The baker's daughter had married a mercer, which meant she understood both flour and fabric in a way few people did. When she commissioned armor for her husband's trade expedition, she didn't want red. She didn't want gold. She wanted something that sat in that warming moment just after the bread comes out of the oven, when the kitchen is perfect and safe and full. The dyer, who'd overheard her explaining this to her husband, understood immediately. This was a woman who knew about precision and about the exact moment when a thing becomes what it's meant to be. So the dyer brought out both saffron and madder root, and instead of mixing them in the vat, asked her if she wanted to watch. The baker's daughter stood there for an hour as the colors shifted and settled, as the yellow and rose found their balance. When it was done, she didn't pay what was asked. She paid triple and brought the dyer a loaf of bread hot from her own oven. The dyer ate it with salt and tears, because she'd been so afraid she'd ruin it. That bolt was worn for thirty years and never faded wrong...