Jenny: A Moon-Woven Sort of Thing

"No, no," Ambrosius assured Cathair. "I am not needing anything at present." He dismissed the young man and sat in his chair, sighing heavily. Champion moved from his shoulder to the little perch on the tabletop nearby. He sat and thought, chin on his fist, listening to the rain, about Vortigern and Hengist and the Saxons in the east, about the men in the hypocaust, about Artos, about the winter and the spring and the Knife. I will send Kay down to Alan, he thought, and tell him what is in the wind. Then, No. No, I will go myself.

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The Guttersnipe led the way to her bedroom and shut the door after Domitia. The sound of the rain filled the place with a hollow rushing noise, like the sea in the white clasp of a shell. She crossed the room barefoot, stopping at the worn and battered trunk in the corner and bending to unlatch it. "This is the dress," she told Domitia in an undertone, "which my Lord Ambrosius got for me..." She pulled it out and held it up, a moon-woven sort of thing in the watery light, its gems flashing fitful and pale against her hands. "Help me into it, and see if it is needing to be taken up or taken in."