Chapter 6: The Visitor on the Lane
In late April, when the wild bloodroot and violets were blooming in white and purple carpets along the Hudson ridges, an old commuter bus stopped at the rural crossing three miles from Rhinebeck.
A lone passenger stepped down into the gravel.
It was Julian.
He wore a plain dark wool jacket, worn denim trousers, and scuffed leather boots. His bespoke suits had been sold to pay his defense retainers; his styled hair was trimmed short and practical; his face was thin, pale, and lined with the deep, agonizing exhaustion of a man whose pride had been stripped down to the bone.
He walked down the winding dirt lane, carrying a small canvas duffel bag.
Through the blossoming apple trees, the rhythmic, clear sound of the wooden looms and the laughing voices of young women singing traditional weaving rounds drifted on the spring breeze.
Julian reached the split-rail cedar fence marking the boundary of the guild.
Standing near the open dye-shed doors was Elena, wearing a canvas apron, holding a copper kettle of hot water, checking the temperature of a vat of natural indigo.
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Julian stopped at the gate, his hands gripping the rough wood, his chest heaving with the sudden, crushing weight of everything he had thrown away.
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