my maid and I turn into a busy side street. There are potters here, and I am nearly bowled over by a herd of street urchins. Bent on mischief, I have no doubt from the look of them.

Some of the stores have shut down early. I thrust myself in front of a passerby. "Why are the stores shut at this hour?" I ask. The man, who looks none too clean to me, stares at me as though I'm daft. "It's the horses. The Iceni horses," he mumbles at me and dodges around, intent on resuming his journey.

I shrug, and walk on, maid at my heel. About halfway down the street, we are rewarded by sight of an actual weaver's shop. Unlike the other establishments around it, the weaver's shop is still open.

Inside, there are stacks of cloth everywhere. But although the shop is crowded with goods, there is an air of tidiness about it. As though it is well tended. A woman sits at a table, crushing some sort of vegetation. Making dyes, I think.

She looks up at me, and I smile and raise my hand to indicate that I will look around for a bit. She immediately returns to her work. Engrossed in her craft...a good sign. It generally means quality work.

I let my hand trail along the different fabrics. Some are decidedly worth a second touch, or a third. I shiver. I love the touch of things on my skin. The whisper of silk, the soft kiss of linen. With a soft shrug of my shoulders I admit my vulnerability to the sensual.

A large pile in a back corner yields a true prize. A glorious length of green sagum wool. I must have it.

I walk to the counter. Once again the woman looks up. This time she smiles. "May I help you?" she inquires politely.

"Yes, I believe so. My name is Morga. And I would like to talk about cloth ... of all kinds."