🧵 Tales of Miriath: The Little Cloak of Her Own

Nov 5 • Market

I should have known the moment I spread the wool across the table that peace would be short-lived.

Miriath had been napping, or at least pretending to, her tail draped lazily across the arm of my chair. But the instant the scissors touched the cloth — snip! — one bright golden eye opened, gleaming with suspicion.

By the time I had measured the first line, she was on the table, paws on the fabric, tail sweeping threads into the air.

“Don’t you start,” I warned her. “This is my cloak, not yours.”

She chirped indignantly, puffing a small spark that nearly set the measuring string aflame. Then she flattened her wings and spread them wide, turning in a slow, dramatic circle. The meaning was clear.

If you get one, I get one.

I tried reasoning. I even tried ignoring her. That lasted all of three minutes before she took a corner of my cloth between her teeth and tugged with all her tiny might. We had ourselves a proper tug-of-war — I with needle in hand, she with a mouth full of wool and a gleam in her eye.

Eventually, I relented.

After all, who can argue with a creature whose entire body radiates smug triumph?

So, beside my larger cloak, I cut a smaller piece — soft moss-green trimmed with a silver thread. I stitched little loops near the collar so it could sit neatly between her wings. She sat perfectly still while I worked, eyes half-lidded, purring low in her throat.

When I finally tied it in place, she turned toward the mirror — or rather, the shiny kettle lid on the table — and admired herself for several minutes. Then, with a proud flick of her tail, she strutted in a circle before hopping to the windowsill, where the last bit of evening light caught the silver thread and set it aglow.

I will admit, she looked magnificent.

Now, whenever I wear mine to the market, she insists on wearing hers too. We must make quite the sight — a woman and her dragon, both cloaked against the chill, both certain that their version is better.

And perhaps she’s right. Her little cloak suits her perfectly — not because it’s fine or fancy, but because she never let the idea of small stop her from wanting something wonderful of her own.

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