Sunlight cut through the high windows of the Fletcher’s silk shop, falling across the wooden counter where Ember stretched to grasp the edge of purple silk. Her father Thomas held the other end, watching as she maneuvered the delicate fabric.


    “Easy does it,” he said. “This one’s worth more than most folks see in a year. Know why?”


    Ember focused on keeping the silk from touching the floor as they unfurled it. The fabric slid across the counter with a soft hiss. She inhaled the strange, foreign scent that clung to it. “Eastern provinces,” she said, smoothing a wrinkle. “They make the purple from… sea things?”


    “Mollusks,” Thomas said. “Tiny creatures from the tide pools.”


    “Right! It takes so many just to dye one piece.” Her fingers traced the deep color, remembering the sketches her father had shown her of the rocky eastern shores.


    The market street was coming alive outside - a cart rattled past, and someone cursed as they dropped what sounded like a crate. Ember moved to the next bolt of silk, a gold one that caught the light. She lifted the corner, watching the color shift.


    “Look - it changes like fish scales in the river.”


    “Shot silk,” Thomas said, and Ember could hear the smile in his voice. “Because-”


    “Different colors in each direction,” she finished. “I remember.”


    They made their way through the morning inventory, with Ember trailing her hands over each texture - raw silk that caught at her fingers, smooth charmeuse that seemed to flow like water, gauze so fine she could see through it.


    At the window display, Thomas hoisted her onto his shoulders. Ember wobbled, then steadied herself against his head as she adjusted the folds of crimson silk. The street below was filling with the first market-goers of the day.


    “Tell me about the silk road again,” she said, patting his temple.


    “You know it by heart now,” Thomas protested, but she could feel him settling into storyteller’s stance.


    “The desert part. Please?”


    “Ah, well.” He shifted her weight. “It starts in lands so distant it takes a year to reach them. The merchants cross deserts where the sun burns the sand white…”


    Ember let his words wash over her, breathing in the sharp cedar of the shelves and the subtle spices that kept moths from the fabric. Everything felt right - the familiar weight of her father’s hands steady on her legs, the warmth of morning sun on her face.


    “Shop’s opening soon,” Thomas said, lifting her down. “Ready to help today?”


    Her fingers brushed each bolt of silk with the ease of long practice, small adjustments perfected over countless dawns. The floorboards gave their usual protest beneath her feet.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    She shifted a length of sapphire silk into the strengthening sunbeam. “There,” she murmured, watching the color deepen. The fabric fell into new folds, each catching the light differently.


    The market street’s familiar chorus filtered through the windows - iron-shod hooves on stone, wooden crates scraping across thresholds, vendors calling their first greetings. People hurried past, each intent on their morning tasks. The baker’s apron bore fresh flour stains, while the cooper cursed softly as he wrestled a stubborn barrel.


    “Mind those drapes,” her father called from his desk, not looking up from his ledger. “The left side’s drooping.”


    Ember stretched, tugging the heavy crimson fabric until it hung properly. “Like this?”


    Thomas glanced over, his merchant’s eye assessing. “Better. You’re learning.”


    The praise made her stand straighter as she laid out the morning’s samples on the counter. Each piece told its own story - raw silk still carrying the scent of southern ports, highland wool rough against her palm, delicate western lace that caught at her calluses.


    The bell tower’s harsh note made her flinch. “First bell already,” she said, moving faster. The cedar shelves still needed dusting, and new stock waited to be arranged.


    She breathed in the shop’s familiar mix of cedar and silk, leather and lavender. Fresh bread from down the street made her stomach complain quietly.


    “Ready for opening?” Thomas closed his ledger.


    Ember checked her work one last time. The displays caught the light just right, leading the eye deeper into the shop’s offerings. Each sample on the counter invited closer inspection.


    “Ready,” she said, taking her place on the cushioned stool. She adjusted her skirt and posture, her mother’s lessons still fresh in mind. Through the window, she spotted the day’s first potential customers. Time to put those lessons to use.


    The morning crowd pushed through the door, trailing the chill autumn air. Ember shifted on her wooden stool, watching her father Thomas straighten as Lady Marsden entered. Her rings clinked against the counter as she approached.


    “My lady,” Thomas said, inclining his head just enough to show respect without servility. “I’ve something that might interest you.”


    Ember noted how he let the silence hang, drawing the noblewoman in. Lady Marsden’s fingers drummed once, twice on the counter. “Do tell.”


    “A purple silk, fresh from the eastern ships.” He didn’t reach for it immediately, though Ember saw his eyes flick to where it lay.


    “Show me,” Lady Marsden commanded, already moving toward the display. Thomas retrieved the bolt, his movements precise as he angled it toward the window. The fabric caught the light, making Lady Marsden’s breath catch.


    More customers filled the shop. A weather-beaten merchant inspected sail-silk with calloused hands. A young noble stammered through asking about wedding cloth while two merchants’ wives critiqued his choices in whispers. Thomas wove between them all, his attention spreading just thin enough to keep them waiting, wanting.


    “The weave is particularly fine,” Thomas told the noble, letting cream-colored silk spill across the counter. Ember suppressed a smile - the fabric always seemed to find its way into customers’ hands after that move, and once they felt its smoothness, coin usually followed.


    The bell above the door barely stopped ringing. Ember’s head swam with numbers as she tracked the day’s sales. During a rare quiet moment, Thomas leaned against the counter beside her.


    “Tell me what you saw,” he murmured.


    “Lady Marsden wouldn’t have touched the purple if you’d shown it first,” Ember said. “And Master Cooper grabbed the red silk the moment you mentioned the harbor master was eyeing it.”


    Thomas nodded. “And?”


    “You gave the Guild Master’s wife space to preen, but kept close to the farmer’s daughter so she wouldn’t bolt.”


    A new group pushed through the door - merchants by their clothes, but with steel at their hips. Thomas squeezed her shoulder before moving to intercept them. Ember watched him work, memorizing each gesture, each careful word. The afternoon light caught the dust in the air, and the soft rustle of fabric mingled with the clink of coins and carefully measured words.


    This would be her life - not just selling silk, but reading people, knowing when to press and when to yield. For now, she sat and learned, recording her father’s every move while the surety of his presence kept the world’s harder edges at bay.