The Tailor

Because I am a doll, and a servant. Because I am a pretty thing and a soldier all the same.

It hurts, but I can bear it. Because I am a doll, and a servant. Because I am a pretty thing and a soldier all the same.

But I pushed down my confused tears and did as she asked, still hoping that whatever I’d broken might be repaired.

She keeps that haughty look, but her shoulders stiffen and she has to work a bit harder to lift her perfect nose in the air. I know I shouldn’t enjoy her misery as much as I do. I also shouldn’t have a second buttered roll with my breakfast every morning, but sometimes one must indulge.

I don’t want to wear this anymore,” I pleaded. “It’s a servant’s uniform.” “It’s a soilder’s uniform.

Do not let them humble you, he said softly.

Because I am a pretty thing and a soldier all the same.

It was white. White and gold. It was livery. I told myself it meant nothing. It was just a color. But I was wrong. That color meant everything. It was a command to the Queen’s ladies that they shouldn’t greet me or acknowledge that I’d entered a room. It was an indelible line drawn between me and the other Grisha. It was a signal to the King that he could follow me into my chambers and press me up against the wall, that I was available for his use. That there was no point to crying out.