The Seamstress Quotes

“My heart and my soul belong to God alone. Never to France.”
― Allison Pittman, The Seamstress

“They are not dead. They live, just as I do now. Just as I will tomorrow, and for the eternity to follow. The flame burns closer and closer to my fingers. On any other night, I would drop it, save my flesh. After all, I am la couturière. My hands are my trade, my life. But tonight my life has ended. My hands are useless to my salvation. I delight in the initial, sharp pain. It is exquisite, indulgent. A triumph of my consciousness over instinct. When the last word is consumed, the final corner of paper burned away, the ashes fall to the table. My flesh, however, remains. Intact, with only the promise of a blister. All pain erased.”
― Allison Pittman, The Seamstress

“And now, in your current circumstances, do you remain loyal to our former sovereign?” “I am alone, monsieur. My loyalty is to Christ, into whose hands I commit my life.”
― Allison Pittman, The Seamstress

“Next, to Laurette, “Go into our room. Take off your boots and socks. I want to see your feet.” Thankful to miss the last remnant of the argument, Laurette —like the boys —obeyed. She”
― Allison Pittman, The Seamstress

“door opening —“there’s a crest on the door.”
― Allison Pittman, The Seamstress

“What do you mean?” she asked, though she knew. “What do you see?” In response, he buried a hand in her hair and pulled her down for a kiss that left their previous one in its shadow. His arm encircled her waist and she wrapped hers around his neck. Certainly, she thought, they would melt into a single being, like two wax figures left too close to the fire. Perhaps sensing that he need not urge her to kiss him, Marcel took his hand from her hair, dislodging its loose gathering as he did so. She felt a grazing across the fabric of her vest, briefly tracing the stitching of the peacock feathers, and finally a very surprising, but not unwelcome, grip to her bare calf. A protective instinct roared to life. “You mustn’t,” she said, breaking their kiss to look at the others in the room. If she and Marcel had attracted any of the patrons’ attention, they knew enough to glance away at that moment. “Do not mind them.” He continued his touch. “You are not the first woman to be seen in such a position. Our times are too desperate for modesty.” “I may not be the first woman. For you. But I’ve . . . I’ve never —” He kissed her again, irrevocably erasing the word never from her mind, drawing away only when distracted by a commotion at the door. “Mes amis! Mes amis!” He was a small, wiry man, and he jumped about with flailing arms, like a featherless bird. “You would not believe! A royal”
― Allison Pittman, The Seamstress