If anyone had told her six months ago that she’d find herself apprenticed to a weaver, Madison would have called them several things unrepeatable in front of small children. She’d fought hard to win the grudging acceptance of her male co-workers and the idea that she’d throw all of that away just to indulge a hobby was absurd.

Funny how quickly absurd lost it’s context when you were ripped from one universe into another. In a world where there were no power lunches, no corporate posturing, and no Wall Street, a hobby was suddenly the only way to keep fed.

She pulled a strand of almost-wool from the dying basin with her stick, checking to make sure the purple would actually hold this time. It was still lighter than she would have liked, and she reinforced the condensing spells on the indigo waters.