"You might have woven a hundred funeral shrouds by now," Eurydice whispers to me, one evening very late, as I stumble to my bed, head dizzy after hours of unweaving what I wove.
I look at her sharply. Her face, hidden behind the candle's glow, gives away nothing.
I shrug my shoulders. "Thus it is always with women's work," I say, doing my best to keep my tone light. "We undo so much to keep vile men from touching us."
Something about her face softens at that, and she nods. "Tomorrow evening, my lady, let me do it for you."