Hidden In the Stars, page 1
HIDDEN
IN THE
STARS
BOOK ONE OF THE
STAR STITCH CHRONICLES
Hazel Vale
HAZEL VALE BOOKS
First published by Hazel Vale Books
Ontario, CA
hazelvalebooks.com
Copyright © 2022 Hazel Vale
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
used in any manner without written permission from the author
except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Book cover design by moorbooksdesign.com
Inside formatting by hazelvalebooks.com
Edited by Skye Horn
ISBN: 978-1-7780882-0-9 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7780882-1-6 (ebook)
For Leah
because writers need readers
and Wynter needed you.
One
7 Years Before - Orion 7820
Wynter yawned, fumbling with the yellow apron strings, her arms still shaking off the heaviness of sleep.
Henris didn’t want her to keep the apron. He thought the yellow flowers drew far too much attention. Unless it was baggy; he’d always said baggy was best. So she left an extra gap around the middle.
“We need to leave,” Henris said, putting a bowl of porridge into her hands. Henris was thin, his hair grey and fluffy like a baby goose. He was always so perfectly attired; she was surprised he didn’t notice the apron.
“Go? Go where?” she asked, staring at the porridge. They rarely went out and never on a workday.
The tailor shop was eerily quiet. The wide-mouthed copper vat was usually full of boiling, sudsy water. There were no morning steamy clouds of citrus freshness. The irons hung in a row of silver triangles, and the cutting tables were still tucked away.
Certainly there was work to do; they always started before sunrise. The mending basket was full, each item tagged with names and numbers. The torn seams and loose buttons were her responsibility now. A big honour, according to Henris. She was only thirteen but had a better stitch than the best dressmakers on Orion.
Wynter spooned the still warm bites into her mouth as quickly as she could. The blunut syrup stuck to the side and slopped onto her fingers.
She carefully set the bowl into the sink and washed her hands, making sure they were clean.
Last week, a lady had noticed how clean her hands were. She’d also commented on Wynter’s green eyes and high cheek bones, nodding and assuring Henris that Wynter would grow into her features. Henris hadn’t liked the compliment.
It wasn’t safe to be noticed.
Wynter tugged out her braids and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, looping the dark brown strands back into a knot, and hurried back out to Henris.
“Let’s go,” he said. A small laundry bag leaned against his leg. Her ugly mauve apron poked out. Stuffing it back in, he cinched it closed.
“We’re not working today.” He looked at his feet. She looked at his feet too. They were more or less normal, with shiny black shoes and blue rolled cuffs at the bottom. She wondered if his toes had the same fluffy white hairs as his knuckles did. It probably wasn’t something she should ask about.
“Are we going to the cobbler? I know you said it wasn’t a good idea, but he wouldn’t even look twice at me,” she said. The feeling she was missing something tugged at her heart like apron strings.
“No, not the cobbler.” Henris looked toward the back of the store, out the front window, then back again. She wanted to tell him he’d already looked there, but kept her mouth closed.
He frowned at the yellow apron, finally noticing it. Wynter pulled at the middle fabric to make it hang a little more.
“Is it a surprise? You said one day I’d get to see the festival booths.”
“I’m sorry, Wynter. We can’t go to the festival.” He picked up the laundry sack, slung it over his shoulder and started for the front door.
“Wait, I made a new list.” It was in her room on the desk, a scrap piece of receipt the machine had printed wrong, but last night she’d dreamed up more questions and had jotted them down for when the ladies arrived.
“No time.” His eyes darted to the back of the shop again.
It must be important, this trip they were going on. He never said no to her lists.
He always let her listen in when the fancy dresses were being picked up or altered.
The ladies always paid too much for dresses—even if they didn’t fit right—then Henris would fix them. Wynter loved watching and listening as she pressed and tidied. Henris must have been bored of it all, but he’d ask the ladies her questions anyway. One after the other. He’d inquire about the details of parties, what colours were in season and who they had danced with. His glasses would slip down his nose, threaders on his fingers as he kept a steady pace, while Wynter dreamed of the day she’d be able to dance at a ball like the ones they described.
Henris didn’t like it when she dreamed out loud.
“But where are we going?” she asked, following him out of the shop. The door chime played her favourite of the rotating jingles, and she smiled.
He locked it behind them as they stepped out through the solid brick doorway and onto the street.
The shop’s narrow arch was squeezed between the watchmaker on one side and the cheese house on the other. They rarely saw the watchmaker, but Wynter was sure the noises coming from the building next door had little to do with clockwork. Wynter often asked Henris about the noises but was told her to mind her own.
The cheese shop was owned by a woman with wrinkles in her cheeks. Wynter thought she looked a lot like a round ball of cheese. She smelled even worse, but Henris was always happy to see her. Wynter minded her own without having to be told.
Early morning shop lights blinked on around them. Like his tailor shop, Henris had taught her that guilds on Orion were always up before the sun.
