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colors change, I could feel Gwen’s pale eyes interrogating my response. And in that moment, I realized I’d never before properly appreciated silk, its brilliant, lustrous colors, the range of weaves and patterns. Father and John never talked about it this way.
    That morning, Gwen showed me how to use all my senses, not just seeing the colors and feeling the weave, but also holding the silk up to the light, smelling it, folding to see how it lost or held a crease, identifying the distinctive rustles and squeaks of each type of material, examining its weave under a magnifier, enjoying its variety. I was already hooked, like a trout on a fly-line, but I didn’t know it yet. Only later did I come to understand how Gwen simply allowed the silk to seduce me.
    â€¢ • •
    The canteen, a large sunny room at the top of Old Mill that smelled not unpleasantly of cabbage and cigarette smoke, seemed to be the heart of the mill. A team of cheerful ladies provided morning coffee, hot midday meals, and afternoon teas with homemade cakes and biscuits. Men and women sat at separate tables talking about football and politics, families and friendships. Weavers and warpers kept together, as did throwsters. Loom engineers—called tacklers—were a strong male clan in their oily overalls; the dyers, their aprons stained in many colors, another. But a shared camaraderie crossed divides of gender and trade; old hands teased the newcomers, and if they responded with good humor they became part of the gang.
    Gwen wasn’t part of any gang and seemed immune from canteen banter. We sat down at an empty table, and she pulled off her turban, running her fingers through ginger curls that corkscrewed round her head. Without her working woman’s armor, she seemed more approachable.
    â€œWhy haven’t we met before, Gwen? Were you brought up in Westbury?”
    She shook her head, stirring three teaspoons of sugar into chocolate-brown tea.
    â€œHow long have you lived here?”
    â€œSix years. Six happy years, mostly,” she said, that rare smile lighting her face and giving me permission to ask more.
    â€œWhatever made you want to become a weaver?” I said.
    â€œI started out wanting to be an artist. Went to art school. One thing led to another…”
    I was intrigued. I’d never met anyone who went to art school, and from what I’d heard, they were full of bohemians. But Gwen didn’t seem the type. “Golly. Art school? In London?”
    â€œIt’s a long story,” she said, stacking her teacup and plate. “Another time, perhaps.”
    â€œSo what brought you to Verners?” I persevered.
    â€œYour father, Lily.” She paused and looked out the canteen window toward the cricket willow plantation on the other side of the railway line. “He’s a very generous man. I owe him a lot.”
    I felt a prickle of shame for not having appreciated him much. He was my father, strict but usually kindly, rather remote when he was wrapped up in work. I’d never considered how others might regard him.
    The squawk of the klaxon signaled the end of break-time. Over the loud scraping of utility chairs—the stackable sort of metal piping with slung canvas seats and backs—Gwen shouted, “Time to learn about the heart of the business, Miss Lily.”
    After the peace of the packing hall, the weaving shed was a shock. As the door opened, the noise was like running into a wall. Rows of gray-green looms stretched into the distance, great beasts each in their own pool of light, a mass of complex oily iron in perpetual noisy motion—lifting, falling, sliding, striking, knocking, crashing, vibrating. How could anyone possibly work in this hellish metallic chaos?
    The weavers seemed oblivious, moving unhurriedly between their looms, pausing to watch the material slowly emerge from the incessant motion of the shuttle beam or stooping over a stilled machine.