98. Ivan

It almost felt like the first time I saw Cherish in the Cage. The way her ocean blue eyes shone up at me, shimmering with tears and fear destroyed Kohl and me. The idea that she might not be a good mother, I didn’t dare ask how long she had felt like that. How many weeks of my snow-bound farmer-questioning had she spent trying to blindly pull wool together?

Waking first in the morning I went back to the cupboard. Every colour under the rainbow was there. So many attempted items that she had pushed away in shame. Crouched on the floor I found her original instructions, handwritten, presumably by Martha, crumpled and thrown away.

Smirking, I decided to give it a go. Sitting on the sofa with a ball of blue wool and knitting needles I stared at the tangled nonsense in front of me. I had this image of me cheekily placing a little pair of gloves or booties on the pillow before she woke but the twisting, threading, repetitive motion had me completely confused.

As I stared down, huffing aw