42nd Summer 496AV
Second Bell
Second Bell
“Please be careful Miss Adelaide, or you’ll hurt yourself!”
The slave’s warning came too late for, already, a drop of blood had stained what was supposed to be a cushion case. Adelaide made a noise of surprise, letting her needle and the contents of her lap fall to the ground, bringing her finger to her lip to suck the punctured skin. The child let out a small sigh of displeasure. Needles were dangerous things, she decided, and consequently sewing had proven to be a dangerous occupation. Quite what had pushed her to suggest learning to sew to her Father was unclear, but now that she had, she knew that she had to pursue the task. Father disapproved strongly of giving up or of leaving a job half done and Adelaide, still reeling from the birth of her half-sisters, desired his admiration with all her heart. She’d show him he’d been wrong to want more children, that she could make him proud and that no-one else would match up to her.
Gently, she sucked the wound, so small that she could hardly see it but yet, as soon as she pulled away, a drop of blood would start forming at the end of her finger. The repetitive nature of the exercise was tedious and, after a couple of minutes, she decided to just leave the afflicted finger in her mouth.
“You should take your finger out of your mouth or, at least, go and wash your hands first.” Manuela ventured, reaching forward to gently take Adelaide’s wrist. Adelaide shook her head and pulled away, scowling at the young woman who merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to her own work, “As you wish Miss. Just don’t blame me when you don’t finish.”
Adelaide didn’t like Manuela’s tone of voice. It was neither angry nor chiding but, rather, completely indifferent. She stuck her tongue out at the slave, who didn’t look up from her work, and Adelaide was struck by curiosity. She stood up and went closer to her, looking down at her work. It was all pretty swirling patterns and shades of dark blue with gold and yellow threads making an otherwise regular patterns seem almost savage in its asymmetry.
“How did you do that?” asked the child in wonder, “You can’t have done that.”
“I have to finish this for your grandmother, Miss.”
“Can I do that?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” the child’s voice sounded slightly cross at being refused this, and she said imperiously, “Teach me.”
Manuela shook her head slightly and went to pick up the half-made cushion case that Adelaide had let fall to the floor. She smiled vaguely and handed it back to Adelaide, “Finish this, then I’ll let you darn a sock.”
“But I just want to know how to do all those pretty colours…”
“You don’t have the experience.”
“I’m not darning a sock. That’s the job of a slave.”
“Of course Miss.” Taking Adelaide by surprise, Manuela snatched back the cushion case, “Now, I have some work to do.” she motioned to a basket piled high with clothes in need of repair, “It’s a lovely day. Go and play outside and let me get on with it.”
Adelaide could feel the tears that were about to break forth and was getting angry. Why couldn’t she do all the pretty swirling colours? Who was this slave to tell her she couldn’t? With a yell of frustration, Adelaide ran out of the room.
Five minutes later, she was back with her father. Roland Sitai looked a little angry to have been disturbed and Manuela immediately stood up as he entered the room. His eyes softened slightly at the sight of his favourite slave, but the cries of his child were giving him a headache.
“Manuela. Please answer me this for I can’t understand a word that Adelaide is saying. What did you do to upset her? And what on earth is she going on about?” his voice was harsh.
Manuela bowed her head slightly, “Miss Adelaide was angry because I wouldn’t teach her to embroider but, with all due respect, she has to be able to sew first. How can I be expected to teach her this? When she can’t even sew two square pieces of fabric together?” She went over to Roland and handed him the cushion case that, at that moment, looked nothing like a cushion case. Roland was silent for a moment then handed it to Adelaide. Manuela continued, “Your daughter could have a talent but if she isn’t more patient then it will never happen.”
The slave’s warning came too late for, already, a drop of blood had stained what was supposed to be a cushion case. Adelaide made a noise of surprise, letting her needle and the contents of her lap fall to the ground, bringing her finger to her lip to suck the punctured skin. The child let out a small sigh of displeasure. Needles were dangerous things, she decided, and consequently sewing had proven to be a dangerous occupation. Quite what had pushed her to suggest learning to sew to her Father was unclear, but now that she had, she knew that she had to pursue the task. Father disapproved strongly of giving up or of leaving a job half done and Adelaide, still reeling from the birth of her half-sisters, desired his admiration with all her heart. She’d show him he’d been wrong to want more children, that she could make him proud and that no-one else would match up to her.
Gently, she sucked the wound, so small that she could hardly see it but yet, as soon as she pulled away, a drop of blood would start forming at the end of her finger. The repetitive nature of the exercise was tedious and, after a couple of minutes, she decided to just leave the afflicted finger in her mouth.
“You should take your finger out of your mouth or, at least, go and wash your hands first.” Manuela ventured, reaching forward to gently take Adelaide’s wrist. Adelaide shook her head and pulled away, scowling at the young woman who merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to her own work, “As you wish Miss. Just don’t blame me when you don’t finish.”
Adelaide didn’t like Manuela’s tone of voice. It was neither angry nor chiding but, rather, completely indifferent. She stuck her tongue out at the slave, who didn’t look up from her work, and Adelaide was struck by curiosity. She stood up and went closer to her, looking down at her work. It was all pretty swirling patterns and shades of dark blue with gold and yellow threads making an otherwise regular patterns seem almost savage in its asymmetry.
“How did you do that?” asked the child in wonder, “You can’t have done that.”
“I have to finish this for your grandmother, Miss.”
