Ancilly hummed as she worked out the knots and, once that was done, she sang a sweet, sad song as she braided it all together. Her voice was low and soothing—almost a murmur—and Alice, who was nearly drunk on relaxation, could only just make out the last few words.

In the sky

In the sky

I fell one day

Into the sky

In the sky

In the sky

I fell one day

I learned to fly

Alice had very nearly fallen asleep. She startled her eyes open just in time, ever fearful of Oliver’s warning to never sleep without a dream. But Ancilly’s song was so rich and somber that Alice’s heart had turned to jelly. Our young friend was warm and loopy, and Ancilly’s gentle hands were busy weaving flowers into her hair. Alice stifled a small yawn. The unexpected pop of color from the flowers against the bright white of her hair and skin made Alice very, very happy.

Alice thanked Ancilly profusely and the lady blushed, waving off Alice’s gratitude. “Please, your honorableness,” she said. “It’s a treasure to have you here. If you would please wait a moment, I will return with a gift.”

So Alice waited. She sat on a little chair and thought about how pleasant it was to be clean, and how strange it was to have only one arm, and how frustrating it was to want to use the lost limb only to have to keep reminding herself that it was gone. These thoughts occupied her until Ancilly returned, and her patience was soon rewarded with something extraordinary. In Ancilly’s hands was the most beautiful gown Alice had ever seen.

This dress was a true explosion of light. It was clear that it had been designed by a proper artist and made from only the richest materials; and it was certainly more beautiful than anything Alice could have sewn herself. The many skirts and bodice were a cascade of color: ruby melting into dusk, golds becoming greens, blue and plum and raspberry drenching the hem. Each layer was pieced together delicately and deliberately, a thousand sheets of onion thin silk scalloped and shimmering like the broken wings of a butterfly. The skirts were full and robust but still weightless, ethereal. Alice was sure she could float away in this dress. She could fly in this dress.

“Ancilly,” she cried, clutching the gown to her chest. “Did you make this yourself?”

“Oh no, your honorableness,” she said, and bowed her head. “This dress was made by the greatest seamstress of the land of Left. It is Left tradition to present our visitors with only our finest gifts.” Her voice caught. “We never thought we’d have another visitor,” Ancilly said, looking like she might cry. “We are so proud, your honorableness. We are so grateful to you for bestowing your graces on our humble home. Left is so often overlooked.”

“Oh, Ancilly,” Alice said. “The pleasure is all my own.” And even though Alice meant what she said, she couldn’t help but feel guilty, too. She knew she had to leave—and soon—and in order to do so she’d have to disappoint an entire village. It broke her heart, but she knew there was no other way.

Ancilly helped Alice into the new dress (Alice noticed it had no sleeves, which suited her one arm very nicely), and she took a moment to admire its details as she tucked her pamphlets, black card, and the broken pieces of her ruler into the deep pockets of the skirt. A spray of feathers was built into the collar, up and outward, creating the illusion that Alice wore wings; every stitch was a work of art, and Alice couldn’t help but admire the finery. She’d never worn anything so elegant in all her life. She spun and swam with each step, the silk ebbing and flowing against her legs. It made her miss the quiet moments she’d once resented, dancing alone in the forest, her heartbeats synchronized to the sounds of the world.

Alice was in tears.

It was all so very, very lovely. Alice was genuinely touched and couldn’t believe for a second that Ancilly would ever want to eat her. After all, Oliver had said there were good and bad in every bunch, and these, Alice thought, these must be the good ones.

Which made her wonder.

“Ancilly,” said Alice, still admiring her gown. “If you have a seamstress here in Left—do you have a painter, too?”

Ancilly looked surprised. “I’m afraid we don’t, your honorableness. Why do you ask?”

Alice nodded to where her arm used to be. “I was hoping to repair the damage,” she said. “And I’ve been told to find a painter.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find one, would you?”

Ancilly shook her head.

Alice was disappointed. She knew it was Oliver’s job to persuade information out of others, but Ancilly seemed like someone Alice could confide in. Besides, she and Oliver had very few options. They were already out of time; they had to get to a painter soon.

So Alice tried again.

“Is there anyone here who might know where I could find a painter? Maybe the seamstress?”

Ancilly stiffened.

“Perhaps,” said Alice quickly, “perhaps the artists of Furthermore know each other—”

But Alice had said the wrong thing.

Ancilly’s warmth went instantly cold, and she turned away so Alice couldn’t read her face. When Ancilly next spoke, her words were clipped. “The seamstress might’ve known where to find a painter, but she was pushed off the branch long ago.”

Alice startled. “Pushed off the branch? Do you mean—”

“She is gone.”

“But I thought you said she made this dress?” said Alice. “How could she be gone?”

“She worked for many years, making clothes in all shapes and sizes in preparation for the day our visitors would arrive. We had to be ready,” Ancilly said quietly, “even if we couldn’t be sure anyone would come.”

Alice touched her arm. “Oh, Ancilly,” she said, “I’m so sor—”