Wynter counted ten blocks before the sun crept over the edges of the shops. A few more blocks and she wondered why she couldn’t wear yellow more often. No one cared a grape if she was walking down the street, even with her yellow apron on.
The streets looked different in the morning light; the sun cast glitter across the shop windows. She smiled at the colourful peaked roof tops she’d only seen as shadows in the dark.
Block after block they walked. The edges of her eyes soon felt sore from squinting. The morning traffic hurt her ears, and her feet ached.
“Are we almost there?” she asked.
“Almost.” He took her hand, helping her along.
She watched the trollies fly past with their shiny flat fronts and floor to ceiling windows. She wished they could sit on one of those plush purple chairs for a moment. But Henris wasn’t watching the trollies. Instead, he was looking back toward where they’d come from and forward again to wherever they were going.
They reached the white stone space hub in the centre of town. Streets sprang from it like spokes on a wheel. Court ivy crisscrossed up the sides in perfect squares. The dome was open, and shuttles were flying out at regular intervals, gliding over the village, past the mountains behind them and into the puffy clouds to deliver goods and passengers to the larger ships in orbit above Orion.
The blunut syrup from breakfast turned a little in her stomach.
They didn’t go through the large scan archways where lines spilled into the streets. Instead, they walked around to one side of the building. Henris opened a door in the paneling using a small card and ushered her through.
The automatic lock clanked behind them.
Crates, conveyor belts, boxes, and workers bustled around like a hive. Three workers in bland uniforms glided past, controlling floating carts with luggage and crates. They didn’t pay them any attention.
Wynter scrunched her nose. The room smelled clean, but not the good soapy kind of clean from the laundry. This clean burned her nose.
“It’s the fuel,” Henris stated.
They walked past the back ends of the shuttles docked in rows. A metal skirt hung from the ceilings and closed around them, shielding boarding passengers from view.
Henris consulted a small scrap of paper. He appeared to be counting the docks, the lines in his weathered face deeper than usual.
At the end of the row was a shuttle, its back end open for loading. He wiped his forehead, took a quick look around, and walked up the ramp into the cargo bay. Wynter followed. Once inside, the hull muffled the noise of the loading docks, leaving only a dim rumble in her ears.
“Where are we going?” she asked. She’d never been on a trolly let alone a shuttle, and the back of a shuttle couldn’t be a good way to travel. “Henris?”
He was checking the sides of crates and stopped in front of a long wooden box. 927 HELIX had been stamped in neon pink on top of an arrow that pointed up. He unclipped the metal latches. Inside were rows of bolted fabric.
Was this why he couldn’t say anything? Were they here to steal material? Henris had always talked about honest business, but Wynter didn’t have a problem with stealing if he said he needed to. She looked at the rolled bolts, then back at Henris.
But Henris took nothing out of the crate. Instead, he tucked the little bag inside.
“I’ve kept you longer than I should have. I can’t hide you forever.” He looked as though he was biting at the inside of his chin, the way it squished and rumpled. “Madame Helix has a spot on a ship. She’s proper, and she’s talented. You do what s
“Who’s Madame Helix? You’re sending me away?” Her breath felt stuck, like the air was already being sucked out of the cargo hold.
If she was going somewhere, shouldn’t there be a seat and a harness?
“I need you to get in,” he said. He gave her a little lift until she sat on the edge with her feet barely touching the floor. There would be just enough room for her to lie down.
“Madame Helix will meet you on the ship once her items are unloaded and safe in her rooms. The ship is big. They carry cargo for the guilds as well as passengers. But don’t get too curious.” His voice caught. “She’ll keep you safe, I promise.”
Safe? On a ship? “I like space as well as anyone. Doesn’t mean I want to live there,” Wynter said, feeling her chin shake.
He ignored her plea and made sure the bag was tucked inside so the lid of the crate could close.
“There’s a little panel here,” he said, showing her the little latch that opened from the inside. “You’ll be able to open it once they take off, so you won’t feel so closed in, but the crates aren’t airtight, you’ll be able to breathe fine either way.”
“How long will I be gone? Will you come find me?”
Taking the long gold chain which held his guild pendant from around his neck, he held it in his hands for a moment, then pressed the pendant to his weathered lips.
“I’ll come get you when it’s safe,” he said, placing it around her neck. “Stay ugly, stay hidden, stay alive.”
She held the metal in her hand, feeling the lingering warmth. He loved his pendant. She knew because he’d told her many times. He’d earned it when he was only twenty, and the guild had designed it specially for him. Like all Tailor guilds, it had the crossed needles, but this one had a strand of blue inlaid through the eye, joined with black and silver and braided around the outside. She’d never touched it. She’d stared at it in awe when he spoke respectfully about guild law. Like a ghost story, it sent shivers up her spine, only better. And now she was wearing it; but she didn’t want it, not if it meant leaving.
Questions tumbled around on the tip of her tongue. How long would she be in the crate? How long would she be gone? If they left Orion, it could take months to return. New cargo always took months. How long would it be before she saw Henris again?
