Broken Magnolias| Warm Hands Cold Heart

Though I was angry I was going to make sure that I kept this night as any other. I went back outside to brush down my mare. I put a pot on the stove for tea and unfurled the packages. Reams of satin and yards of brightly colored string tumbled from the package that I had received. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Never I had I received anything so fine before. Lady Gwen had embroidered plenty of times as I round the wheat and did other chores. I nervously tug on the coils that hung by my ears and bit my lip. I didn’t know what to do. Luckily the knowledge of what to do was gifted to me by my mother, but the ability to do so was another thing entirely. My eyes move across the cottage, that now belonged to me, and I take a deep breath. If this was to by my purpose now, then I would do so dutifully.

“I’ll need to lock these away.” The fact that I received getting packages from some unknown location would be bad enough. The crimsons and golds that filled the parcel would get me branded as a witch as soon as vain colors were seen. The beauty would be so offensive they would try to tear it down the moment they saw it. “I wonder who is sending them.”

Even if that were not the case they were just as likely to be stolen. I also didn’t want to give the local magistrate an excuse to try to visit me for my newly found vanity. Doing his best to pray for me while he tried to slip his hands beneath my skirts. “His grace, wanted to pray.” Lady Gwen had laughed one day, after she poured scalding tea into his lap.  “I just wanted to give him something to pray about.”

From that day I would receive a parcel each turn of the moon. I would send a package as I picked up one, and the shop keeper would send my packages the same way he would send Gwen’s. I ever saw anyone deliver the packages nor take them away. The colors would always be different, but there was never any instruction that came with them. Gwen must have been a true lady to embroidery something so fine. I spent my nights by the fire. Letting my fingers rise and fall with the needle. The very action bringing my closer to my mother and Gwen. Recalling times that I would sit on the floor and watch them bring forest and flowers to life. Each pain staking stroke a testament to the care and love I had been given.

I needed to be reminded of the love because the villager’s soft buzzing was becoming louder. I was trying to remain peaceful, but they were taking the action as weakness. However, it all washed away as I sewed by the hearth.  My fingers gingerly run over the new parcel and its contents. The smaller packages were filled with needles and smaller balls of yarn. It was a milky white that seemed to shimmer in the light that sparkled by the fire. For the first time, I noticed how well lit the cottage was. I was growing to believe that Gwen was frightened of the dark.

I had just begun to unroll the string when I heard someone beating upon my door. A slight frown turning my lips as I got up to see who was disturbing my evening. I hated being interrupted when I sewed. It was one of the few things I truly enjoyed. One of the few times I could feel joy. The knock came again who ever it was impatient to say the very least.


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