me about gowns she’d made for senators’ wives and silk imported from Lyon. I listened and usually left with containers of soup tucked into my bag.
Soon, she began noticing things no one else ever had.
“There’s a button missing on your coat,” she said one afternoon, opening her sewing tin and taking out a needle.
“It’s fine.”
“Give it here.”
I handed her the coat. She sewed quietly, then noticed the small burn on my wrist.
“How’d you get that?”
“A fryer at work. It’s nothing.”
“It is not
