A Foreign Fabric

A textured grey wool blanket hung low over the armrest, its folds dropping toward the floor like a stepped cliff. I climbed down from the low table to examine the weave. The thick woolen strands crisscrossed in a dense, interlocking herringbone. Probing with the butt of my spear, I found the fabric yielded with quiet resistance. Trapped within a deep furrow was a smooth wooden coat button. I braced my stance, levered the tip under its rim, and eased the disc free. It tumbled softly onto the flat wooden floorboards, clear of the fibers.