YAGA | ✓

ONE

•••

RED WAS A BEAUTIFUL COLOUR, rich and vivid, a thousand spring blossoms all at once.

At least, it usually was, until one had seen so much of it that they felt ready to scream if they ever saw the colour again.

The day's work had drained all of Yaga's affection for the hue out of her heart, and she found herself shutting her eyes for minutes on end purely to escape the sea of red spread out on the table in front of her. Her fingers, calloused yet gentle, clenched around the edges, smoothing out the cloth in order for her to be able to poke the needle through.

The rhythm was that of an endless beat, a drum without a melody, just a mindless thump, droning on and on. Regardless, she remained standing, reminding herself that she was lucky enough to have mastered the craft at a young age - either way, she didn't have much of a choice.

At least she didn't prick her fingers. Blood on the seamstress's fabrics would have resulted in an encounter that Yaga shuddered at the very thought of. It wasn't that Gospozica Arelova was a cruel woman - in fact, she was the opposite - kind, and always praising her apprentice's work. But she still managed to seem far taller than she was, and crackled with an energy that weakened Yaga's already-weary knees.

Mirroring the steady rush of the river outside, behind a thicket of undergrowth and dark leaves, the needle wove in and out of the fabric, leaving a perfect trail of golden thread. Yaga exhaled lightly as she slipped the needle into a leather sleeve, setting down the length of cotton and neatly putting the coloured threads into their places.

The tailor's shop was a place that sang with life, brimming with colours, warmth, and the comforting smells of fresh baking and hearty winter stews. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, new cloths that hadn't yet been turned into something more hanging from the ceiling, casting a vibrant glow over the entire room. In this room, magic existed, real magic that swirled in clouds from threads, that ebbed from colours, not meaningless tarot cards. Instead, it was as if an enchantment had drifted down from the heavens and laid to rest, nestled in their skin like cloaks hanging from shoulders.

A sudden voice caused Yaga to jump, snapping out of her dreamlike trance. Gospozica Arelova leaned against the doorway of the fitting room, her wiry little body wrapped in layers upon layers of thick mountain wools.

"Yaga, why are you still here? Aren't you meant to be dining with Dimitri today? You are to be married, of course. Shouldn't you be getting to know him better?"

Yaga swallowed uncertainly. The rush of the river shifted in her veins.

"Gospozica, I...it's not as serious as you think. Anyway, I don't have much of a say in it, do I?" she barked a somewhat bitter laugh. "He is like the other boys, seeing a pretty face and thinking of little more. Besides, I know him well enough. We've been friends since childhood, have we not?"

"Yaga, you are the most desired girl in this town." The older woman patted her apprentice's braid of amber hair, wisps of it unfurled in waves trickling down Yaga's neck, and the girl stiffened. "You must settle down soon. A girl like you, beautiful, sweet, a seamstress and a cook - men fight over you, my dear. After all, you will be a woman in a few months' time, eh?" She cast Yaga a sudden sharp look. "I do hope you stay with me, not run off to the city and become a common maid."

Her voice was light, but edged with venom; a hidden dagger. "Or even worse, whore yourself out to the Czar."

Yaga smirked, holding back a laugh. "No, I haven't thought about it," she said, wondering whether that was a truth or a lie. Behind her back, her fingers were twined together in an anxious whirl, her foot tapping on the worn flagstone floor. "Staying or leaving, I mean. I'm not a planner." She scoffed, freckle-beaten cheeks flushing with embarrassment.