A Bolt of Red Tafetta
The rich, crisp red cloth moved under her fingers, shot with two tones of color - rose red and a fiery scarlet - so it appeared almost to be a flame when it moved in the light. Under the lamps of the tailors workshop, it moved like a river rustling material. What a dress it would make for a ball, Mary thought as she unrolled it once to look at it while she was alone and her employers were at asleep. Deft at filling in the account books and sleight of hand at removing this and that from the business, she could quietly take buttons, threads and small off cuts of pieces to make things for people who came to her after hours where she lived. But this would be at least one bolt, ‘just once’ she thought - ‘just once, I’ll take it just once’. The roll unraveled before her and flipped out on the table, the very last of it left over from another dress. One gas lamp petered out and the room went dark. Mary blew out the candle by her side and hurriedly folded the cloth into her sewing bag.
