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The agroá was alive with loud voices, and a crisp breeze shuffled by the undusted streets. Scents of dates and fresh bread made their way into the eager noses of small children, sent with a obol or two about the market for a day of gay distraction. It was a setting Léon was much attuned to. In six or seven years, he’d learned to blend in to Taengea. He knew this place well now, he could tell what someone was selling by looking at their face; never learning one of their names.
Had Léonide’s skin been any fairer, his arms would’ve been a distinct crimson. Though his mother held very delicate hands, perfect for the craft of spinning, he managed to be born with the clumsiest fingers in all of Greece. He was massaging a thick skein of yarn with a deep red colored dye in a pithos small enough to fit between his folded legs. Most of the wool he was selling was raw, the portion that was spun wore a dull white. He knew giving some of his produce a touch of color would add to the appeal, but between the tight trade thanks to a certain cult and the even tighter money, getting to dye yarn was rather uncommon for Léon.
It was working, however. Most of the dim blues and oranges had already been sold, all that remained was the red threads. Red always made Léonide’s skin crawl. Red was the color of lamb’s blood, his father’s rusty armor and of soldiers. Passerby’s must have felt the same, the last time Léon tried to sell dyed yarn the red never went. He remembered bringing it home to his mother, who gave him a hard time about it. She eventually took it and wove it into his current blanket, one he rarely sleeps under. Every time he’s under it there’s an itch. It starts out small but gets worse and worse, like small insects were crawling about him, until he throws it off and falls asleep cold.
It had become more draining lately. He no longer blamed the blanket, perhaps he had come down with something. He used to pride himself in getting a fair amount of sleep. Now, he was restless. Perfectly distracted in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized he knocked over the due until it began to seep under his sandals and stain his tunic. It looked like he had killed someone, rather messily. If there wasn’t baskets of yarn in front of him, he would’ve gotten some looks. His eyes snapped down, and quickly he turned the clay vessel upwards and collected the yarn. “Lord of asses,” he spat, with hope he wouldn’t offend the sea god. He got up, kicked off his sandals and threw the yarn onto an adequate drying spot.
He was done with dying yarn, there was enough of it. While he was glad for the success of the yarn, a good deal of the raw wool still remained. How much wool did a city need after all? Or even a kingdom? Léon’s tunic had lasted him two years, his mother had been wearing the same clothes for four years. He had never given his horse a new saddle blanket since he’d arrived in Taengea! He hoped that there would be a wool famine, otherwise the four silver owls in his saddlebag would remain very alone.
JD
Staff Team
JD
Staff Team
This post was created by our staff team.
Please contact us with your queries and questions.
The agroá was alive with loud voices, and a crisp breeze shuffled by the undusted streets. Scents of dates and fresh bread made their way into the eager noses of small children, sent with a obol or two about the market for a day of gay distraction. It was a setting Léon was much attuned to. In six or seven years, he’d learned to blend in to Taengea. He knew this place well now, he could tell what someone was selling by looking at their face; never learning one of their names.
Had Léonide’s skin been any fairer, his arms would’ve been a distinct crimson. Though his mother held very delicate hands, perfect for the craft of spinning, he managed to be born with the clumsiest fingers in all of Greece. He was massaging a thick skein of yarn with a deep red colored dye in a pithos small enough to fit between his folded legs. Most of the wool he was selling was raw, the portion that was spun wore a dull white. He knew giving some of his produce a touch of color would add to the appeal, but between the tight trade thanks to a certain cult and the even tighter money, getting to dye yarn was rather uncommon for Léon.
It was working, however. Most of the dim blues and oranges had already been sold, all that remained was the red threads. Red always made Léonide’s skin crawl. Red was the color of lamb’s blood, his father’s rusty armor and of soldiers. Passerby’s must have felt the same, the last time Léon tried to sell dyed yarn the red never went. He remembered bringing it home to his mother, who gave him a hard time about it. She eventually took it and wove it into his current blanket, one he rarely sleeps under. Every time he’s under it there’s an itch. It starts out small but gets worse and worse, like small insects were crawling about him, until he throws it off and falls asleep cold.
