The morning had that slow, hesitant light that only happens in winter. It slipped in pale and quiet through the workshop windows, brushing over bolts of fabric and spools of thread. The air smelled faintly of starch and the lavender sachets we kept in the storage bins. I was at my worktable, but my hands weren’t doing much of anything.

Claudia was the only other one in that morning, her hair tied up in a way that looked both effortless and deliberate. She was at the far table, sorting fabric ...