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I’ve tried keeping myself busy in the healer’s quadrant with Marge. Desperation had me almost offering to scrub the damn floors with a toothbrush, if it meant not having to leave the comforts and safety of these four walls.

Marge watches me suspiciously. “Is there a reason you are so adamant on staying in here lately? I said you were dismissed over twenty minutes ago.”

I scan the room, searching for an excuse. “I know, I know….it’s just—”

My eye catches on a tear in one of the bed sheets. I dash over to it, a bit too eagerly, and grab the material.

“I noticed this was torn.” I nearly vomit out the words, hoping to gauge some sort of response or command from her.

She rests her hands on her waist, cocking her hip to the side.

My breath quickens. “A-and I think we should fix it. You know? Make it really…homey in here.”

She squints. “Homey?”

“Yes, homey! And…I’ve never been taught how to sew. Maybe you can help me practice, so someday I can stitch someone on my own?”

She laughs. “You’ve got a ways to go. But if you’re not going to tell me why you’re so reluctant to leave, I won’t push you. Though, after this, I’m leaving to go bathe. Whether you decide to stay here or not, I’ll leave up to you.”

She points at the drawer with the needles and threads as she takes a seat on the bed. I retrieve the materials, hand them to her, and sit next to her.

Her focus shifts to the sheets. “Stitching someone and sewing aren’t necessarily interchangeable. But if you can get familiar with a needle, it’ll better your stitchwork.”

She effortlessly winds the needle in and out of the torn sheet gracefully. For some odd reason, it reminds me of the way Daeja glides in the night sky. Like a second nature. Like breathing.

She removes all the threads she stitched, giving me a fresh slate. “Here, you try.”

I stare at the sharp delicacy of the needle and the thinness of the thread. Gripping the needle between my fingers as I watched her do, I note the sweat beading on my skin, and I’m already apprehensive under her watchful eyes.

Marge’s voice is soft. “It’s okay to be nervous, but it won’t bite you.”

I glance at her sideways, and lie. “I’m not nervous.”

She chuckles. “Katerina, don’t you lie to me. I know by now when you’re lying.”

I swallow and try to thread the needle. Jerkily, I follow the same stitches she created. “I’m just not good with my hands.”

“And why do you think that?”

“I’ve always had a hard time. My hands get so sweaty, and it makes it hard to grip things. I almost slipped—” I stop myself from divulging mine and Daeja’s flying to her.

I try again. “I…slip all the time with weapons. Swords are so hard for me to hold and swing. My mother used to be an archer, and I can’t do that either. Same with daggers, axes, and everything else I’ve tried.”

The needle develops a mind of its own, jerking out of my slippery fingers and pricking my other hand.

I wince. “Shit.”

“Watch your mouth, woman,” Marge scolds.

“Sorry…” I mumble around my thumb, sucking the blood oozing out of my finger.

“It’s okay to not be good at things. I’m not good at those things either.” Marge stands and hobbles over to the prep area. She pulls open a drawer and digs out something black.

“Yeah, but you’re good at healing. And sewing.” I motion to the needle and thread laying on the torn sheet.

“That came with years of practice. The more you practice, the better you’ll get. We all start off terrible. You’ll get there—you have the drive, and I have no doubts you’ll accomplish whatever you put your mind to.”

I smile at the encouraging words she’s decided to share with me. But it quickly fades as her sincerity reminds me of my mother. She knew when I needed to be pushed outside of my comfort zone and knew when I needed to be encouraged first.