The Thread Of St. Nectan's Orchard

"Sian appeared in the doorway as the light outside began to soften towards evening. She was wearing her red scarf, the silk a little faded now, and she moved with the same deliberate economy Louisa remembered, each gesture considered and precise. Her hair was white and cut short, and her face, when she saw them all gathered around the table, broke into a smile that rearranged its quiet planes into something almost mischievous". "Louisa looked at her own panel. The wool was good quality, the pattern competent. It was exactly the sort of work a woman might produce if she had learned to weave at twenty three and spent the intervening decades never quite trusting her own hands. It was fine. It was adequate. It was nothing that would make anyone stop and look twice. The thought arrived without drama, the way a door swings shut on a draught: she did not belong on this frame".