About the book
THE LION'S LOST HEIR
The needle liked to sing when Willow worked—thin notes of metal and breath that soothed brides and steadied her own hands. Today it trembled. She tightened the corset laces the way her mother had taught her—two pulls, one whisper—and the bodice closed like a secret around the young woman’s ribs. Outside the atelier’s front glass, two men in municipal jackets loitered beside a clipboard and a strip of yellow tape that was not quite tape, not yet.