It had become more draining lately. He no longer blamed the blanket, perhaps he had come down with something. He used to pride himself in getting a fair amount of sleep. Now, he was restless. Perfectly distracted in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized he knocked over the due until it began to seep under his sandals and stain his tunic. It looked like he had killed someone, rather messily. If there wasn’t baskets of yarn in front of him, he would’ve gotten some looks. His eyes snapped down, and quickly he turned the clay vessel upwards and collected the yarn. “Lord of asses,” he spat, with hope he wouldn’t offend the sea god. He got up, kicked off his sandals and threw the yarn onto an adequate drying spot.
He was done with dying yarn, there was enough of it. While he was glad for the success of the yarn, a good deal of the raw wool still remained. How much wool did a city need after all? Or even a kingdom? Léon’s tunic had lasted him two years, his mother had been wearing the same clothes for four years. He had never given his horse a new saddle blanket since he’d arrived in Taengea! He hoped that there would be a wool famine, otherwise the four silver owls in his saddlebag would remain very alone.
The agroá was alive with loud voices, and a crisp breeze shuffled by the undusted streets. Scents of dates and fresh bread made their way into the eager noses of small children, sent with a obol or two about the market for a day of gay distraction. It was a setting Léon was much attuned to. In six or seven years, he’d learned to blend in to Taengea. He knew this place well now, he could tell what someone was selling by looking at their face; never learning one of their names.
Had Léonide’s skin been any fairer, his arms would’ve been a distinct crimson. Though his mother held very delicate hands, perfect for the craft of spinning, he managed to be born with the clumsiest fingers in all of Greece. He was massaging a thick skein of yarn with a deep red colored dye in a pithos small enough to fit between his folded legs. Most of the wool he was selling was raw, the portion that was spun wore a dull white. He knew giving some of his produce a touch of color would add to the appeal, but between the tight trade thanks to a certain cult and the even tighter money, getting to dye yarn was rather uncommon for Léon.
It was working, however. Most of the dim blues and oranges had already been sold, all that remained was the red threads. Red always made Léonide’s skin crawl. Red was the color of lamb’s blood, his father’s rusty armor and of soldiers. Passerby’s must have felt the same, the last time Léon tried to sell dyed yarn the red never went. He remembered bringing it home to his mother, who gave him a hard time about it. She eventually took it and wove it into his current blanket, one he rarely sleeps under. Every time he’s under it there’s an itch. It starts out small but gets worse and worse, like small insects were crawling about him, until he throws it off and falls asleep cold.
It had become more draining lately. He no longer blamed the blanket, perhaps he had come down with something. He used to pride himself in getting a fair amount of sleep. Now, he was restless. Perfectly distracted in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized he knocked over the due until it began to seep under his sandals and stain his tunic. It looked like he had killed someone, rather messily. If there wasn’t baskets of yarn in front of him, he would’ve gotten some looks. His eyes snapped down, and quickly he turned the clay vessel upwards and collected the yarn. “Lord of asses,” he spat, with hope he wouldn’t offend the sea god. He got up, kicked off his sandals and threw the yarn onto an adequate drying spot.
He was done with dying yarn, there was enough of it. While he was glad for the success of the yarn, a good deal of the raw wool still remained. How much wool did a city need after all? Or even a kingdom? Léon’s tunic had lasted him two years, his mother had been wearing the same clothes for four years. He had never given his horse a new saddle blanket since he’d arrived in Taengea! He hoped that there would be a wool famine, otherwise the four silver owls in his saddlebag would remain very alone.
Chrysanthe enjoyed going to the market to shop. Even though she had a limited amount of time to go to the Agora and get back before she had to help with preparing dinner, it gave Chrysanthe some time to think without some child or another demanding her attention. Sometimes Chrysanthe liked to daydream about what she would buy for herself if she had the money: maybe some ribbon for her hair, or a nice bracelet. Chrysanthe shook her head, trying to clear her head of the distraction. She had to find some yarn so that the children could make enough bracelets for when they’d all go to the market at the end of the week.
