(Spilloretta = Little Pin)

There was one time a great estate with verdant fields and crops so fertile that cautious lovers took care not to linger overlong. The house had windows on all sides, and when sun filtered through their glass like the clearest water through a brook, the servants marveled that a mortal man could be master of such splendor. In this time, a young girl and her parents were tenants on the land. The mother worked as housekeeper, planning grand meals and organizing the upkeep of the great behemoth. The house was to her like a chariot, which when driven with precision makes an exciting presentation but when mishandled crashes and burns. The girl, who was named Spilloretta, was much enamored of the house. She was a mischievous fey, however, and her parents ill-liked the prospect of carting her trouble along. So in her

cleverness, when her mother was working, she would ask, "Mother, the hem of your dress is torn. May I fix it, as you are so busy and cannot be bothered? If you come across my lord or my lady, it would not do to be so tattered, as a mangy cur before a poodle."

Her mother bristled at these barbs but saw sense, and so it was that Spilloretta would hem her mother's clothes as she went about her duties. But her eyes, sheep loosed from their flock, would seek always the windows and the tapestries and all the fine attractions. That first day, inattention sent the needle straight to her palm and she was so enraptured that she did not notice the pain until the coarse thread was through her hand and out the other end. She bit the thread off at the ends but could not extract the tingling fibers within. Wishing not to attract her mother's hawk eye and lose her new sights, she silenced her pain and from then on sewed with the grace of a lady at harp, though her music was the swish of the thread and the patter of feet.

So it was until one day an especially aromatic dessert was being prepared. The young master, who was at once very slow and very fast, bounded down the servant's stairs--for they were

closer to the kitchen and his dear desire--and in his haste thrust Spilloretta's mother out of his way. She tumbled to the bottom, dead, a cold marble bouncing against cold marble. Spilloretta gave a cry, and hastened to her side. While the young man enjoyed the spoils of his quest, she clenched her needle tight in her hand and her thoughts hard in her chest. When at length he strode from the kitchen, custard on his cravat and pleasure in his eye, he spoke, "It is good that all sorts can come together in harmony and bring joy to a youth such as I! Indeed, only the alchemy of cooperation could create such a harmonious treat..!" At length he noticed the body on the floor and continued, "I understand the task must have been arduous, and I surely appreciate the reward, but if the woman must recover from her efforts there are surely places better suited than my floor." With the barest flicker of his eye as acknowledgement he took his leave.

Without her mother's position, Spilloretta's family had to leave their small cottage. Her father's labor was not sufficient to support the now-diminished family in un-diminished circumstances. Though their new ****place*** was cramped, Spilloretta gave shelter to a fierce Erinys. Her hearth was ashen and cold but her fire climbed ever higher: she would take the house that had taken her mother. Until then, though, the only thing she took was work as a seamstress. Her skill grew apace with her anger, and it was not long before her gowns were the talk of the town, the feathers she fashioned for bald peacocks were brilliant and beautiful. But in her penury her own wardrobe was bare and tattered. The moths of ill-fortune had eaten through her meager possessions, and she did not have the wealth for replacement. Each night she looked into the sky but could not be awed by the stars: for her, they could only show themselves to advantage through the windows of IL ESTATENAME. With this thought, she prayed Heaven would grant her passage back to her only home.

After she had made her prayer three times, she could not sleep for a strange pain in her hand. When last she threw back the covers and lit a candle to examine her hand, she saw in the flickering light a sparkle in the center of her palm. 'At last,' she thought, 'I can be rid of this

thread,' but when she pulled, it did not come free of her hand. She tugged once more and before her eyes a length of dazzling thread flew from her palm. In the dim light it reflected every color and danced with promise. A little frightened, Spilloretta tugged further and further, but it would not cease unspooling. At last, a great pile of the stuff was all around her, a dragon's hoard laid at her feet. She bit off the length, but still the promise sparkled at the center of her palm. Excited with thoughts and plans, she slid the silken thread under her cot and returned to dreams.

The next day, she saw to her usual clients. Her thoughts were wont to stray to her new discovery, but she kept her eyes on her work and diligently completed the commissioned fair gowns and delicate shawls. Once the curtain of night fell, she stole to her room and retrieved her secret mass. It was a short work to thread the delicate fibers through her loom, and she set about crafting fabric from her wondrous material. When she ran out of thread, she pulled more from her secret reserve and continued.

After diligently working through the night, Spilloretta had a luxurious pile of white cambric at her feet. As the sun rose, she hid it all and again prepared to continue her contracted work. With the promise of her secret work, it was not difficult to smile and curry favor with her customers as she toiled at the pedestal of their mundane articles. Every day and every night for a month, she continued like this, until at length she had a collection of fabric finer than any Sheikh's harem: sumptuous silks, creamy crepes, ornate brocades, delicate laces, and strong bombazines comprised only the tip of her collection.

From these, Spilloretta spent her evenings concocting the most elegant creation she could envision. By day she continued her work for the upper crust. She never gave reason to complain, but each time a truly sweet design came to her, she kept the fruit and held it until the night, when she could bake it into her dessert. When at last the confection was complete, she

set about her final project. After bathing a length of her silken thread in moonlight, she crafted a chain with stitches as intricate and strong as silver. With one final pull at the wellspring of her hand, the bounty ceased and with it the pain. The very last of the thread was gone from her palm at last. From this final length she crafted a single, perfect diamond. With stitches smaller and finer than even the most exacting broker could detect, its surface glittered with more light than any mundane jewel, a perfect Aphrodite's tear.

Her fingers red and blistered, her cheeks raw from sun and duty, Spilloretta draw a spare square of silk from her remaining scraps. With delicate motions, she wiped away the evidence of her drudgery. In its path, the fabric left clean perfection. The white silk lifted splotches and pains from her skin as she traded her efforts for its purity.

As she strode to the ballroom, she was a sight of such beauty that folks would pay a fair sum merely to gaze upon. She ignored all curious gazes but one--that of her lord, the architect of her mother's collapse. No longer round with the exuberance of youth, he had traded gluttony for sartorial splendor. Struck by the sight of Spillorettas more elegant attire, his envy was evident in the very cut of his breeches. Such a fine design! What softly crinkling petticoats! These gentle curves of