One proper uniform—that’s all I need to disappear again.
I square my shoulders and march toward the outfitting room, the morning light skating over the crossed-needle emblem above the door. It is time to get out of the borrowed sailor's uniform. I stand out, loud as a bell in a library. The hinges shriek when I open the door, and it sets my teeth on edge—the announcement of my presence is a flare in otherwise empty calm.
Inside, the head seamstress reigns alone at her table, silver shears working through lengths of navy cloth. Her iron-gray hair is cinched so tightly in its knot that it sculpts her face into something bleak and severe; every line of her jaw says she doesn't suffer nonsense. She looks up at me and sighs. “Mr. Blackwater.” Half recognition, half regret. “Your uniform's not
