The Crimson Thread by Suzanne Weyn Page B

the man died, and I worked for several other tailors after that. I was back on the street again, but this time I at least had money in my pocket; plus, I was older by then and it became easier to make my own way.”
                She observed him more closely than she ever had before and saw why she’d previously found his age so hard to judge. She saw no that he was probably younger than twenty, not much older than herself, but all that he’d been through had left a hardness, more like a deep weariness, in and around his dark eyes. Maybe it was just sadness.
                His face lit with a though, and he suddenly appeared to be as young as he really was. “Do you want to see something I just found?”
                “What?” she asked, thinking that he was really quite pleasant-looking when he smiled. Until this moment she had not seen him smile with anything other than bitter irony. His smile of real pleasure – appearing so unexpectedly, like the sun suddenly rising from behind a cloud – raised an answering smile from her.
                “Come with me.” He picked up his pace, and impulsively she followed him. In two blocks he turned down an empty alley, where he lifted the hatch of a basement cellar and climbed down. Bertie went down after him.
                It was cold and dark, but the open door above provided enough light to reveal an abandoned room. At its center sat a broken spinning wheel.
                “When is the last time you saw one of those?” he asked happily, excitement animating his face.
                In truth, it hadn’t been that long ago. Her mother had had an old spinning wheel like this one, which she had used to spin the fleece from their one sheep until they had to sell the animal. Her mother had once shown her how to use it, but she’d forgotten now.
                “And look at this,” he added, directing her attention to a small hand loom. “All this is done in big textile mills now. Someone must have had a little home shop down here once.”
                “What’s upstairs?” she asked. “These things must belong to someone.”
                “I don’t know. The building is boarded up. I broke in just the other night looking for a place to sleep. Remember that very hot night? I came down here thinking it would be cooler, and I found these.”
                “Why don’t you get a regular place to live?” she asked him. He seemed to have enough money.
                “I haven’t had a home since I was seven. The idea of it makes me nervous. I’m happier flopping down anywhere that’s convenient.” He looked away from her as if wanting to change the subject. “Isn’t this hand loom great? I want to clean it up and see if I can use it.”
                “Would you make cloth?” she asked.
                “I don’t know yet. I just want to see what I can do with them.”
                He stepped closer to her – too close, she thought, but for some reason she didn’t move away. “You are very pretty in that new dress, you know, princess,” he said, his voice dropping to the thick, unmistakable tones of attraction.
                “Why do you call me princess?” she asked him, no longer content to let it hang as a mystery between them.
                “Because I can see you as you really are.”
                “How can you?”
                “When you grow up on the streets, you learn to see into people. You need to if you are to survive. I can see beyond the ragged skirt and even this cast-off dress to the royal blood that courses through your veins.”
                She felt laid bare, exposed; her deepest secret revealed. And yet he had said it. She had not claimed to be any princess. He had claimed it for her.
                He knew what she knew,