We sat together in front of the fireplace embroidering napkins. Una was much faster than me, her stitches neat and uniform. “It’s a shame,” my mother remarked as she held up my work, “Your buttonhole stitches look square. I don’t know how you do it.” “Everything I do is cornered,” I tried not to look up and failed. “You don’t have to do it,” Mother crumpled the napkin, letting it fall into the basket of scraps, “Una could finish the set for you.” I waited until she left the room to retrieve my napkin, “I like my work.” Folding it into quarters, I placed it on top of Una’s three, the buttonholes perfect yellow suns in each corner. “Work puts the song in my heart,” Una began to hum. Her voice was a bird-like soprano that made mine sound like a child playing violin. “Well, you’ll have lots more of it coming your way with the prince’s bal masqué. It will be, ‘Una, polish the doorknobs. Una, take in this bodice. Una, clean the fireplace.’ Because you know, the prince will somehow
