Lucy was horrified. Then she considered the question. “Well, yeah. Some people make photocopies of patterns, but it’s under the table and it’s not cool. But no one, no knitter worth her stitch markers would ever make a copy of a pattern from this book. The first knitter who saw the sweater would want to know the story of how the knitter found the book. Then they’d want to see it for themselves. . . . It would get ugly, fast.”
“What else is in that box?”
She shrugged. “Who cares?”
“Come on, finish it. What if there’s another copy?”
What if there was another copy? Lucy would keel over and die, that’s what. Right after she called every knitter she knew to rush to the store for an insta-auction.
But the box didn’t hold much more. Just a large packet of papers, tied with a piece of nondescript gray yarn. Each page was covered in tiny, handwritten script.
Lucy squinted. She pulled the first page out of the bunch.
It was a pattern of some sort.
“Do you know what those markings mean?” Whitney leaned forward.
Lucy nodded. Of course she knew what they meant.
“You do? Is it some kind of code?”
Lucy laughed. “The code of my people.”
“What?”
“It’s a knitting pattern. It’s really familiar. Hold on a second.” Lucy kept reading. She read down to the bottom of the page, then turned it over. “This is so weird. I swear I’ve never seen this pattern before, but it reminds me of someone. And it’s missing a part. There’s nothing on the back. There must be another page—there aren’t any sleeve directions on here.”
She pulled out the next brittle page.
“Do they match?”
“No, this is only half a pattern.”
“For what?”
She took a moment to glance over the papers again. The dry smell tickled her nose. “Looks like a cardigan. It’s funny, though . . . the way it’s written is familiar. I swear I know who wrote this.”
“You can tell?”
“It’s like a signature. Some people have stronger styles than others. I’d take a bet this was Eliza Carpenter.”
“Who’s Eliza?”
Lucy gaped at her. That’s right, there were people in the world who hadn’t been raised to revere Eliza as the modern-day patron saint of knitting, weren’t there? She’d forgotten that. She tapped Silk Road and then turned it over to show Whitney the small picture of the older woman with the long silver braid on the back cover.
“Cade MacArthur’s great-aunt. She revitalized knitting in this country, took it mainstream. How could you live here and not know her?”
“She looks vaguely familiar. Is she the one who started that whole knitting-is-the-new-yoga thing?”
“That’s just a fad—there were knitters before, and there’ll be knitters after. Eliza self-published her patterns in the fifties and taught her readers how to design patterns themselves, using unconventional design ideas. She moved knitting from fussy to easy, attainable, wearable. And she wrote with a voice that was entirely unique. And she was local. You know, Abigail’s knitting shop? That was Eliza’s cottage, so we take even more pride in her than most knitting areas do. We claim her.”
Lucy heard the passion in her own voice and tried to tone it down for the non-knitter.
Whitney asked, “You knew her?”
It felt weird to Lucy that she and Whitney were talking. They rarely spoke alone like this. “A little, I guess. She and my grandmother were knitting friends. Eliza moved south about ten, fifteen years ago, to San Diego, and she died there not that long ago. But when she lived here, when I was in my teens, my grandmother would close the bookstore and would take us kids to spend long afternoons on Eliza’s ranch. Mom and Grandma and Eliza would knit in the parlor while the boys tore around outside. I usually wanted to be alone, so I read books up in the hayloft more often than I knitted with them.”
She turned the pages, looking at the smiling face of Joshua, Eliza’s husband, leaning
“What else is in that box?”
She shrugged. “Who cares?”
“Come on, finish it. What if there’s another copy?”
What if there was another copy? Lucy would keel over and die, that’s what. Right after she called every knitter she knew to rush to the store for an insta-auction.
But the box didn’t hold much more. Just a large packet of papers, tied with a piece of nondescript gray yarn. Each page was covered in tiny, handwritten script.
Lucy squinted. She pulled the first page out of the bunch.
It was a pattern of some sort.
“Do you know what those markings mean?” Whitney leaned forward.
Lucy nodded. Of course she knew what they meant.
“You do? Is it some kind of code?”
Lucy laughed. “The code of my people.”
“What?”
“It’s a knitting pattern. It’s really familiar. Hold on a second.” Lucy kept reading. She read down to the bottom of the page, then turned it over. “This is so weird. I swear I’ve never seen this pattern before, but it reminds me of someone. And it’s missing a part. There’s nothing on the back. There must be another page—there aren’t any sleeve directions on here.”
She pulled out the next brittle page.
“Do they match?”
“No, this is only half a pattern.”
“For what?”
She took a moment to glance over the papers again. The dry smell tickled her nose. “Looks like a cardigan. It’s funny, though . . . the way it’s written is familiar. I swear I know who wrote this.”
“You can tell?”
“It’s like a signature. Some people have stronger styles than others. I’d take a bet this was Eliza Carpenter.”
“Who’s Eliza?”
Lucy gaped at her. That’s right, there were people in the world who hadn’t been raised to revere Eliza as the modern-day patron saint of knitting, weren’t there? She’d forgotten that. She tapped Silk Road and then turned it over to show Whitney the small picture of the older woman with the long silver braid on the back cover.
“Cade MacArthur’s great-aunt. She revitalized knitting in this country, took it mainstream. How could you live here and not know her?”
“She looks vaguely familiar. Is she the one who started that whole knitting-is-the-new-yoga thing?”
“That’s just a fad—there were knitters before, and there’ll be knitters after. Eliza self-published her patterns in the fifties and taught her readers how to design patterns themselves, using unconventional design ideas. She moved knitting from fussy to easy, attainable, wearable. And she wrote with a voice that was entirely unique. And she was local. You know, Abigail’s knitting shop? That was Eliza’s cottage, so we take even more pride in her than most knitting areas do. We claim her.”
Lucy heard the passion in her own voice and tried to tone it down for the non-knitter.
Whitney asked, “You knew her?”
It felt weird to Lucy that she and Whitney were talking. They rarely spoke alone like this. “A little, I guess. She and my grandmother were knitting friends. Eliza moved south about ten, fifteen years ago, to San Diego, and she died there not that long ago. But when she lived here, when I was in my teens, my grandmother would close the bookstore and would take us kids to spend long afternoons on Eliza’s ranch. Mom and Grandma and Eliza would knit in the parlor while the boys tore around outside. I usually wanted to be alone, so I read books up in the hayloft more often than I knitted with them.”
She turned the pages, looking at the smiling face of Joshua, Eliza’s husband, leaning
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