Floral paisley tattoo on a lower leg

The pattern master at Hollin's finally let me near the loom room, though he watches my hands the way a cat watches a dropped thimble. I have been drawing the cone shapes you showed me on the back of the ledger, the ones that curl over like a wave that has changed its mind. Mr Gilchrist says the teal is the hardest colour to get right, that the dye bites at the edges and the blues run into the blacks if the lye is too strong. He sent a whole bolt back last week for that very reason.

Yesterday I finally got a border to sit right. Flower heads opened along the scrolls, each with a little turquoise heart, and the vines ran black between them like ink through blotting paper. I pinned the sample to the burgundy satin Mother kept for the parlour, because Gilchrist said a pattern should be judged against what it will be laid on, not against white card. Under the lamp it looked like something growing out of the cloth rather than sitting on it.

Gilchrist came in with his pipe unlit and stood a long time over it. Then he took the pins out himself, one by one, and said the spiral at the bottom ought to run the other way so it would turn back toward the heel of the work. He was right, of course. I have redrawn it twice already tonight.

I will send the finished shawl when the sample is accepted, or I will burn it in the grate if it is not. Either way, do not tell Father I stayed up past the bell.

Love, Agnes