Chapter 18

• “My mom taught me,” Gala replied without looking up.
• Dice nodded slightly, observing him with mild interest as he stitched thick, mismatched fabric onto the carpet. The base color was maroon, but Gala had patched it with garish scraps of what looked like a blanket—or maybe pieces of another rug—bright purple and horribly clashing. But functional, at least.
• It didn’t take long. Now that the table was out of the way, Gala could work freely. When he was done, Dice effortlessly lifted the heavy table and set it back in place like it nothing was.