Chapter 3: The Tailor’s Cottage

When Lina woke, morning light was already spilling through the window, washing the patchwork quilt in honeyed gold. For a moment she lay still, half-dreaming, until movement tugged her eyes open.

On the dresser, a pair of socks—tiny, woolen, and wobbling on their own—were attempting, with great determination, to hop into the half-shut drawer. They missed, toppled, and tried again.

She blinked. Rubbed her eyes. Checked once more.

Still hopping. Still socks.

“Right,” she muttered to herself, voice scratchy with sleep. “Still magic. Still weird.”

A clatter downstairs answered her. Something metallic clanged, followed by the whistle of a kettle that no one had touched. Somewhere in the kitchen, a chair sneezed loudly, as if to confirm her observation.

Suppressing a laugh, Lina swung her legs over the side of the bed. At the foot waited a cardigan several sizes too big, warm and soft against her fingers. She slipped into it, catching the faint scent of cedarwood and lavender—old comfort, folded into wool.

Beside the door, the cloak waited on its stand. Not just a cloak anymore, but hers. It stirred as soon as she stood, the fabric giving a small, eager wiggle, like a dog hearing its master’s footsteps.

“Alright, alright,” Lina said, brushing her hand along its hem. The cloak leaned into her touch with a pleased rustle.

Her lips curved into the tiniest smile. The world was stranger than she’d ever imagined—but perhaps not unfriendly.

🪡

Thimblewick was gone by the time Lina came downstairs, but he’d left a note stuck to a teacup with a biscuit, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

 “Out tending to mossy mail.Breakfast in the pantry.Grumblebob can help.Try not to anger the iron.”

Beneath the words was a doodle: a grumpy sewing machine glaring beside a frowning iron with sharp little feet. Lina stared at it, half-convinced the sketch might march off the page at any moment.

The kitchen was a museum of oddities. Glass jars lined the shelves in perfect rows—Buttonberry Jam, Whisker Salt, and one tin so peculiar she had to stop and whisper it aloud: Emotional Thimbles – DO NOT EAT.

Her hand hovered, then retreated. Better not test that warning.

The pantry door creaked open. A loaf of bread darted backward as if startled, then, gathering its courage, scuttled forward and offered her a single slice. A jar of tea blinked sleepily from the shelf.

“This is absurd,” Lina murmured, though her lips curved in something dangerously close to a smile. Absurd, yes. But she hadn’t felt this safe in… years.

Breakfast was clumsy—half of it involved a butter knife deciding it could spread better without her—but it left her oddly comforted. Warm bread, soft tea, and the sense of a house that wanted to care for her.

Drawn as if by instinct, Lina returned to the workshop.

The room was not the same as last night. It breathed—not literally (though she wasn’t certain anymore)—but with a rhythm, as if it knew she was watching. Lace curtains sifted sunlight into thin, glowing threads. Fabric swatches shifted almost imperceptibly to face her. A drawer slid open with a polite creak, presenting a neatly rolled bundle of tools.

She picked it up. The roll unfurled across the table to reveal wonders: curved scissors with translucent handles, a needle threaded with something that looked like moonlight, a tiny glass vial labeled Stitch-Sense – For Beginners. The vial was warm against her palm, humming faintly like a heartbeat.

Lina exhaled. “I don’t even know how to hem a sock.”

Across the room, the sewing machine—Grumblebob, she remembered—gave a low, offended chuff. Its bobbin spun once, then clattered decisively into place, like a gauntlet thrown down.

Lina raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you want to judge me? Listen, I’ve survived English comprehensive school and double maths. I can handle you.”

Grumblebob whirred. The dial light flickered green. Challenge accepted.

Tentatively, she placed her hand on the work table. The wood warmed beneath her palm, then lowered itself with a gentle groan to match her height. Tools shuffled into neat rows beside it, ready for her.

And in that strange, tender moment, Lina realized two things at once:

1. The cottage wasn’t just a house. It was a partner.

2. Eliwyn hadn’t left it waiting for an expert tailor. She’d left it waiting for someone willing to learn.

Lina rolled up her sleeves. The cardigan slid back to her elbows, and the cloak, waiting patiently in the corner, gave a rustle of encouragement.

“All right then,” she said to the room, to Grumblebob, to Eliwyn’s unseen legacy. Her voice steadied.“Teach me something.”

🧵

The cloak kept close, drifting at the edge of her vision like a silent tutor. Now and then it twitched, fluttered, or leaned in, as though urging her on. Lina tried to obey. She practiced threading needles—though the one strung with moonlight was infuriatingly fussy—and set her stitches wobbling across fabric that shivered like pondwater beneath her hands.

Mistakes piled quickly. Knots tangled into little snarls. Her fingertips smarted with pricks. Seams curled and wrinkled like ferns after rain. Once, a skein of thread hissed at her indignantly and dove into a drawer to sulk.

But the house was patient. The scissors clicked gently in her palm whenever she grew frustrated, their snip soft as encouragement. Tools rearranged themselves when she faltered, nudging her to try a different way.

By late afternoon, she had something. A square patch—crooked, uneven, puckered here and there—but undeniably hers.

Lina held it up to the light. Sun threaded through the thin fabric, catching on the uneven weave. It wasn’t much. It was barely anything. But in her chest, something shifted.

A beginning.

The cloak stirred. A low hum rippled through its folds, one corner tugging toward her.

She hesitated, then pressed the patch to an empty space near its hem. The fabric rippled once and… accepted it. Seamless. As though the patch had always belonged.

A faint glow shivered beneath her fingertips.

And then—just for a heartbeat—something brushed against her mind. Not a sound, not a word, but a warmth. The distinct impression of someone smiling, far away, just behind her shoulder.

Her breath caught. She stepped back.

The cloak hovered, its folds shifting in a way that was neither random nor idle. Watching. Remembering.

For the first time, Lina didn’t feel like a trespasser in this place. She felt… chosen.

🌿

That evening, the door swung open with a gust of cool air, and Thimblewick stepped inside. Leaf-patterned mud streaked his waistcoat, and his beard bristled with twigs, but he wore the satisfied grin of someone who had outwitted the wilderness.

“Good day?” he asked, brushing soil from his cuffs.

“I sewed something!” Lina blurted, holding out the crooked patch as though it were treasure.

Thimblewick took it with solemn care, peering over his spectacles. “Ah. Crooked, imperfect, and entirely yours.” His expression softened into one of his rare smiles. “Exactly what the cloak needed.”

“It needed my mistakes?”

“No.” He handed it back to her, voice quieter now. “It needed you.”

From his satchel, he produced a beetle-sized parcel wrapped in paper that seemed to shimmer faintly, as though resisting his grip. “Tomorrow, you’ll try something harder.”

Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “What is it?”

“Sky-fiber.”

Lina groaned. “That sounds very floaty.”

“Oh yes,” Thimblewick said, eyes twinkling. “And very weepy.”

She glanced at the cloak. The patch she’d sewn still glowed faintly in its corner, pulsing like a heartbeat. The fabric stirred when her gaze lingered, not impatient, not demanding—just… welcoming.

For the first time since stepping into this strange, impossible cottage, Lina didn’t feel like a stranger.

She felt like a stitch in something bigger.


🧵End of Chapter 3