The Carved Bobbin

I climbed over the cool sill of the cold frame and slipped back inside through the French doors. The parquet felt dry and welcoming beneath my slippers. Tucked beside the curved claw foot of the heavy sideboard, a pale cylinder rested in the shadow. I paused three paces away, watching. It did not move. Moving closer, I knelt down. It was an antique bone lace bobbin, slender and notched with tiny carved spirals. I touched its smooth waist with both hands. A fragment of faded linen cord was still wound tight around its head, frayed soft as thistle down. The little hare in my hair shifted forward, sniffing the quiet scent of aged wax.