The Riverside Weaver – Part 2: Weft

On Clara's last day, the cloth came off the loom.

It lay across Linh's arms, deep blue, shimmering, with lotus and cloud worked in silver through its length. She laid it carefully over the table in the sunlit room, and the whole workshop seemed to hold its breath.

"It is yours," said Linh.

"I couldn't."

"You helped weave it."

"I dropped the shuttle twice."

"That is how we know a person has done it." Linh's eyes were bright. "Please. Take it to Edinburgh. Put it near the torn robe. Let them talk."

Clara pressed a hand to her mouth. They walked together down to the river steps with the silk folded between them, and sat on the warm stone as the sun slid red behind the citadel. Boats drifted by with their lamps lit. Frogs began to call in the reeds.

"Can I ask you something?" said Clara.

"Yes."

"Would it be wrong to say I don't want to go?"

"No," said Linh, quietly. "It would be true."

"I could come back. In March. When the new silk is dyed."

"I would like that."

"May I kiss you?" said Clara. "Before I go?"

"Yes," said Linh. "And if you say stop, you must learn to dye the thread by yourself."

"That would take a year."

"Then you must come for a year."

Clara kissed her, softly, one hand rising to the silk-smooth curve of her cheek. Linh's indigo fingers curled in her collar. The kiss was gentle and slow, tasting of jasmine tea, while the river lapped at the steps and the lamps drifted past.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Linh.

"Green," said Clara. "Very green."

In March, she came back. The loom was waiting, and so was Linh.

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