Page 15 of The Moorwitch
“The Telarii Guild,” I whisper. My poor dead uncle was a Telari, one of the royal battle Weavers who served in the army. They are known for their powerful martial tapestries designed to alter the course of battles or even entire wars. It is said a single tapestry woven by rebel Telarii was responsible for the successful revolution of the American colonists; woven with stripes and stars, it warded the rebels in many battles.
Lachlan returns a half hour later, carrying a large parcel wrapped in oilcloth under his arm. I’ve been working on the warming spells, my needle drawing Lachlan’s black thread through the thick velvet curtains, and already the coach is feeling like a summer afternoon. I stop when he opens the door. He ignores my curious stare and barks at the driver to continue. The parcel sits beside him, and he keeps a protective hand on it, his mouth set in a grim line.
“What is it?” I burst out, unable to stop myself.
He gives me a sidelong look. “A king’s ransom is what it is, Rose Pryor.”
He will say no more of it.
By the time the lamplighters take to the streets, we arrive at the final stop, and at the sight of it I sit up and let out an awed sigh, even the mysterious package by Lachlan forgotten.
“The King Street Threadshop,” I murmur.
Lachlan, across the coach, gives me a satisfied smile. “I thought you might appreciate this one.”
I descend from the coach as if caught in a dream.
I’ve heard stories of the King Street Threadshop all my life; Weavers speak of it the way priests speak of the Basilica of the Fates in the Vatican. There is not a thread in the world which you may not find on these shelves. It supplies Weaving materials to Queen Victoria herself.
The shop is three stories, with glittering marble staircases leading to the upper floors. Rows and rows of shelves display every thread imaginable, from twine to yarn to rope, in every color and material. Various counters are staffed by white-gloved attendants, ready to fetch whatever the heart could desire.
Yesterday, I would not have been allowed through the front doors. But now attendants ask if they can assist me, nodding deferentially. I pass other Weavers shopping and get a thrill when I spy golden embroidery on some of their collars, forming the emblems of their guilds—the Telarii, my own Order of the Moirai, the Spindle Wefen, the Aurobrus, the Order of Edgitha of the Needle. While some, likethe Telarii, are more inclined to battle magic, others focus on healing, tapestries, agriculture, or the archiving of spells from across the world.
Finally, I come to a glass case set apart from all the others, surrounded by a velvet rope and lit by an elegant chandelier. A stoic guard stands watch behind it, his gaze following me as I approach.
When I see what rests on the velvet cushion inside the case, I gasp.
“Is that ...?” I look up at the guard.
He nods curtly.
Sea silk.
Harvested from a special clam by only a handful of people who know the secret of its location, sea silk is the rarest and most expensive thread in existence.
Lachlan catches me staring at the sea silk and issues a flat “No.”
I sigh as he pulls me back to the front of the shop.
The attendants have lined up five threadkits, each one made of shining wood and gilded with silver or gold. Ranging in size, each wooden box is fitted with small compartments, pegs, and grooves to store all the Weaving essentials. Their straps come in leather, hemp, or braided wool. They are stunning, each probably costing as much as a horse. I touch them all, exploring their compartments and features, but finally take my own kit into my hands and shake my head.
“I’ve had this since I was eight,” I say. “It’s like an old friend.”
My threadkit is nothing special. It’s sturdy but cheap oak with more scratches and nicks in it than an alley cat. Every girl who ended up at the Perkins Charity School was given one just like it. Those years had been difficult, with too little food shared among too many girls; teachers like Sister Agatha, who corrected mistakes with hickory switches; long, miserable hours spent in solitary confinement for speaking out of turn. But the threadkit was the first thing that had becomemineafter I left my aunt’s house, and it has never failed me.
“Oh, come,” Lachlan scoffs. “It looks like it was dragged behind a carriage.”
I smile and shake my head, unwilling to budge.
He sighs at last. “Very well. But at least make sure you have an ample supply of materials inside.”
In that, I have no trouble availing myself of his purse.
I order more thread than I could possibly Weave in five years. Waxed cotton in four different shades and several worsted spools. A skein of twine, a ball of beeswax linen, flourishing thread, ecru twisted silk, coarse Shrewsbury, a range of crewels, and a dozen spools of standard ounce-thread, not far removed from the stuff we wove in school, but of a higher quality. The attendant tells me it was made by nuns in Flanders who pray ceaselessly to the Fates as they spin, and it is the most coveted of its kind in all the world.
To the threads I add bobbins, bodkins, and twenty different types of needles, from darners to long-eyed sharps to Whitechapels, and a cushion of Naxos emery with which to sharpen them. Last to go in is a pretty thimble of shining brass.
I watch with dazed wonder as the attendants pack the whole lot into my battered threadkit. My fingertips prickle with the need to rifle through it all, to run each thread through my fingers and feel the potential magics it could hold. I hover until the clasp is latched, then clutch the kit to my breast as if its contents might suddenly realize how unworthy I am and vanish like melting snow.