Free Blackwork by Monica Ferris Page B

leaves. No, to do something . . . witchy.”
    “So you do consider this piece a charge against Leona for trying to cast a spell on Ryan McMurphy.” Betsy tried to keep her voice calm.
    Irene, oblivious, nodded. “Yes, of course. And on Adam Wainwright, too. But in a fun way, don’t you see?”
    “Don’t you think that’s a cruel thing to do?”
    “Well, it’s a joke, and jokes are almost always cruel, isn’t that so? And considering what she did—or thinks she did to Ryan . . .” Irene made a kind of nudging gesture while blinking rapidly. “I’m glad you understand what I’m trying to do with this design. I can only hope others do, too.”
    Betsy sighed. If only that were not so! Shop-owner Betsy wanted to buy the pattern, which was so striking she was sure it would sell well; but citizen-with-a-conscience Betsy would do no such thing. Beyond the obviousness of the design, Irene, who was as dotty as a spotted dress, would very likely explain the motive for her design to anyone who would stand still long enough to hear it.
    Betsy searched for a tactful way to turn down Irene’s offer. She did not want to start an argument that might end with Irene losing her temper. Even in a calm state, Irene was a little scary, and Betsy did not want to be alone in the shop with Irene in a rage.
    “I’m sorry, Irene, but I couldn’t give this the prominence it deserves at present. I’m about to take down all my Halloween things and set out the Christmas designs and patterns. On the other hand, I would be honored to debut it in Crewel World—next year. I could feature it in an ad, do a story about it on my web site and in our newsletter. Maybe do an interview with you, if you would be so kind. This could be a bestseller, you know; you have the most remarkable talent for evoking emotion as well as reality in your designs.”
    Irene simpered and blushed at the praise, though it was amply deserved. It would be wonderful to have a design by a famous needlework artist offered to the public for the first time—Irene had never turned any of her work into a pattern before. To have it debut at Crewel World would be a real coup. It could be, as the saying went, a win-win-win. A win for Irene, for Betsy, and for all the stitchers who patronized the shop.
    But then Irene began to look crestfallen. “I wanted it out this year,” she said. “It would be more timely that way.”
    “I understand that. And I’m sorry, but it’s too late to do it properly this year. I mean, think about it, Irene. If I bought a dozen patterns from you and sold even as many as eight or ten, that wouldn’t make it worth your while. Besides there is work still to be done. You need to turn these pages into a booklet, and get it properly printed. And you’ll want a color photograph of the model for the front, right? Plus you need to get the fabric cut to size—and if you’re going to include the fabric, you might want to kit it up properly and include the floss. This will take a lot of time and cost you a certain amount of money. You don’t want to do all that for such a small return. I think this should go to a needlework publisher, one with the resources to give it the attention it deserves. I can’t believe there aren’t a whole lot of other needlework shop owners around the country who would be very happy to offer it. I hope you will remember me when it is published, because I would love to debut it in my shop. Let’s think about doing that next year. You should aim for a date in, say, mid-August.”
    “I’ll think about it,” said Irene, a bit petulantly, folding up her model.
    The door went bing-bong , and Betsy looked around to see Godwin coming in from a late lunch.
    “Hey, Irene!” he said chirpily as he entered. “What brings you to our precinct?”
    “Precinct?” she echoed, a little alarmed, as if Godwin were threatening her with the police. So maybe she did have an idea that there might be more than one kind of danger in