Chrysanthe arrived at the market near the end of the day. This was the time when the merchants were more likely to sell things for a good deal. They would see which things hadn’t sold well, and she could get whatever was left over cheap. Chrysanthe felt the small bag of coins looped around her wrist. She knew that the coins in the bag were not enough for the amount of yarn Rhode would expect her to bring back. If all else failed and no one was selling yarn cheap, she could usually convince the yarn vendors to sell it to her cheap out of charity for the children. This meant that Chrysanthe could rarely visit the same yarn seller twice.
Chrysanthe looked around for a merchant who she hadn’t already visited, when she suddenly noticed a merchant cursing at some yarn he was in the process of dying. That was as good a reason as any to choose a particular yarn salesman. Chrysanthe walked over to the man, who had managed to splatter himself in red dye. ”I hope that yarn might be more well behaved for me,” Chrysathe joked jovially, grinning at the man. She hoped a cheerful comment might brighten his mood.
Chrysanthe stopped suddenly as he looked up at her. His face was one that she hadn’t seen in a long time. Leonide, he had been a fellow shepherd and friend of her father. Step-father, she mentally corrected herself. Despite the fact that he had informed her that he wasn’t her real father years ago, it was still hard for her to think of him as anything other than his father. ”Leonide?” Chrysanthe asked, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake in identifying him. It had been six years since she had last seen him, and she had only been twelve at the time. ”Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m Chrysanthe, Hyginos’s…”daughter.” Chrysanthe hesitated on what she should call her relationship to her step-father, but she didn’t know how else to explain the relationship without going into a level of detail that wasn’t appropriate for someone she hadn’t seen in years.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Chrysanthe enjoyed going to the market to shop. Even though she had a limited amount of time to go to the Agora and get back before she had to help with preparing dinner, it gave Chrysanthe some time to think without some child or another demanding her attention. Sometimes Chrysanthe liked to daydream about what she would buy for herself if she had the money: maybe some ribbon for her hair, or a nice bracelet. Chrysanthe shook her head, trying to clear her head of the distraction. She had to find some yarn so that the children could make enough bracelets for when they’d all go to the market at the end of the week.
Chrysanthe arrived at the market near the end of the day. This was the time when the merchants were more likely to sell things for a good deal. They would see which things hadn’t sold well, and she could get whatever was left over cheap. Chrysanthe felt the small bag of coins looped around her wrist. She knew that the coins in the bag were not enough for the amount of yarn Rhode would expect her to bring back. If all else failed and no one was selling yarn cheap, she could usually convince the yarn vendors to sell it to her cheap out of charity for the children. This meant that Chrysanthe could rarely visit the same yarn seller twice.
Chrysanthe looked around for a merchant who she hadn’t already visited, when she suddenly noticed a merchant cursing at some yarn he was in the process of dying. That was as good a reason as any to choose a particular yarn salesman. Chrysanthe walked over to the man, who had managed to splatter himself in red dye. ”I hope that yarn might be more well behaved for me,” Chrysathe joked jovially, grinning at the man. She hoped a cheerful comment might brighten his mood.
Chrysanthe stopped suddenly as he looked up at her. His face was one that she hadn’t seen in a long time. Leonide, he had been a fellow shepherd and friend of her father. Step-father, she mentally corrected herself. Despite the fact that he had informed her that he wasn’t her real father years ago, it was still hard for her to think of him as anything other than his father. ”Leonide?” Chrysanthe asked, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake in identifying him. It had been six years since she had last seen him, and she had only been twelve at the time. ”Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m Chrysanthe, Hyginos’s…”daughter.” Chrysanthe hesitated on what she should call her relationship to her step-father, but she didn’t know how else to explain the relationship without going into a level of detail that wasn’t appropriate for someone she hadn’t seen in years.
Chrysanthe enjoyed going to the market to shop. Even though she had a limited amount of time to go to the Agora and get back before she had to help with preparing dinner, it gave Chrysanthe some time to think without some child or another demanding her attention. Sometimes Chrysanthe liked to daydream about what she would buy for herself if she had the money: maybe some ribbon for her hair, or a nice bracelet. Chrysanthe shook her head, trying to clear her head of the distraction. She had to find some yarn so that the children could make enough bracelets for when they’d all go to the market at the end of the week.
