Arachnodactyl by Danny Knestaut Page B

pair of windows swaddled tightly in heavy curtains interrupted the shelf along the far wall.
    “I don’t know where Cross is,” Ikey said. “He wasn’t in the workshop when I went out there.”
    “So what have you been doing out there all this time?”
    Ikey shifted his weight. The floor creaked. It felt like the house tsked at him. He wanted to take a seat on the sofa and watch Rose’s fingers work the wool.
    “If you’re done working, are you ready for bed, then?” Rose asked.
    At the mention of bed, weariness settled on him. Ikey nodded, then grinned at his own foolishness. “Yes. I suppose I am.”
    Rose grasped her needles in one hand and pushed the stitches down the shafts, then scooped the project up and dropped it into a basket at her side. She placed her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself to her height and folded her hands behind her back. Lord, was she tall.
    “What are you making?” Ikey asked.
    “A sweater.”
    Ikey glanced at the windows as if to confirm the season. But there was nothing to see at the windows except heavy drapes. For a brief moment, no spring waited outside. No season or world at all. Just this house. And Rose. And the countless satellites of silent music boxes.
    The urge to ask how she could possibly knit swirled around Ikey’s innards, but to ask might risk offending her again.
    “Can you teach me?” Ikey asked. “Please.”
    “Teach you what? To make a sweater?”
    Ikey nodded. “To knit.”
    Rose remained still and quiet. Ikey closed his eyes and opened his ears for the subtle machination of gears and springs and whatever transpired as Rose thought her thoughts.
    “I guess I could. I don’t see why not,” Rose said. “But why? It’s not exactly a task men concern themselves with. They’re always glad to have the warmth when they need it, but they never give a thought to the process or those who made it.”
    “I do,” Ikey said. “I mean, I think about the process. I used to listen to my sister and my mum knit in the evenings. I miss it.”
    “Perhaps you’d be better off asking someone else to teach you.”
    “No,” Ikey said. His posture straightened. “I’ve got nothing else to do. And I’d like to learn. Please.”
    “Oh dear,” Rose said. “A man who would lower himself to women’s work? Aren’t you a treat. Very well, then. I’ll teach you to knit, and I’ll even keep your secret from Cross.”
    “What secret?” The lantern’s flame trembled in Ikey’s grasp.
    “That you’ve decided to try knitting.”
    “Oh.” Ikey’s shoulders relaxed.
    “Would you care to begin tomorrow evening?” Rose asked.
    “How about now?” Ikey asked. “I’m not that tired.”
    “Very well.” Rose sat back in her chair and pointed at an ottoman beside the sofa. “Pull the ottoman up here.” She waved her hand at the floor before herself. “And be sure to return it to the exact position in which you found it once we are finished. Also, you’ll find a couple of sconces along the wall. You may light them if you need better light. Elsewise, I don’t know where you’ll place your lantern. Finally, fetch a ball of yarn and a pair of needles from my basket. Preferably a set not currently in use.”
    The sconces along either side of the room were simple affairs with flues to turn and regulate the flow of gas. Small lamps milky with dust perched atop them. Ikey set the lantern on the coffee table, moved the ottoman to the position Rose had indicated, and placed an unused ball of yarn and a pair of needles upon its surface. Finally, Ikey stepped back over to the lantern, studied the layout of the room a few seconds, then blew the lantern out with a puff.
    Rose’s voice lifted out of the dark. “What are you doing?”
    “Show me how to knit,” Ikey said. He stepped over to the ottoman. With a groping hand, he found the needles and yarn. He picked them up and sat. The ottoman’s cushion wheezed with his weight.
    “Did you blow out the