Midnight Masquerade — Marcia Lynn McClure

She was tired-oh so very, very tired. Never-not in all her life-had Evony Elorietta known such thoroughgoing fatigue. As she trudged out of the dark woods still veiled in the shadows of early sunrise, out across the expanse of cold, dew-drenched grass and onto the main road of the village, Evony wondered how she would ever endure a day that was only just beginning. Every bone in her body ached-every muscle throbbed in misery, every inch of her flesh begged for respite. Yet there would be none-at least not until she had finished her stitching-finished the near thirteen hours of sewing she now faced under the ever observant, incessantly critical eye of seamstress Agnes Teche. After such a long, chilled, and sleepless night spent in watching-peering through the darkness and into the rooms of the inn in the woods, until her eyes were too dry to watch any longer-after listening to the shallow, often vile conversations, until her ears hurt from the foul ferment of it-Evony dreaded sewing for Mrs. Teche more than ever before. The woman was a banshee of an employer. And yet, she was grateful Mrs. Teche had had the keen eye to recognize Evony's superior skills with needle and thread-for how else would Evony have managed to feed Mikol and Tressa-to shelter them-to keep them hidden?