“Can I do that?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” the child’s voice sounded slightly cross at being refused this, and she said imperiously, “Teach me.”
Manuela shook her head slightly and went to pick up the half-made cushion case that Adelaide had let fall to the floor. She smiled vaguely and handed it back to Adelaide, “Finish this, then I’ll let you darn a sock.”
“But I just want to know how to do all those pretty colours…”
“You don’t have the experience.”
“I’m not darning a sock. That’s the job of a slave.”
“Of course Miss.” Taking Adelaide by surprise, Manuela snatched back the cushion case, “Now, I have some work to do.” she motioned to a basket piled high with clothes in need of repair, “It’s a lovely day. Go and play outside and let me get on with it.”
Adelaide could feel the tears that were about to break forth and was getting angry. Why couldn’t she do all the pretty swirling colours? Who was this slave to tell her she couldn’t? With a yell of frustration, Adelaide ran out of the room.
Five minutes later, she was back with her father. Roland Sitai looked a little angry to have been disturbed and Manuela immediately stood up as he entered the room. His eyes softened slightly at the sight of his favourite slave, but the cries of his child were giving him a headache.
“Manuela. Please answer me this for I can’t understand a word that Adelaide is saying. What did you do to upset her? And what on earth is she going on about?” his voice was harsh.
Manuela bowed her head slightly, “Miss Adelaide was angry because I wouldn’t teach her to embroider but, with all due respect, she has to be able to sew first. How can I be expected to teach her this? When she can’t even sew two square pieces of fabric together?” She went over to Roland and handed him the cushion case that, at that moment, looked nothing like a cushion case. Roland was silent for a moment then handed it to Adelaide. Manuela continued, “Your daughter could have a talent but if she isn’t more patient then it will never happen.”
Fourth Bell
Finally, Adelaide had finished the cushion case to the best of her ability. The stitching was uneven and ugly, not at all like the fine lines created by Manuela, who had put her embroidery aside to continue repairing the clothes, but Adelaide could not help but feel a certain burst of pride. Buoyed by the encouragement, and altogether lack of sympathy from her father, Adelaide had taken up her needle again. Then had passed one or two bells of chronic frustration and determination which had left two of her fingers bandaged before Manuela decided to fetch a thimble for her. The thimble, too large, enchanted the young child. It looked like a tiny cup, something that tiny beings, or squirrels or rabbits, could drink out of while they were having tiny tea parties under a tree.
“Did you steal it from a Pycon?”
“From a what?”
“A Pycon. They’re tiny and made out of clay. I asked Father if I could have one as a pet but he said no.”
Manuela motioned that Adelaide shouldn’t let such thoughts distract her. Then there had been a long, stretch of silence as Adelaide set about her task, piercing her needle into the thread then pulling it out again with a flourish. Again and again. In and out. In and out. At one point, at which Adelaide felt she might give up for a second time, Manuela had had to come over and cut through a line of stitches where Adelaide had botched the fabric. And she had had to start the corner again, her needle moving to the sound of the clock ticking over the mantelpiece,
“What you’re doing is a running stitch.”
“A what?”
“A running stitch. That’s what you call this basic type. Soon, I’ll show you how to do a basting stitch.”
“Oh. Is that one easier?”
The slave shook her head and laughed, “No. I daresay it isn’t.”
The cushion cover finished, Adelaide presented it proudly to Manuela, who looked over it carefully.
“You’ve damaged the fabric slightly here,” she motioned, “And your stitching is a little uneven. You’ve also left too much of a seam which is the reason why the case is so small. However, on balance, I think this is an excellent first effort Miss. Well done. Now you just have to find a cushion to put in it.”
“Don’t worry. I will.” Adelaide giggled, practically jumping with glee, in spite of her less than perfect work - a ragged cushion cover made of a blue fabric decorated with a paisley pattern, the uneven stitches still visible.
"Now," asked Manuela with a perfect smile, "Would you like to darn a sock?"
“Did you steal it from a Pycon?”
“From a what?”
“A Pycon. They’re tiny and made out of clay. I asked Father if I could have one as a pet but he said no.”
Manuela motioned that Adelaide shouldn’t let such thoughts distract her. Then there had been a long, stretch of silence as Adelaide set about her task, piercing her needle into the thread then pulling it out again with a flourish. Again and again. In and out. In and out. At one point, at which Adelaide felt she might give up for a second time, Manuela had had to come over and cut through a line of stitches where Adelaide had botched the fabric. And she had had to start the corner again, her needle moving to the sound of the clock ticking over the mantelpiece,
“What you’re doing is a running stitch.”
“A what?”
“A running stitch. That’s what you call this basic type. Soon, I’ll show you how to do a basting stitch.”
“Oh. Is that one easier?”
The slave shook her head and laughed, “No. I daresay it isn’t.”
The cushion cover finished, Adelaide presented it proudly to Manuela, who looked over it carefully.
“You’ve damaged the fabric slightly here,” she motioned, “And your stitching is a little uneven. You’ve also left too much of a seam which is the reason why the case is so small. However, on balance, I think this is an excellent first effort Miss. Well done. Now you just have to find a cushion to put in it.”
“Don’t worry. I will.” Adelaide giggled, practically jumping with glee, in spite of her less than perfect work - a ragged cushion cover made of a blue fabric decorated with a paisley pattern, the uneven stitches still visible.
"Now," asked Manuela with a perfect smile, "Would you like to darn a sock?"
