A Measure of Crimson

A tiny spool of burgundy silk thread had rolled into the open trench of an ebony inkstand, its loose fiber trailing carelessly toward a blot of dried soot. I stepped across the leather desk mat with deliberate calm, gathering my wide sleeves. Rather than allowing the supple filament to tangle against the cold horn pen-tray, I braced both palms against the carved wooden flanges of the spool. With slow, measured leverage, I wound the stray strand taut around its central core until the frayed end tucked neatly beneath the outer layer. Order settled once more across the dark wood.