Free A Curse Dark as Gold by Elizabeth C. Bunce

Not countin' Miss Charlotte, of course." He gave me a crinkled smile.
    "Very impressive, sir. Would you mind if I gave it a try?" He eyed me sidelong. "I trust there's nothing dangerous about this machine?"
    I felt my mouth hanging open, like some country simpleton, and closed it with what was surely an audible clack of my teeth, as Mr. Woodstone shucked off his baize coat and let Mr. Weaver guide his hands into place on the spinning frame.
    "So that would be Charlotte's father, then, and what, your grandfather?" Mr. Woodstone asked, watching the carriage frame advance under his touch. Mr. Weaver gave me a sharp look.
    "No, sir. My father's cousin. Stirwaters has a -- strange history in that regard."
    "But it's always been in the Miller family?"
    "Oh, yes, sir. We're a family operation."
    Mr. Woodstone looked up from the spinning jack and regarded me levelly. "And after you, Miss Miller?" The mill floor shuddered with the rumble of water beneath us.
    I swallowed hard. "There's no one."
    "No cousin, no uncle, no long-lost brothers?"
    I shook my head.
    "I see," Mr. Woodstone said quietly, as the gears thumped steadily overhead.
     
    A few more passes with the carriage later (during which, I grudgingly noted, Mr. Woodstone broke no threads), the banker relinquished his claim on Tory's jack, with what seemed genuine thanks. He passed me his little book to hold as he shrugged back into his jacket, and I was very well-behaved and did not peek once.
    "So how does all this thread become cloth?" Mr. Woodstone asked, flipping back through the pages of his notes. "I don't see any looms here."
    I shook my head. "No, sir. Weaving is sent out. There wouldn't be any room for the looms here, first of all. And besides, they belong to the weavers -- they aren't the property of Stirwaters." I may have said that a tiny bit more forcefully than necessary, but Mr. Woodstone did little more than twitch his eyebrows before scribbling yet another notation.
     
    He snapped the book closed. "Well, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to see some of this famous cloth of yours. I believe I heard something about blue dye?"
    I nodded. "Oh, yes, sir. Come this way, I have a new piece in the office."
    I set off across the spinning room, my skirts swinging in a wide arc as I walked. I was halfway to the stairs when Mr. Woodstone called my name. I turned back, and saw with dismay that he had stopped before the wall painted with the hex symbol. Don't ask, don't ask, I silently pleaded, but Miller luck struck again.
    "I say, this is ... unusual. Not the sort of thing I usually encounter in the businesses I survey."
     
    My heart sank, but I plastered that serene, half-sick smile on my face. "Just our little ... emblem. A sort of symbol for Stirwaters." Well, why not? It was as fitting as anything else.
    He traced a finger along one gold-edged swirl. "Ah, yes." He dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a figure of plaited straw, "I found this on the floor by one of the machines. Corn dollies? Very, ah, thorough of you, I'd say."
     
    I stared at it, all the force of my will resisting the urge to snatch it back from him. Blast Father and his charms and curses! "Mr. Woodstone, I can assure you, we are not all superstitious rustics in Shearing."
    "Miss Miller," he said. "I would never suggest it."
    And after that, I was relieved to fairly slam shut the door to the office, cutting off Mr. Woodstone's view of the hex sign.

He slid easily into a chair and leaned back, crossing his legs, while I fetched a length of logwood blue plush, fresh from Janet Lamb and the finishing room, and unfolded a yard or two over my arm, so Mr. Woodstone could watch the light disappear into the depths of its velvet-soft raised nap.
    "No one else makes this color," I said. "It's exclusive to Stirwaters."
    "How much will something like that go for?"
    I refolded the cloth. "I'm going to ask twenty pounds for this. And there are two more bolts just like it."
     
    Mr. Woodstone let out a