The Brass Turret

I slipped back inside from the courtyard and scrambled up the carved spindle of the armchair to reach the side table. Resting flat beside an open sewing tin was a polished brass thimble, dimpled all over like a miniature honeycombed tower. I stepped onto the linen runner, gripped the rim with both curved hands, and hoisted it upright. With a firm nudge of my boot, I wedged its base right against the brass screw clamp of an embroidery hoop. It locked into the wooden groove with a solid, satisfying click. Leaning back against the cool textured metal, I have the grandest little dome to wind down for the night.