TWENTY TWOÂ â TAILOR
ORDER OF THE LIVING & THE DEAD (CORPORALKI)
She was a field of daisies reaching for the sun, bright and soft and pure; she was a laugh in the wake of a tragedy, the first storm after a drought, the last rays of sunlight spilling over a horizon in dire need of the stars. She was everything beautiful and good in the worldâan angel, or perhaps a lamb bred for the slaughter, and it would be her undoing; it would. Born to a mother who collected pretty things like trophies, Rita Jakov was never meant to be anything less than a doll on a wooden shelf, something to be admired and safely tucked away. She grew like the wildflowers did, half-savage and half-wonder, and though her world was small, she carved her own heaven out of itâcrowned herself the queen of the little village she called home. The countryside became a kingdom, a canvas, a dreamland of her own making, and the little Jakov girl became the daughter her mother had always hoped sheâd be: humble, kind, and perhaps a bit mysterious, tooâthe type of woman who was loved by all who knew her but understood by none. She was an enigma, this girl with stars in her eyes and petals in her hair, and for much of her childhood, she remained that way: adored, but held at armâs-length; indulged, but with the sort of wariness reserved for witches and phantoms. She was beautiful in the way of all things tragically misunderstood, and for all that she loved the world despite this transgression, she ached for it, too.
The understanding sheâd longed for came in the form of a mistake, a coincidence; later, theyâd tell her it was fateâlike calls to like, as sure and true as the sun is to rise and setâbut sheâd been raised to believe there was no such thing, no invisible hand to guide her where it felt she ought to go. The stars and their foolish whims had no sway in the life of a girl who could paint a grey world a hundred different shades with a mere curve of her lipsâabout that, her mother had been adamant. Thus, she was born anew of her own volition entirely, though her transformation, as is the case with butterflies and swans and the creatures for which beauty waits, was hardly easy and far from simple. She was a late bloomer, the very last of her peers to be plucked from their own brands of obscurity, and it showedâin the way she carried herself, in the way they looked at her, and even in what, exactly, she was. A mystery doesnât lose its allure simply because itâs given a name, and in much the same way, Rita Jakov remained something yet to be understood even as she was welcomed into the fold of the Small Science, a Grisha girl instead of a mere commoner, but only just. She was an anomaly among anomalies, a practitioner with abilities as tangled as her roots, and though she couldâve been one or the otherâa Corporalnik or a Materialnik, an engineer of the earth or the bodyâshe instead became both: tailor, they called her, and it felt like coming home.
In a world where beauty is paramount and honesty is dangerous, her services were highly sought after and hard-earned; monsters so love to be made to look as though theyâre anything but. And love her they didâlike Midas loved his gold, like air; it went to her head, this superficial adorationâmade her a hollow shell of a girl where sheâd once been whole, a porcelain doll with no ambition but this: to make everything beautiful. It was something of an obsession, this need to see a war-torn kingdom glitter, its peopleâs scars wiped clean and the crevices that remained filled with goldâdamn near madness, those whoâd known her as a girl might say. She became so beautiful it hurt, and when she could do no more, she went further, indulging every whim and desire of those affluent enough to seek her help. She was greedy in her longing for love, for praise; it kept her up at night, drove her to become someone the happy girl sheâd once been would cower before, but the only thing left untouched by her avarice, it seemed, was her heart. Beneath it allâbeneath her marbled skin and behind eyes of striking blue, there lived a hopeful girl who still believed there was beauty to be found in war, in destruction, in devastation. Naive though she mightâve been, she wasnât wrong, and perhaps that was the worst of it: that beauty wasnât what sheâd thought at all, that it was a bloody, ruthless thing with claws and teethâand that she wanted it desperately still.
She has stopped looking for it in warâs cruel wakeâhas stopped searching the eyes of those she serves for anything more than despair, has accepted that there are some marks even she canât eraseâand it terrifies her, knowing that the enemy draws closer with each passing day and that the only flag she has to wave is a blinding, blood-speckled white. To look death in the face and have no choice but to smile back a surrender is cruelty unrivaled, a curse all too often afforded to the undeserving, and she, too, is a victim, with her heart of foolâs gold and her pretty little head a tad too close to the clouds. She has never been a soldierâhas never felt the weight of a gun in her hands or the snap of bone beneath her knuckles, but she once believed she could fight the war another way, that if she could just make everything beautiful, the world might stop trying to tear itself apart. But years of trying have shown her the truth, snarling and savage and ugly: beautiful things may still be cruel, may still feel sorrow, may still collapse. Beauty is a ruse, is a trap, is a lie those left behind console themselves with when theyâve nothing left to hold. Beauty is poison, and vanity is disease; beauty is poison, and so is she.
MARGARETE STARIKOV: She underestimated her at first, the little Starikov girl; she took one look at the Corporalnikâs delicate likeness and saw a younger Grisha to take under her wing, a sister sheâd always longed for but never had as a girl, and this, she now knows, was a dangerous mistake to make. But the damage, it seems, has already been done; she snuck in like an illness of the worst sort, showed the tailor glimpses of the darkest parts of her like memories, like dreams, and try as she might, Rita canât bring herself to forget them. Youâd look better in red, darling; all deadly things do.
ARSEN TASAROV: Cruelâitâs written all over him, burned into his smile like a brand, and sheâs borne the worst of it, his taunting and sharp teeth. Sheâd never known a man of fire could have the capacity to be so cold-hearted, but he isâin everything he does, in everything he says. Youâre not one of us; you never were, and you never will be. She could patch herself up if she wantedâgrow flowers in the places heâs cut her deepâbut some pain, she knows, isnât so easily sated. This singed boy, this destroyer of hearts; this courageous girl, this creator of wonder. If he wants a war, heâll have one, but itâll be on her terms.
TATIANA LANTSOV: Theyâd called her hungry, and she hadnât known what such hunger entailed until she met her in all her glory, never-bouncy-enough curls askew and cherry-red lips always parted. She was the first person Rita Jakov hadnât quite known what to do with, and telling her so had only fueled the fire in the young girlâs eyes. Make me perfect, sheâd demanded, fickle fingers wrapped around one of many chocolates sheâd greedily kept for herself. And sheâd triedâshe really had, but the beauty she brings is only skin-deep, and the flaws the Lantsov woman had wouldnât prove so easily corrected. But for all that sheâs faced the younger girlâs wrath a number of times for her perceived failures, the tailor continues to see her, not out of necessity, but humility. Here is a woman she hopes to never become; may she learn by example.
RITA IS PORTRAYED BY MARNIE HARRIS & IS TAKEN BY SIDNEY.
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