From the viewpoint of Laura McKinley, 2nd year weaver.

The first thing I do when I awake is rush to my mother’s bedside. The sun has just peeked over the horizon, the round quartered window casting a shadowy cross on my mother’s pale yellow face. I long to kiss my mother’s forehead, wistfully remembering my mother’s dancing chocolate curls and laughing deep eyes, before yellow fever. I straighten up quickly and hurry away, my eyes brimming with tears as I look at the sickly husk my mother has become. I hurry and light the fire downstairs, warming the house as I patter around, careful to make not a sound. I do not wish to invoke my aunt’s ire. On days my mother feels strong, she tells me not to be cross with my aunt. She simply has a lot of stress. I can see it, too. My aunt is a headstrong woman. She shares my mother’s hair and eyes, but they are different on her. Her hair and she herself remind me of a grizzly bear, dangerous and fierce. Her eyes seem to glow with rage when a rude woman comes in and loudly remarks about the poor workmanship. Her words are like ice daggers, her eyes as cold as the moon. They say GET OUT, and although her voice is chilly, it still respectful. Her eyes are a snake’s, mesmerizing and threatening. The shrill noblewoman’s voice disappears from the air soon after she speaks. But after the shop closes, she is warm and comforting, holding me close when I cry. She’d tell me how Ruby, my mother, would be alright and have I ever lied to you? And when she is especially tired, I’d rub her feet and brush her dark curls, noting the streaks of gray.
I shake myself out of my reverie. The shop is opening soon. I pick up a broom and start sweeping. But I am small, though I am smart. I am too enthusiastic in my undertakings, my aunt says. She is right. I do not last long. I do not rest though, because the sun will wake Aunt Helen soon. I breeze through my other chores by force of will alone, and sit panting, occasionally taking a bite of breakfast. “Well, aren’t you taking your sweet time,” comes a voice behind me. I turn and look at my aunt, and while I don’t wish to make her angry, nothing in the world could make me rise from my chair. “Foolish child,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You shouldn’t try so hard. Lord knows the apothecary charges an arm and a leg.” I grin up at her, and having finally recovered my composure, I help set up the shop. The shop is booming today for one reason or another, and I hardly have time to rest between requests. During a lull in activity, I realize I am smiling. My hands smell of lanolin, the dye gurgles on the fire, my aunt is directing a shipment of beetles.
By the end of the day, my fingers are stained a rainbow of colors from working at the dye pot. I hurry and scour my hands. The stains of the dyes last forever, and my aunt learned that the hard way. I am pleasantly tired at the end of the day, the strongbox just a little harder to close. Best of all, Father wrote a beautiful love letter to Mother, and she is awake. I read it to her and then quietly left to bring her food. She was asleep when I looked back, a beatific smile gracing her face. I do not dare to hope, but deep down, in my heart of hearts, I think she is recovering. And the next day, she is livelier than I’ve seen in a week. I was worried about her since she’s always been delicate. But she is fine. I throw myself at my work with a vengeance, full of energy, and soon some of my works look better than a 3rd year’s. And then I get the bad news. My 17-year old cousin John is going to war. I’m worried about John, who feels like a brother. But John is resourceful and resilient, so I know that somehow, he’ll come back safe. I go to bed, buoyed up by my thoughts and fall into a peaceful sleep. I dream of the gift I’m saving up to buy Mother.