Chrysanthe arrived at the market near the end of the day. This was the time when the merchants were more likely to sell things for a good deal. They would see which things hadn’t sold well, and she could get whatever was left over cheap. Chrysanthe felt the small bag of coins looped around her wrist. She knew that the coins in the bag were not enough for the amount of yarn Rhode would expect her to bring back. If all else failed and no one was selling yarn cheap, she could usually convince the yarn vendors to sell it to her cheap out of charity for the children. This meant that Chrysanthe could rarely visit the same yarn seller twice.
Chrysanthe looked around for a merchant who she hadn’t already visited, when she suddenly noticed a merchant cursing at some yarn he was in the process of dying. That was as good a reason as any to choose a particular yarn salesman. Chrysanthe walked over to the man, who had managed to splatter himself in red dye. ”I hope that yarn might be more well behaved for me,” Chrysathe joked jovially, grinning at the man. She hoped a cheerful comment might brighten his mood.
Chrysanthe stopped suddenly as he looked up at her. His face was one that she hadn’t seen in a long time. Leonide, he had been a fellow shepherd and friend of her father. Step-father, she mentally corrected herself. Despite the fact that he had informed her that he wasn’t her real father years ago, it was still hard for her to think of him as anything other than his father. ”Leonide?” Chrysanthe asked, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake in identifying him. It had been six years since she had last seen him, and she had only been twelve at the time. ”Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m Chrysanthe, Hyginos’s…”daughter.” Chrysanthe hesitated on what she should call her relationship to her step-father, but she didn’t know how else to explain the relationship without going into a level of detail that wasn’t appropriate for someone she hadn’t seen in years.
It would take forever to wash out his clothes, if he even made it home. Somehow he didn’t fail to imagine that he’d be stopped once or twice by the guard running around stained in red. Looking between his “bloodied” hands, Léonide’s frown slowly lifted. He snorted, and shook his head, looking up just in time to see a woman approach. His eyes outlined his face for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed. She had a face that was buried somewhere in the back of his mind, he must have seen her at market before. As he scratched his hair, leaving red dye in it, she spoke. ”I hope that yarn might be more well behaved for me.” The comment spread a grin across his face, though he was only half paying attention. Who was she?
His suspicions were concluded when she said his name. No one knew his name here, unless he had spoken to them many times before, but still her name escaped him. ”Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m Chrysanthe, Hyginos’s…’daughter’.” His face relaxed. The churning sense in his stomach that’d he’d have to remember her name was relieved, perhaps the gods were looking after him. But Hygionos’s ‘daughter’? The way she pressed her words suggested something that was beyond Léonide. “Hygionos…” he traced the name quietly, turning his head to the sky, as if who exactly ‘Hygionos’ was would be written in the clouds. “Hygionos…. Hy- Oh! Hygionos! By the gods how didn’t I know that name? Hygionos… it’s been… what now? Five… six years?” In honesty, he didn’t know. After coming to Taengea, the years blended into each other. Chrysanthe, now he could place her in his mind. She’d grown since last he saw her. She must’ve been only up to his waist at the time, now she couldn’t have been shorter than him by a forearm. The face of Hygionos returned to Léon as well, comparing he and Chrysanthe they looked rather dissimilar. He leaned back on his heels and nodded absently, “time flies” he mused, a hint of a rue woven in his voice.
Allowing a moment to pass by in silence, he was sparked back into action. “How have you been?” It seemed like a safe enough question to ask. Léon would at least try to be tactful, six years quite changed a person. With the exception of himself. He remembered her earlier remark about the yarn, and began to pull it off its drying rack. Most of it was already dried, but it couldn’t hurt to give it a little push in the right direction. Turning so the dye wouldn’t hit Chrysanthe, he began shaking it. The red splattered more onto his tunic, a look certain to catch some eyes. Oh well, Arno was a fast horse, and he had his brother’s sword. “I myself have been well” he hummed, any lament in his tone had since faded.
JD
Staff Team
JD
Staff Team
This post was created by our staff team.
Please contact us with your queries and questions.
