Guarding the Filigree

Slipping indoors from the terrace to evade the noon glare, I came upon a velvet workbasket left carelessly agape upon a low stool in the drawing room. Mortals possess a tragic habit of abandoning delicate things to ruin. Sprawled amidst the tangled spools was a band of black bobbin lace, its immaculate picots threatened by the jagged point of an ornate stork scissor. With deliberate care, I stepped forward and guided the sharp beak aside, then smoothed the fine mesh flat against the mahogany boards with the edge of my palm. True craftsmanship deserves sanctuary, particularly from the clumsy hands that paid for it.