There was a horrible power in the Ishanis’ twisted words, something not of the gods at all. I did not know if it was the feather or the scroll, or perhaps the act of bringing the two together, but whatever was written by the white-clad outlander was taken from our minds. I wondered if he were an evil spirit, able to reach inside our heads and pluck the knowledge from within. But when I tried to tell my grandmother so at the cookfire that evening, I found I no longer knew how to put my feelings into words.

She had decided to keep the corseted bodice and satin overskirt that marked Hauthasan high fashion. But she’d splashed the cream silk with beaded serpentine leaves the tender green of new spring, using a unique two-leaf pattern of her mother-in-law’s design. The heavy folds of the skirt were trimmed in white fur, from northern foxes Miyohtwāw had trapped and tanned herself. The soft deerskin leggings underneath—a testament to the days she’d spent dragging the stiff skins over the mouth of a metal pipe to break and soften the hide—were pure Otipēyimisowak. Rosettes of porcupine quill, echoing the decorated ankles of Miyohtwāw’s own leggings, were laid over ribbon work in every colour of wildflower imaginable.