It would take forever to wash out his clothes, if he even made it home. Somehow he didn’t fail to imagine that he’d be stopped once or twice by the guard running around stained in red. Looking between his “bloodied” hands, Léonide’s frown slowly lifted. He snorted, and shook his head, looking up just in time to see a woman approach. His eyes outlined his face for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed. She had a face that was buried somewhere in the back of his mind, he must have seen her at market before. As he scratched his hair, leaving red dye in it, she spoke. ”I hope that yarn might be more well behaved for me.” The comment spread a grin across his face, though he was only half paying attention. Who was she?
His suspicions were concluded when she said his name. No one knew his name here, unless he had spoken to them many times before, but still her name escaped him. ”Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m Chrysanthe, Hyginos’s…’daughter’.” His face relaxed. The churning sense in his stomach that’d he’d have to remember her name was relieved, perhaps the gods were looking after him. But Hygionos’s ‘daughter’? The way she pressed her words suggested something that was beyond Léonide. “Hygionos…” he traced the name quietly, turning his head to the sky, as if who exactly ‘Hygionos’ was would be written in the clouds. “Hygionos…. Hy- Oh! Hygionos! By the gods how didn’t I know that name? Hygionos… it’s been… what now? Five… six years?” In honesty, he didn’t know. After coming to Taengea, the years blended into each other. Chrysanthe, now he could place her in his mind. She’d grown since last he saw her. She must’ve been only up to his waist at the time, now she couldn’t have been shorter than him by a forearm. The face of Hygionos returned to Léon as well, comparing he and Chrysanthe they looked rather dissimilar. He leaned back on his heels and nodded absently, “time flies” he mused, a hint of a rue woven in his voice.
Allowing a moment to pass by in silence, he was sparked back into action. “How have you been?” It seemed like a safe enough question to ask. Léon would at least try to be tactful, six years quite changed a person. With the exception of himself. He remembered her earlier remark about the yarn, and began to pull it off its drying rack. Most of it was already dried, but it couldn’t hurt to give it a little push in the right direction. Turning so the dye wouldn’t hit Chrysanthe, he began shaking it. The red splattered more onto his tunic, a look certain to catch some eyes. Oh well, Arno was a fast horse, and he had his brother’s sword. “I myself have been well” he hummed, any lament in his tone had since faded.
It would take forever to wash out his clothes, if he even made it home. Somehow he didn’t fail to imagine that he’d be stopped once or twice by the guard running around stained in red. Looking between his “bloodied” hands, Léonide’s frown slowly lifted. He snorted, and shook his head, looking up just in time to see a woman approach. His eyes outlined his face for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed. She had a face that was buried somewhere in the back of his mind, he must have seen her at market before. As he scratched his hair, leaving red dye in it, she spoke. ”I hope that yarn might be more well behaved for me.” The comment spread a grin across his face, though he was only half paying attention. Who was she?
His suspicions were concluded when she said his name. No one knew his name here, unless he had spoken to them many times before, but still her name escaped him. ”Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m Chrysanthe, Hyginos’s…’daughter’.” His face relaxed. The churning sense in his stomach that’d he’d have to remember her name was relieved, perhaps the gods were looking after him. But Hygionos’s ‘daughter’? The way she pressed her words suggested something that was beyond Léonide. “Hygionos…” he traced the name quietly, turning his head to the sky, as if who exactly ‘Hygionos’ was would be written in the clouds. “Hygionos…. Hy- Oh! Hygionos! By the gods how didn’t I know that name? Hygionos… it’s been… what now? Five… six years?” In honesty, he didn’t know. After coming to Taengea, the years blended into each other. Chrysanthe, now he could place her in his mind. She’d grown since last he saw her. She must’ve been only up to his waist at the time, now she couldn’t have been shorter than him by a forearm. The face of Hygionos returned to Léon as well, comparing he and Chrysanthe they looked rather dissimilar. He leaned back on his heels and nodded absently, “time flies” he mused, a hint of a rue woven in his voice.
Allowing a moment to pass by in silence, he was sparked back into action. “How have you been?” It seemed like a safe enough question to ask. Léon would at least try to be tactful, six years quite changed a person. With the exception of himself. He remembered her earlier remark about the yarn, and began to pull it off its drying rack. Most of it was already dried, but it couldn’t hurt to give it a little push in the right direction. Turning so the dye wouldn’t hit Chrysanthe, he began shaking it. The red splattered more onto his tunic, a look certain to catch some eyes. Oh well, Arno was a fast horse, and he had his brother’s sword. “I myself have been well” he hummed, any lament in his tone had since faded.
