Chapter 43
The Saturday morning air in the village square was sharp enough to draw blood. A biting frost had settled over the stalls, turning the canvas awnings into stiff, white-veined sheets. Siena stood behind her small wooden table, her breath hitching in little plumes of silver. Laid out before her were the "Spirit of the Forest" pieces. These weren't just textiles; they were the culmination of three years of solitary labor. One was a deep, mossy green throw, woven with a complex double-cloth technique that made the fabric feel as thick and ancient as the trees it mimicked. Another was a shawl of ethereal indigo silk, so fine it could be pulled through a wedding ring, featuring a subtle gradient that looked like moonlight hitting the river. In a gallery in Mayfair, these would be displayed
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