The next morning, I woke to find that I’d again slept in the shop, slumped over my table. My arms, back and legs ached with time spent in an unnatural sleeping position.
“You should not make it a habit of sleeping in the shop.”
Sylvain’s voice startled me. My brother appeared withdrawn, and his voice melancholy. He stood by the window opposite the table, the one looking out on the side yard and the small pond often used by passersby to water their horses and travelers seeking a short break from their journeys.
I yawned, then stretched my arms over my head. “It was not my intention, I swear.”
My eyes searched for some clue as to the progress of my work, but found none. “I thought I’d brought Duir’s patterns and father’s scissors. The velvet…” My voice faded away. The velvet, had it been
