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wasn't much of interest in the bag, though. The quilts were late in date, probably from the 1920s; Rachel had learned to recognize the cheap but cheerful cotton prints of that era. They would not rate as vintage classics even if they hadn't been torn and stained. She scraped at one spot with her fingernail. This time the only thing that flaked was the fabric itself; the disfiguring substance appeared to be rust, and it couldn't be removed without destroying the cloth. Perhaps one of the crafty types, as Kara called them, could recycle the unstained portions into a pillow or a stuffed toy.
    Seeing the rich shine of black satin in the pile, she pulled it out. Her eye for vintage fabric had improved; this was heavy silk, the genuine article, not a modern synthetic, and it appeared to be a blouse—a waist, she corrected herself—with the leg-o'-mutton sleeves and high netted collar of the past century. When she held it up she understood why Cheryl had discarded it. The lace, fine as cobwebs, that cascaded down the front had turned brown and brittle and the underarm portions had rotted out—no way of repairing that damage, the armholes were usually too tight anyway—and all down the back . .. The stain appeared to be the same color as the black fabric, but it was stiff and hard. Higher up, just below the shoulder, gaped a gash that might have been made by a sharp knife.
    Involuntarily Rachel dropped the waist, and then laughed at herself. The stain wasn't blood; the wearer must have leaned against a freshly painted wall or fence. There were other slits in the fabric, produced not by a knife but by the strong dyes used in that period. What had Kara called it? Shattering, that was the word.
    There was something evocative and intriguing about old clothes, however; one couldn't help wondering about the women who had worn them. The black silk waist was of good quality; the owner must have been furious when she saw the stain. And what had distracted her, filled her thoughts to such an extent that she failed to notice the fresh paint? Black was for mourning. A grieving widow, an orphaned daughter?
    She returned the scraps to the bag and dragged it into the corner out of her way. Television, even the multiple channels of cable, offered nothing that interested her, so she went to bed with one of her reference books.
    "Denied outlets for their creative talents in literature and the fine arts, women poured their hidden frustration and suppressed need for expression into the spheres delegated to them by the dominant male society. Needlework has been, in most cultures, a traditional female occupation. Spinning and weaving, sewing and embroidery ..."
    Rachel tossed the book aside. Same old thing, she thought grumpily and unfairly. The thesis the author had expressed had become popular in recent years, especially among feminist scholars. What she hoped to prove was less obvious and more far-out: the theory that women had woven their own secret forms of magic into their creations—spells to guard against enemies, to attract and hold a lover, to protect the souls of the dead from demons. The magical use of weaving and spinning was well attested in ancient religions; in her introduction Rachel planned to discuss the well-known cases.
    The Norns of Norse legend and the Moirai of the Greeks spun the threads of human lives. The Greek maiden Arachne had been turned into a spider for daring to challenge a goddess's skill in spinning—and in the magic that spinning wove? The Greek gods and goddesses were as spiteful and petty-minded as their human worshipers, but surely, Rachel argued, there had been more at stake in that contest than housewifely skill. The secret knowledge involved in such skills might have been passed down through the ages from mother to daughter, hidden from men because it was a source of power and therefore a threat to their domination. Even the patterns of quilting went back to ancient themes. Star and sun as symbols of light,