and shook her head. “You should help your grandmother in the kitchen. You’re old enough now, Giselle. You can’t expect us to do everything for you forever.”
The lecture was unwarranted, but I went down to help Grandma anyway. Pa was snoring away on his chair as I passed him on my way to the kitchen. The aroma of cumin and star anise wafted from the room, sending my stomach growling.
Grandma was chopping vegetables, her back facing the door.
Her jars of spices were scattered around the countertop in shades of red, yellow, and umber.
They were her most treasured possessions and made our food taste thrice as flavorful than the typical village meal.
She had bartered tirelessly for them at the Witch Market.
“I don’t need any help, Nasha,” Grandma said without turning around.
I hopped onto the little wooden stool at her feet. “It’s me, Grandma.”
“Gigi,” she said, turning to me with a smile. It crinkled the corners of her eyes, turning them into half-moons. “Shouldn’t you be studying or playing with Christabella?”
“Christabella is taking a nap.”
“Ah, that’s right.” Grandma began peeling a carrot, leaving the ribbons of dirt-streaked orange skin in a wooden bowl.
I took it, assuming she’d want the scraps thrown out, but Grandma tutted.
“Leave it, Gigi. I’ll wash it with the other scraps and make a nice vegetable broth.”
I set the bowl back down. “Okay.” I rocked on my feet, eager to return to my dress.
“Every part of a vegetable has a purpose, just like how every witch plays a part in keeping the village thriving,” Grandma said.
It sounded like the premise to another lecture, but I didn’t mind Grandma’s lectures; they weren’t accusatory like Ma’s.
“What part do you want to play when you’re older, Gigi?” Grandma asked. She sliced off the top of the carrot and added it to the scrap bowl. “Maybe you’ll help in the fields, like your friend Alexander?”
I leaned my arms on the counter and frowned. Farming did not sound appealing in the least. One couldn’t wear pretty things to dig in the dirt.
“Or you can be a weather witch’s apprentice,” Grandma continued.
The weather was even duller.
“Or maybe I can sell hats at the Witch Market,” I said brightly. “Like you did, when you were younger.” Grandma made the most beautiful hats. She had told us about the millinery shop she had before the Non-Magic Age, where she used to make hats for wealthy ladies.
Grandma went silent. “The Witch Market is dangerous, Gigi. There are humans there. If one of them decides to report you...it’s over.”
“But everyone goes there,” I said. “Alexander’s grandpa watches over the entrance. And Miss Lana sells there all the time.”
Grandma shook her head. “Why don’t you go back to your room and play, Gigi? I’m almost done here.”
I shrugged. There was sewing waiting for me, anyway.
Three days later, I finished the dress. It was a simple pinafore, laced up in the front with ribbon loops, the skirts split down the center. I thought it was charming, especially paired with my plain gathered shift underneath.
Christabella caught me trying it on one morning when she slipped into my room. Her eyes widened. “So pretty, Gigi,” she said in a hushed whisper. “Where did you get it?”
I bent to her eight-year-old height. “I made it,” I said, barely able to contain the excitement in my voice. I ran my hand down the fabric and swished from side to side. The skirt flared out, and I noted with some disappointment that the hem was uneven. That could be fixed later.
“Is that your bedsheet?” Christabella asked.
“It is,” I said proudly. I had discovered that I had worn a hole through it and had the brilliant idea to convert it into a dress. Even old items could serve a new purpose.
“Wanna show Ma?” Christabella said, her round face lighting up. She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the sitting room.
“No, Christabella.” I tried to pull away, but she was surprisingly strong for a small child. We both stumbled into the sitting room, where Ma was sweeping the floor. Pa was snoring in his chair, as always.
“Mama, Mama, look!” Christabella said, jumping up and down. “Gigi made something sooooo pretty!”
“Christabella, please don’t jump around. You’ll knock something over,” Ma said without looking up.
“But loooook!”
I tugged my hand away, hoping to make a quick escape to my room, but something caught on my skirt and tugged me back. Then, a loud crash sounded.
Christabella began to cry.
“Giselle!” Ma threw down her broom and marched over to us.
I looked down in horror at the toppled end table and the shattered vase on the floor. Christabella was wailing, clutching her bleeding finger.
“Mama, it huuuuurts,” she sobbed.
“I-I’m sorry Chrissy, I didn’t mean to,” I said. I looked down at my skirt. The side seam gaped open, the stitches already coming undone from catching on the end table.
Ma took Christabella in her arms and rubbed her back. “Hush now, it’ll be fine.”
I looked on with a twinge of envy as Ma held Christabella. Pa startled awake, reaching for his spectacles.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Your daughter made a mess, that’s what,” Ma said, shooting me a piercing look. Her eyes flicked to the hole in my skirt. “What’s that? What are you wearing?”
I looked to Christabella, but she was still sobbing passionately and couldn’t come to my aid. “I...I made it,” I said quietly, already feeling hot tears sting the back of my eyes.
Ma stood, the bodice of her dress stained with Christabella’s tears and other fluids. My sister toddled over to Pa, who gave her a comforting pat on the head.
“Is that your bed sheet?” Ma grabbed the fabric of my dress.
“Wait!” I stumbled forward, but the damage was done. The seam unraveled, the edges fraying.
“How can you destroy perfectly good things like this?” Ma demanded, her face going red. “Do you think we have an infinite amount of resources, like those humans aboveground?”
“It was already wearing down—”
“I cannot believe you would do something so foolish,” Ma said.
Grandma entered from the kitchen, a mug of tea in her hands. “Now what is this, Nasha?” she asked, setting the mug on the table beside Pa.
“Giselle destroyed a perfectly good bedsheet,” Ma said, shaking her fistful of my dress. “Explain yourself, young lady.”
I began to cry. Explaining was pointless—Ma never listened to what I had to say.
She shook her head in disgust. It seemed she was always looking at me in that way, whether I behaved or not.
That was the day I figured Ma hated me.
“Let it go, Nasha.” Grandma crossed the room and took my hand, her skin warm and papery around mine. “We have plenty of bedsheets. I’ll give her one of mine.”
“Plenty?” Ma said, incredulous. “You’re always saying that we have nothing to waste! You spoil her, Mother. This is why she’s acting this way.”
Grandma merely shook her head and led me up the stairs to her room.
“Come, Gigi,” Grandma said gently, wiping my face. “Let me show you how to sew a seam properly.”