Rosalba was sitting in the shade of the doorway, making lace. At first her fingers were slow and clumsy, but after a while they caught the rhythm and seemed to work of their own accord, the delicate lace tumbling onto the cushion in a froth of white. As her fingers took over, she allowed her mind to wander. This lace was exactly the same pattern as the lace that her grandmother and she had made for her own wedding dress all those years ago. She remembered her grandmother teaching her ...