As Leonide turned to take the yarn off the drying rack, Chrysanthe started to panic internally. She had no idea how to even begin to explain what had happened to her in the intervening years. She was glad that Leonide wasn’t looking in her direction because she knew that he would have been able to see her thoughts all over her face. She had never been someone who was good at hiding her emotions. She was relieved when he continued on the conversation, talking about his own life. “I’m glad things are going well for you.” Chrysanthe replied, sidestepping Leonide’s question to her. ”I see you’ve been getting into spinning and dying. Is there much money in that?” While Chrysanthe was trying to make conversation with Leonide, she also had other motives for this line of questioning. Chrysanthe knew that after she left Rhode, she was going to have to get a job, and she did have some experience with spinning and weaving from working with her mother growing up. Chrysanthe didn’t go so far as to ask if he knew of anyone who was taking on apprentices, that would have been too forward of her, and they had only just reconnected.
At that thought, Chrysanthe had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She had gotten herself into a bit of a bind by approaching a salesman that she actually knew. She knew that she didn’t have enough money for the yarn she had been asking after. Normally she would play on the sympathies of buying for the orphan children, but in this case, she’d have to explain why she ended up at Rhode’s foundlings home in the first place. ”How much for the red yarn?” Chrysanthe asked, hoping against all hope that it might be cheaper than she expected.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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As Leonide turned to take the yarn off the drying rack, Chrysanthe started to panic internally. She had no idea how to even begin to explain what had happened to her in the intervening years. She was glad that Leonide wasn’t looking in her direction because she knew that he would have been able to see her thoughts all over her face. She had never been someone who was good at hiding her emotions. She was relieved when he continued on the conversation, talking about his own life. “I’m glad things are going well for you.” Chrysanthe replied, sidestepping Leonide’s question to her. ”I see you’ve been getting into spinning and dying. Is there much money in that?” While Chrysanthe was trying to make conversation with Leonide, she also had other motives for this line of questioning. Chrysanthe knew that after she left Rhode, she was going to have to get a job, and she did have some experience with spinning and weaving from working with her mother growing up. Chrysanthe didn’t go so far as to ask if he knew of anyone who was taking on apprentices, that would have been too forward of her, and they had only just reconnected.
At that thought, Chrysanthe had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She had gotten herself into a bit of a bind by approaching a salesman that she actually knew. She knew that she didn’t have enough money for the yarn she had been asking after. Normally she would play on the sympathies of buying for the orphan children, but in this case, she’d have to explain why she ended up at Rhode’s foundlings home in the first place. ”How much for the red yarn?” Chrysanthe asked, hoping against all hope that it might be cheaper than she expected.
As Leonide turned to take the yarn off the drying rack, Chrysanthe started to panic internally. She had no idea how to even begin to explain what had happened to her in the intervening years. She was glad that Leonide wasn’t looking in her direction because she knew that he would have been able to see her thoughts all over her face. She had never been someone who was good at hiding her emotions. She was relieved when he continued on the conversation, talking about his own life. “I’m glad things are going well for you.” Chrysanthe replied, sidestepping Leonide’s question to her. ”I see you’ve been getting into spinning and dying. Is there much money in that?” While Chrysanthe was trying to make conversation with Leonide, she also had other motives for this line of questioning. Chrysanthe knew that after she left Rhode, she was going to have to get a job, and she did have some experience with spinning and weaving from working with her mother growing up. Chrysanthe didn’t go so far as to ask if he knew of anyone who was taking on apprentices, that would have been too forward of her, and they had only just reconnected.
At that thought, Chrysanthe had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She had gotten herself into a bit of a bind by approaching a salesman that she actually knew. She knew that she didn’t have enough money for the yarn she had been asking after. Normally she would play on the sympathies of buying for the orphan children, but in this case, she’d have to explain why she ended up at Rhode’s foundlings home in the first place. ”How much for the red yarn?” Chrysanthe asked, hoping against all hope that it might be cheaper than she expected.