A Tiny Scrap of Cloth

Chapter 2: The Price of Progress (Part 3)

She needed clothes. Now.

The market was still active, a cluster of stalls near the town well. Lyra approached the nearest one---a stall selling fabrics and garments, presided over by a plump woman with iron-grey hair and a suspicious expression.

"Excuse me," Lyra said, her voice strained. "I need to buy a dress. Something---something simple. What can I get for two copper pieces?"

The woman looked her up and down, taking in the torn dress, the bare feet, the desperate clutch of her hands. She laughed---a short, sharp sound.

"Two coppers? You'll get a kerchief, maybe. Enough to cover your hair. If you want a dress, you're looking at ten coppers at least. Twenty for something decent."

Lyra's heart sank. "Ten? But---I only have two. Isn't there anything else? A skirt? A tunic? Anything?"

The woman shrugged. "I've got some scrap cloth in the back. Might be enough to patch that mess you're wearing, if you're handy with a needle. I'll give you a piece for one copper."

One copper for a scrap of cloth. It was a terrible deal, and they both knew it.

"Show me," Lyra said, because she didn't have a choice.

The scrap was small---barely larger than a hand towel---and made of the cheapest, thinnest linen she had ever seen. When she held it up to the light, she could see straight through it. But it was clean, and it was fabric, and it would cover something.

She paid the woman and clutched the cloth to her chest, then retreated to the shadowed alley between two buildings. There, with her back pressed against the rough stone wall, she tried to figure out what to do with it.

The tear was growing worse. Walking had pulled it further, and now the dress was barely holding together on her left side. She could feel the breeze on her hip, on her thigh, on the outer curve of her ass cheek when she moved too quickly. She needed to cover the gap, but the scrap was too small to serve as a proper patch.

In the end, she did the only thing she could think of: she wrapped it around her waist like a makeshift belt, letting it drape over the torn area. It wasn't perfect---the fabric was thin enough that the shape of her hip still showed through, and it did nothing to fix the neckline or the overall shortness of the dress---but it was better than nothing.

Barely.

She emerged from the alley feeling marginally less exposed, but the relief was short-lived. The scrap had cost her half her money. She now had one copper piece to her name, a torn dress, a thin strip of cloth, and no way to buy real clothes.

She needed work.

The inn was called The Cracked Mug, and its sign depicted a ceramic tankard with a jagged line running down its side. Lyra stood outside for a long moment, trying to gather her courage. She had seen a help wanted sign in the window as she'd passed, and she had nowhere else to go.

Inside, the common room was dim and smoky, lit by a few oil lamps and the glow of a hearth at the far end. A handful of patrons sat at tables, nursing mugs of ale and eyeing her with open curiosity as she entered. The innkeeper was a heavyset man with a bald head and a stained apron, polishing glasses behind the bar.

"Help you?" he asked, not pausing in his work.

"I saw the sign," Lyra said. "You need help?"

The innkeeper looked up, and his eyes did the same lazy inventory she had seen from the cart driver. She clutched her scraps of cloth tighter.

"Maybe," he said. "What can you do?"

"Anything. Cleaning, cooking, serving---whatever you need."

"Hmm." He set down the glass he was holding and leaned on the bar. "You look like you've had a rough time of it."

"I just need work. Please."

He considered her for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Fine. I need the common room swept and the tables scrubbed. You do that, I'll pay you five coppers and you can sleep in the stable tonight. Deal?"

Five coppers. That was more than twice what Hilda had paid her. It still wasn't enough for a dress, but it was closer. And a place to sleep---even a stable---was more than she'd had last night.

"Deal," she said.

"Good. Broom's in the corner. Bucket and rags are by the well out back. Get to it."

The work was hard but not as hard as the mill. Sweeping was sweat-inducing but didn't require heavy lifting, and scrubbing tables was tedious but not painful. The patrons watched her as she worked---she could feel their eyes on her back, on her legs, on the strip of translucent fabric that barely covered her torn dress. A few of them made comments, low enough that she couldn't quite hear the words but loud enough to catch the tone. Mocking. Appreciative. Hungry.

She ignored them. She scrubbed harder, her knuckles white on the brush.

By the time she finished, the sun was setting and her arms were aching. The innkeeper inspected her work, grunted his approval, and dropped five copper coins into her palm. She now had six coppers total---her one original coin plus the five new ones. Still not enough for a dress, but closer. Much closer.

The stable was out back, a modest wooden structure that smelled of hay and horses. She found an empty stall, just like the night before, and curled up in the straw. The scrap of cloth had slipped during her work, and the tear in her dress had spread even further. Now the entire left side of the garment hung open, exposing her from hip to ribcage. She tugged at it uselessly, trying to cover herself, but the fabric was beyond repair.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow I'll find more work. I'll earn enough to buy a real dress.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.