Goldie touched the scarf still covering her hair, then deliberately removed it, letting her red-gold locks catch the moonlight.
Let people see me. Let them wonder.
She was done hiding from herself.
Item No. 233-N | For mending what matters wherever (and whenever) you may be
Nimble Needle Sewing Kit
I came across the Nimble Needle in a tiny tailor’s shop in Tallinn. Wood-paneled, low-ceilinged, and filled with the scent of cedar and pressed wool, it seemed as if it had been there for centuries. The tailor said little, simply handed me the slim metal tube and gestured toward a wall of finely embroidered waistcoats. “More useful than it looks,” he said. He was right.
Inside the case: a perfectly fitted thimble, a self-adjusting, never empty spool of silk thread that matches any fabric it’s held beside, and an enchanted needle that pierces through both fine and stubborn materials. I’ve used it on canvas, leather, and sailcloth with no resistance.
Travelers swear by its usefulness: patching tents in unexpected weather, resewing popped seams after spirited treks, repairing luggage mid-journey without missing a train. More ambitious users have crafted entire wardrobes with it, stitch by stitch, and found the needle responsive enough to add elegant flourishes of embroidery with little guidance.
It is compact, practical, and unfailingly reliable—especially when one finds oneself somewhere one hasn’t exactly planned to be. Such as the seventeenth century. Though perhaps that’s a story for another time.
A staple in every well-prepared traveler’s kit.
Chapter21
A Stitch in Time
Zani stumbled forward, blinking in the harsh sunlight as she burst through a thick green boxwood hedge and out onto a gravel-lined path. The world spun momentarily before settling into vibrant, technicolor focus. In the distance, she could see a gondola. A marble footbridge arched across a broad canal. This wasn’t the garden at Catherine De Medici’s court, nor was she back at the Mudpuddle. She smelled the scent of orange blossoms wafting on the breeze from a nearby orangerie. When she spun around, she saw even more lavishly manicured gardens stretching endlessly into the distance. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see when she emerged, but this wasn’t it. Her stomach lurched as realization dawned. She wasn’t home. It wasn’t her time. Will wasn’t with her anymore.
But she recognized this place.
She was alone in the gardens of what could only be Versailles. The enormity of her situation crashed over her like a wave. No Will. No way home. Stranded in what she thought appeared to be the latter part of the 1680s, based on the statuary. Even though she had visited several times and was quite an expert at identifying artifacts and architecture, she would need more information to pinpoint the exact year. Or she could ask someone. She’d risked looking foolish, but this was the least of her problems.
She still had her satchel. At least that was something.
“Mademoiselle? Êtes-vous perdue?” A guard approached, eyeing her old-fashioned looking clothing with curious suspicion. The Reversible Rogue’s cloak hadn’t had time to adjust yet. She still appeared to be wearing clothes from Catherine’s court. No doubt her fashionable outfit from more than half a century ago looked hopelessly dated.
Zani’s mind raced. Her French was passable, but her attire was impossible to explain away. So she didn’t even try.
“Oui,” she managed. “Je suis... perdue.”
Lostdidn’t begin to cover it. She was going to have to dig deep into her bag of tricks if she was going to survive here.
—
Three days later, Zani managed to secure a position as an assistant to one of the court seamstresses. The position came with a humble cubby of a place to sleep, which was both a blessing and a curse. She was expected to work at all hours, at the beck and call of her superiors. One thing was for sure: Her packing skills had served her well. How would she have survived without this essential kit? Her Polyglot Pearls had proven especially invaluable, allowing her to communicate fluently. The cloak had provided her with the appearance of wearing period-appropriate clothing while she worked to pull a few items together. And her Nimble Needle knew all the elaborate stitches required to find herself a job.
But none of her magical tools could send her home to her time. Without a porter, she was truly trapped. But it was worse than that. Without Will, she was lonely.
“You’re not from here, are you?” a sandy-haired woman whispered discreetly when Zani delivered a set of mended curtains to the library. The speaker was extremely petite with intelligent brown eyes that glinted with the unnatural amber hue of a shifter. “Your magic … I sense it’s different.”
Zani hesitated. “I don’t know what you mean.” She had encountered more than a few magical folk at court, but none had taken such an active interest in her.
“I’m Flora.” The woman smiled, revealing slightly pointed teeth. “And you needn’t pretend with me. There are many of us at court. Those with gifts. We recognize our own.”
In the blink of an eye, and with a sudden lustre in the air, Flora transformed into a tiny, delicate mouse. She danced across a bookshelf and over the pile of mended curtains. Then, with one agile pirouette into the air, she resumed her human form on the other side of the table.
Zani couldn’t help but clap and smile. She’d known many shifters in her time, but few as elegant as Flora. She’d practically made her transformation into a ballet.
Over the following weeks, Flora became Zani’s close friend and lifeline. The mouse shifter worked in the royal library, slipping between the shelves in her rodent form to locate lost books. She gradually introduced Zani to the others at court with magical abilities. There was a wizard chef who could speed-ripen fruit, a witch gardener who whispered to the plants in the elaborate gardens, and a Fae musician whose melodies could induce specific emotions. As difficult as it was to be stranded in a time that was not her own, it was a relief to be amongst other folk like herself. They took her in and made her feel like less of an alien, assuring her that with time, Versailles would grow to feel like home. If only she’d been able to believe them.
And if only they’d been willing to believe her.
