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- Herausgeber: Twist & Tether Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In the final winter of imperial Russia, revolution simmers beneath the grandeur of Petrograd. Anya Krayev, a gifted seamstress with a quiet past and a dangerous secret, walks between two worlds—stitching fine gowns for the aristocracy by day, smuggling seditious messages by night.
When she is summoned to craft the Tsarina’s coronation gown, Anya sees an opportunity to turn the tide—embedding a hidden message within the threads that could bring the monarchy to its knees.
But inside the gilded halls of power, nothing is as it seems. A shadowed figure from her mother’s past reappears. Friends become uncertain allies. Bloodlines blur. And the deeper Anya weaves herself into palace intrigue, the more her own identity begins to unravel.
As political factions vie for control, Anya must decide where her true loyalty lies. With each stitch, the weight of her family’s buried past presses closer, threatening to destroy not only her cause—but her life.
In a city where beauty is a weapon and betrayal hides beneath silk and gold, will Anya control the pattern she weaves—or be consumed by it?
What truth lies hidden in the fabric of her own legacy?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Threads of Treachery
One Seamstress, One Secret, One Empire on the Brink
TURNING POINTS: Twisted Tales for the Bold & Curious
Margot Elise Winters
Copyright © 2025 by Margot Elise Winters
All rights reserved. This book, including all individual stories and original content, is protected under international copyright law. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from the author, except for brief excerpts used in reviews or academic commentary, which must be properly credited.
Fiction Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Creative Tools Notice:
Some aspects of this book including cover artwork, illustrations, or other visual and creative elements were developed with the assistance of licensed generative technologies under appropriate commercial-use terms. These elements are original compositions intended solely for this publication.
Thank you for reading this book. I hope you enjoy every page inside.
Table of Contents
Threads of Treachery
Description
Prologue: A Needle Through Time
Chapter 1: Silken Facades
Chapter 2: Threads of Allegiance
Chapter 3: The Needle’s Edge
Chapter 4: Stitched in Secrets
Chapter 5: A Dress for Death
Chapter 6: The Coronation Gambit
Chapter 7: Shadows and Silk
Epilogue: The Seamstress’s Legacy
Threads of Treachery
Description
In the final winter of imperial Russia, revolution simmers beneath the grandeur of Petrograd. Anya Krayev, a gifted seamstress with a quiet past and a dangerous secret, walks between two worlds stitching fine gowns for the aristocracy by day, smuggling seditious messages by night.
When she is summoned to craft the Tsarina’s coronation gown, Anya sees an opportunity to turn the tide embedding a hidden message within the threads that could bring the monarchy to its knees.
But inside the gilded halls of power, nothing is as it seems. A shadowed figure from her mother’s past reappears. Friends become uncertain allies. Bloodlines blur. And the deeper Anya weaves herself into palace intrigue, the more her own identity begins to unravel.
As political factions vie for control, Anya must decide where her true loyalty lies. With each stitch, the weight of her family’s buried past presses closer, threatening to destroy not only her cause but her life.
In a city where beauty is a weapon and betrayal hides beneath silk and gold, will Anya control the pattern she weaves or be consumed by it?
What truth lies hidden in the fabric of her own legacy?
Prologue: A Needle Through Time
Anya
The candle burned low, flickering beneath the tremor of her breath. Each stitch her mother made seemed to pierce the silence itself.
Anya, no more than six, sat cross-legged beneath the wooden worktable, her knees drawn to her chest, the hem of her woolen dress dusted with ash.
Above her, the dim room swelled with the weight of unseen things shadows pressing against the walls, a coppery tang thickening the air. The nobleman’s cloak lay across the table, crimson and soaked through in places where the velvet gleamed darkly wet.
“Hold your breath, little dove,” her mother whispered. “Some stitches are meant to be unseen.”
Anya obeyed, her tiny fingers clutching a silver thimble her mother’s favorite slick with the sweat of her palm. She watched the needle dart in and out of the fabric with a rhythm older than memory, weaving concealment beneath a sheen of royal thread.
A sharp rap at the door made them both freeze.
One. Two. One. One.
The signal.
Her mother exhaled shakily, wiping her brow with a sleeve already stained.
“Quick now,” she whispered again, reaching beneath the table, wrapping Anya in her arms. The needle and thimble vanished into her bodice as the nobleman face shrouded, voice trembling staggered into the room.
Anya peeked through a tear in the cloth covering the worktable. She saw boots polished to a mirror gleam. Blood dripping to the floor.
“Is it done?” the man rasped.
“Almost.”
The words curled in Anya’s ears like smoke.
Another voice answered deeper, colder from the shadows near the hearth.
“It will not save you. The tsar’s men are close.”
Her mother stiffened. “Then it will buy time. That is all we can ask.”
The men argued in low tones. Something about papers. About betrayal. Names whispered like curses.
Anya’s gaze drifted to the cloak. It was not just a nobleman’s cloak. There embroidered beneath the royal insignia was a pattern she did not understand. A sigil, almost faded. Familiar.Had she seen it before?
A memory flickered: her mother weeping beside a fire, clutching the same cloak, its insignia hidden beneath rough linen. That had been… when? Days ago? Weeks?
She tried to piece it together, but the threads tangled.
Suddenly, her mother was speaking to her.
“Anya,” she said softly, eyes shining with something fierce. “You must remember: not all truths must be spoken. Some stitches must remain unseen. Swear it.”
“I swear,” Anya whispered.
The door burst open.
Steel flashed. Boots thundered.
The world spun.
***
Anya awoke in a stranger’s arms beneath a dawn-struck sky.
“Where where is Mama?”
No answer.
Only the weight of the silver thimble pressed into her palm, cool and unyielding.
***
Years later, the memory returned in fragments.
Velvet soaked in blood.
Needle flashing like a blade.
A nobleman’s voice, trembling.
A sigil she almost recognized.
But no matter how often she summoned the scene, something remained wrong.
Sometimes the man wore boots. Sometimes bare feet.
Sometimes her mother spoke of papers. Sometimes of gold.
Sometimes the cloak was blue.
No... it was red. It must have been red.
The contradictions gnawed at her, restless beneath the surface of her mind.
Yet one detail remained sharp as the needle’s point:
Her mother’s voice, steady as stone Some stitches must remain unseen.
And the thimble.
Always the thimble.
Chapter 1: Silken Facades
The morning light slanted through the high windows, painting long pale bars across the wooden floor of Anya’s shop. The beams stirred motes of dust that danced lazily above bolts of fabric stacked like sentinels around the room. Silks, velvets, lace colors that once thrilled her now seemed muted beneath a film of tension that no sunlight could burn away.
Anya ran her fingers across the edge of the cutting table, the grain of the wood familiar beneath her calloused skin. Each groove, each stain held a memory: late nights bent over orders for the wives of ministers, the mistresses of generals, the quiet liaisons whispered into thread and seam.
She had not slept. The oil lamp guttered low beside her, its flame thin and brittle. A pattern lay unfinished beneath her hand a commission for a provincial countess who still believed in the old world, still clung to the illusion that gowns could shield against the tide now rising through Petrograd’s streets.
Foolish, Anya thought, though the thought lacked conviction.
Outside, the sound of distant shouting echoed faintly between buildings. Footsteps rang sharply against cobblestones, hurried and uneven. Another march? Another riot? The days blurred now, each one a mosaic of fear and defiance.
A sharp rap at the shop door jolted her upright.
