Content warnings

Nausea and vomiting.

Emerald green lace hanging again and again in every direction so that as I moved through the room, what ought to have been a room, I felt I might uncover a person, startled as I am, that I’ve caught them dressing. Chantilly, bobbin, guipure, knotted, knitted, on and on. Where is the floor? The door? The wiry buttermilk cat that led me into this maze? And how might I leave?

From the left comes the clunk of heel on hardwood; someone’s found the footing I can’t, and it seems they’re headed this way. “Is-is someone there?” I ask so pitifully the last word drops to nowhere. I grasp at a beaded bunch desperately, art deco embroidery presses into my palm; a flimsy anchor for a man on the verge of vomiting.

My breath shoots in at the sight of a hand there, suddenly, curling over pleated trim and peeling the fabric away. I must’ve looked ghastly, clawing at their delicate embellishments like an animal. “You’re a bit lost, aren’t you?” comes the voice, smooth as egg yolk. Before my stammering starts, they’re under my arm and around my back. “Hold on to me.” Then, in a blink, there’s the ground, and I heave violently. The stranger is kind enough to keep me upright, despite my pincer grip.

“You followed Antony,” they say plainly to more of my retching.

“What?” I barely manage, eyes squeezed shut. I sound insolent. I heave again, then moan when nothing comes. A consoling sigh floats by my ear. It occurs to me suddenly how wet I must be against their clothes; sweat, drool, God knows what else. But pulling away, my legs buckle like snapped banana stems.

“Better to sit a while,” they say, guiding me somewhere. It feels like a wooden bench, and I thank every known deity. Is there anything sturdier, more unyielding? They linger a moment, breath warming my ear, then slip away without a word.

The stillness is a balm. I don’t move for some time, not until my body sends away the heat of vertigo, and sweat settles into stickiness, and quiet, easy breath returns. When my eyes flicker open at last, I’m relieved to see a textured red rug sprawled over slatted wood floors. Warm midday light beaming through the rightward window. Not a lick of green in sight.

My gaze floats up and I realize they’re a man, about my age and height, embarrassingly. He’s gone and sat at a loom, and he’s working with such focus you’d think he’d been there ages. “Would you like some water?” he asks, as if to the air and walls. “Yes,” I muster. He all but glances at a pitcher nearby, which proceeds to pour its contents into a stout, sun-colored glass. Some part of me notes this, but I’m too parched to fuss. I fetch the glass and find a seat on a tufted ottoman a few steps away. He glances at me expectantly, passing the shuttle beneath unwoven threads, then back again.

“Have I passed on?” I finally ask, stupidly. His eyebrows float up. “You’ve never followed a perciple before.” His gray-brown irises hold my gaze, crinkle with amusement when I only stare back.

“Perciples open doorways, mostly for other spellfolk, but every now and then they’ll let a struggling human in. Invite some wonder back into their life.” Is that what that was? Wonder?

“I’m sorry you landed among my threadwares, supply for my shop. It’s difficult to navigate with no orienter. So much fabric, even I get lost sometimes.” When he smiles wide, I see vicious teeth, like those of an anglerfish. His lips close quickly, registering my dismay.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like,” he speaks away from me now, toward the fabric he’s forming, “take this corridor,” he nods toward the opposite wall, “two windows down and turn right. There will be a door that opens wherever it was you entered.” The rhythmic hum of weaving returns.

I set the glass down and, after a moment, notice the rich tapestries draped across nearly every inch of the workshop. Waves of peach, periwinkle, sage, hues of citrus, and ember bathed in sunlight. My eyes float along, and eventually linger on a quilt unfurled nearby; a soothing blend of orange, cinnamon, and lavender with small cross-stitches of cherry red. As if by gust of wind, I drift over. Then, for reasons I can’t explain, I say:

“There’s a shop in the Garment District I pass a lot; Mood Fabrics on 37th. I went in last weekend.” My fingers press against the vibrant red stitching and it presses back, as though alive. “I don’t own a sewing machine and I don’t know how to sew, and I don’t know what I’d make if I did… but it felt good to be in there, watching others measure, cut, talk about their ideas.”

When I trail off, I realize two things: first, that the needlework reminds me of a hand-sewn bear my grandmother had made for me as a child, and second, that I’m about to cry. And then I do cry, in that quiet way that comes when you’ve forgotten you’re a feeling thing for too long. The tears slip silently down my cheeks and settle into the quilt. Its colors swirl together beautifully, like a summer sorbet. I remember the smell of fresh-cut basil at dinnertime, the space beneath our mahogany table, where little wooden tops could spin to infinity. I remember the blackberry bramble in the backyard, worth all the cuts and scrapes for a burst of sweetness.

I wonder where that little boy’s gone.

After a moment, the weaver’s footsteps arrive at my side. He speaks, gentler than before. “We’re not always dealt a fair hand,” he holds the quilt’s trim as if considering it, “Sometimes all that’s left to do is wander into a fabric shop.”

I press a forearm against my damp chin, suddenly self-conscious. Then decide it doesn’t matter. When I face him again, he’s smiling softly at his work and then at me.

“Would you like it?” he asks, “the quilt?”

“That would be wonderful,” I whisper.

END

Author’s note

“Wonderful” is inspired by the author’s time as a fashion blogger (2010-15), the whimsy of Satoshi Kon’s Paprika and Diana Wynne Jones’ Howl's Moving Castle, and the lightness always found in allowing our feelings, no matter their weight or inconvenience.

Yasmeen Fahmy

Yasmeen Fahmy is an Egyptian American writer and mother based in New Jersey. Her stories are forthcoming in Night Shades, Saros Speculative Fiction, and If There's Anyone Left.