He held the lid. His hands were shaking. Despite the growing panic, she laid back onto the rolls of smooth fabric; her chest squeezed tight. She wished she could tell him she didn’t want to go. She’d promise to stay hidden in the shop. No one ever noticed her. She’d do better so she could stay with him.
The lid closed. She felt the brush of the wood against her nose when she tried to lift her head. There was a soft click as the latch caught, and then the sound of his black shoes as he walked away.
She tried not to rumple the bolts of fabric as she wiggled, hoping her salty tears wouldn’t leave marks on the beautiful material. There was the sound of muffled voices, the thud of something being dropped, more crates being loaded, cargo being slid across the metal grated floor. All the time she was trying not to panic or scream or make anyone aware of where she was. She was good at hiding, but Henris had always been with her. What would happen if they caught her? Henris had always kept her hidden.
The bing of the intercom startled her. Instinctively she sat up a little, banging her forehead on the wood. She lowered her head back down slowly, face aching.
“This is your captain for your quad-shuttle to the Obsidian,” the voice boomed through the shuttle speakers. It echoed around the room and came through the fabric and wood like a muffled stranger.
Wynter felt a rumble and deafening bang as the cargo bay door sealed and locked. The surrounding air changed, thickened, then evened out.
“We have a special passenger on board today—Lord Isaac Ward…” the voice continued in a chipper and annoying way.
The crate swayed a little, pulling gently at the edges of the tie downs.
“He’ll be your new first mate on the Obsidian. We wish him all the best.”
Stay ugly, stay hidden, stay alive. She said it over and over, blocking out the shuttle speakers.
The crate rattled and shook as the shuttle pod rocketed into space.
Two
Present Day - Obsidian orbiting Valtine
The large black panels of the Obsidian opened, reverberating through the ship’s guild-level work rooms. Wynter held the ball gown to her chest, refusing to let go.
“I’m taking it with me,” Madame Helix said sternly, looking at herself in the studio mirror. Wynter stared, hoping she’d be more concerned with her own apparel than the dress they’d been fighting about.
Helix was tall and straight like a stick. She must have been at least thirty, but Wynter never asked. Helix ran her hands over her brown travelling suit and then frowned at her reflection.
Wynter had told her the brown was flattering.
It wasn’t.
If she could convince Helix to put a green hat on, she’d look like a tree. But right now, she was fighting to keep the dress.
Helix turned back to Wynter, stepped over the piles of fabric on the floor, and held out her hands expectantly.
“Can’t we hold on to this one? You’ve already packed every dress we’ve made. You never sell them all,” Wynter said. Her heart was pounding as she tried one last defence. She’d designed the dress for Orion. It was Orion fashion, and more importantly, she’d stitched Henris’s crest into the bottom row. She always stitched it into the design, but this one he’d recognize. It was an unreasonable hope, but if the dress came by his shop, he’d know it was her who’d made it. If Helix took it to Valtine, that would never happen.
“I have a request for this dress from a lady. She will pay triple what we’d get on Orion,” Helix replied, unmoving.
“It’s not possible; she’s never seen it.”
“You can make another one,” Helix said as she reached out and yanked the dress from Wynter’s hands. She should have kept it hidden and unfinished.
Wynter suppressed a scream as Helix pressed the treasured gown into the crate between the others.
“I expect the work room and display areas to be clean when I get back.” She picked up her small bag with one hand and waved the other around, as if Wynter didn’t know what she was talking about.
Bolts of fabric lined every wall, shelving stacked double high. At the end of the workroom there were storage compartments, a door to their private bathroom, and beside that, Helix’s room. Above the personal rooms was a loft for storage. She’d lined the front of it with crates, and behind them was a bed where Wynter slept, and storage for her few belongings.
Everything, from the front of the room to the back, was a disaster.
The large table in the middle of the room was piled with half-sewn dresses Helix hadn’t finished and a dozen more Wynter had started. Fast trims, pins, and papers littered the floor, indistinguishable from packaging, embellishments, and bits of everything else one might imagine was necessary for a seamstress to have.
“Don’t be seen when the crates are being picked up,” Helix warned.
“Of course not,” Wynter said. Picking up a roll of lace off the floor. She ran it through her fingers before rewinding it.
“And don’t get caught doing anything.”
“Of course not,” Wynter said again, as if she hadn’t heard the same speech on every planet that they orbited for the past seven years. Spying a green ribbed cap with little jade feathers, she plucked it off the pile of accessories and handed it to Helix.
“Don’t forget your hat.” Wynter smiled. It made her feel a little better.
Helix fluffed the little feathers, then fixed it on her head, patted the crates, and left.
Wynter waited a minute, then two, then tossed the lace back onto the floor. She quickly changed into a stolen cleaning crew uniform; two long braids fell down her back, matching the standard crew style. The fitted black pants went longer than was usual, so the hem would cover her not-so-standard slippers. She tucked in the slate top, then puffed it out around the middle and let it hang loose over her frame.
