(no subject)
Sandry is in the bar, spinning--or attempting to.
She had grown so accustomed to being told that it was not a lady's work that she hadn't quite been able to believe her ears when Lark had offered to teach her. Sandry had always thought that spinning thread was something akin to magic.
That should have been her first clue that it wouldn't be as easy as it looked.
She has almost two feet of (very lumpy) thread on her drop spindle when it reverses itself, the thread falling into clumps of wool fibers.
"Cat dirt," Sandry mutters, glaring at the mess. "Cat dirt, cat dirt, cat dirt!"
Clearly, more practice is needed. Fortunately there is plenty of time for practice at the End of the Universe.
She had grown so accustomed to being told that it was not a lady's work that she hadn't quite been able to believe her ears when Lark had offered to teach her. Sandry had always thought that spinning thread was something akin to magic.
That should have been her first clue that it wouldn't be as easy as it looked.
She has almost two feet of (very lumpy) thread on her drop spindle when it reverses itself, the thread falling into clumps of wool fibers.
"Cat dirt," Sandry mutters, glaring at the mess. "Cat dirt, cat dirt, cat dirt!"
Clearly, more practice is needed. Fortunately there is plenty of time for practice at the End of the Universe.