Free High Sorcery by Andre Norton Page B

to instep she was covered by a loose robe in a neutral shade of blue-gray which fully concealed her body.
    Ruth had reported Miss Ruthevan to be a terrifying person; her nickname among the children was “old witch.” But after my first flash of panic, I was not alarmed, being too bemused by the quilt.
    â€œT think it's wonderful. All fall things—”
    â€œIt's a bride quilt,” she replied shortly, “made for a September bride.”
    She moved and lost all her majesty of person, for she limped in an even more ungainly fashion than I, weaving from side to side as if about to lose her balance at any moment. When she halted and put her hand on the quilt, she was once more an uncrowned queen. Her face waspaper white, her lips blue lines. But her sunken, very alive eyes probed me.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œErnestine Williams. I'm staying with Cousin Althea.” I pointed to the wall.
    Her thin brows, as white as her hair, drew into a small frown. Then she nodded. “Catherine Moss's granddaughter, yes. Do you sew, Ernestine?”
    I shook my head, oddly ashamed. There was a vast importance to that question, I felt. Maybe that gave me the courage to add, “I wish I could—like that.” I pointed a finger at the quilt. I surprised myself, for never before had I wished to use a needle.
    Miss Ruthevan's clawlike hand fell heavily on my shoulder. She swung her body around awkwardly, using me as a pivot, and then drew me along with her. I strove to match my limp to her wider lurch, up three worn steps into a hallway, which was very dark and cool out of the sun.
    Shut doors flanked us, but the one at the far end stood open, and there she brought me, still captive in her strong grasp. Once we were inside she released me, to make her own crab's way to a tall-backed chair standing in the full light of a side window. There she sat enthroned, as was right and proper.
    An embroidery frame stood before the chair, covered with a throw of white cloth. At her right hand was a low table bearing a rack of innumerable, small spindles, each wound with colorful thread.
    â€œLook around,” she commanded. “You are a Moss. Catherine Moss had some skill; maybe you have inherited it.”
    I was ready to disclaim any of my grandmother's talent; but Miss Ruthevan, drawing off the shield cloth and folding it with small flicks, ignored me. So I began to edge nervously about the room, staring wide-eyed at the display there.
    The walls were covered with framed, glass-protected needlework. Those pieces to my left were very old, the colors long faded, the exquisite stitchery almost too dim to see. But, as I made my slow progress, each succeeding picture became brighter and more distinct. Some were the conventional samplers, but the majority were portraits or true pictures. As I skirted needlework chairs and dodged a fire screen, I saw that the art was in use everywhere. I was in a shrine to needle creations which had been brought to the highest peak of perfection and beauty. As I made that journey of discovery, Miss Ruthevan stitched away the minutes, pausingnow and then to study a single half-open white rose in a small vase on her table.
    â€œDid you make all these, Miss Ruthevan?” I blurted out at List.
    She took two careful stitches before she answered. “No, There have always been Ruthevan women so talented, for three hundred years. It began"—her blue lips curved in a very small shadow of a smile, though she did not rum her attention from her work—"with Grizel Ruthevan, of a family a king chose to outlaw—which was, perhaps, hardly wise of him.” She raised her hand and pointed with the needle she held to the first of the old frames. It seemed to me that a sparkle of sunlight gathered on the needle and lanced through the shadows about the picture she so indicated. “Grizel Ruthevan, aged seventeen—she was the first of us. But there were enough to follow. I am