Lion in a knit beanie with geometric backdrop

The lion came back on Thursday, the one with the beard you could lose a sparrow in. He walked down the lane from the edge of the Hollin wood just after dusk, and Mrs Pargeter's dog didn't so much as lift its head, which tells you what sort of afternoon it had been.

He wanted wool. Not the grey stuff from the market but the undyed Herdwick Mother kept in the back loft, the lot she used for the striped band on her own beanies before her hands went. I told him I thought we'd sold the last of it. He sat on the upturned crate by the stove with his paws folded like a bishop and waited while I climbed up and counted hanks by candlelight. He already had a cap on, moth-nibbled and striped in that old diamond pattern, and when I held the lamp to it the triangles matched the scratches Mother had cut into the plaster by the door to count the winters. I asked him whose hat it was. He said it was the first he ever made, when the frost came early and the forest taught him to keep his head warm, and that a hat ought to be finished before it's worn. I said I only sold the wool. He laughed, a sound like a cart going over a plank bridge, and said that was what everybody says before the first needle goes in.

He paid in dried chanterelles and a brass button stamped with a moon. I've put the button on the sill beside the kettle. This morning there was a half-made hat folded on the counter, the band done in our wool, the last few rows still open, and a note underneath in careful capitals: FOR THE MILLER'S BOY. COME SATURDAY AND FINISH THE DIAMONDS, YOU ARE BETTER AT THEM THAN I AM.

So I'm going. Bring your needles and the good scissors.

Ada