Emma pulled her cardigan down to cover her hips, then adjusted the blanket draped over her knees and tightened her scarf around her neck. An icy wind entered Cottenham House through every cranny. Thick curtains over black-out drapes didn’t prevent some of that air entering her bedroom. The pads of her fingers were sore from threading her shuttle through the warp, the cold having drained the buoyancy of her flesh. She was halfway along the roof section of her tapestry – depicted in dark mahogany and shades of beige – and she was determined to finish it. Before she inserted the shuttle, she sat back for a short rest, her gaze drifting around the room before settling on her dressing table, where a simple oval frame contained the first wool tapestry she ever made, the one Mrs Carver gave her,
