The rain in Harrowby was drum-tight against the corrugated iron roof of the alteration shed behind Threadbare Alterations. The room smelled of wet wool broadcloth, steam from the pressing iron, lamp-wax oil from the radiant heater, and lavender moth-balls. Along the long maple cutting table, four spools of six-cord wet-spun river flax were laid out in wooden cradles beside a heavy block of yellow beeswax and Jo Saye’s eight-inch drop-forged shears.
Fourteen-year-old Elsie Saye stood by the notions shelf, winding strands of heavy waxed thread onto bone bobbins with a hand-cranked bobbin winder. She wore a blue gingham shop apron over her school pinafore, her fingers slightly stained with red dye from packing the scarlet stop-tabs into zinc dispatch boxes. On the table sat a half-empty mug of boiled tea and a dry sourdough crust from the bakery down the lane.
She stopped turning the crank. She looked across the table at her grandmother, who was using a steel needle-point arrow to punch eyelets into an oiled leather wrist-cuff. The brass hinges on Jo’s wooden pattern chest gleamed with faint specks of green copper green rust from thirty years of handling damp cloth.
“Gran?” Elsie asked, her voice quiet against the drumming rain.
