She carried one with her.
She carried one with her for a hundred years.
Maybe more.
Maybe less.
She had one for so long that she doesn't remember being without one.
All women and girls used to carry one, to have one.
To be without was… unthinkable.
A workbag.
A thimble.
A needle case.
A darning egg.
A tiny pair of scissors.
A silver tatting shuttle.
The twin sister of the silver tatting shuttle.
And… the work.
Perhaps it started out as handkerchief edging, or lace for a niece or nephew's christening gown.
It soon went beyond that.
Way, way beyond.

It began as white silk, slowly yellowing with age.
In some places, cotton thread.
Black, yellow, white, red, green, indigo, whatever came to hand.
In others, split apart twine. Coarse and rough.
Or yarn.
Or string.
Or human hair, a lot of human hair, some of it hers, dark strands among the pale.
Sinew, yes, some of it human.
Mingled in with cat hair, dental floss, and banana fiber.
And cobwebs. Many cobwebs.
Don't forget the wormwood roots.
Copulating with candlewicks, piano wire, and det cord.
Hemp, sisal, jute, cedar fiber, and pineapple strands, too.
All in there, added as available.
A silent echo of places been, seen and long gone.
But mainly visions.

It never paid to look too close to the work because of those visions.
They bubbled up in her head from behind her mad eyes,
Flowed down her arms and into her busy fingers,
Pouring out of her double tatting shuttles in a stream of lace.
A very disturbing stream of lace.
Thanks to the visions.

In some places there were broken human teeth, jagged and gleaming.
Along with fingernails, claws, and scales.
Occasionally there were rubies, pearls and bits and pieces of assorted metallic junk.
All added not randomly, but because the visions told her that these things needed to be where they were, or the work, wouldn't work.
Some parts were scorched.
Others soaked in blood, semen, sweat, or tears.
And piss.
Don't forget piss.
After all, the work was a record.

You wouldn't want to wear the work.
Or sleep under it.
Or even eat off of it as a tablecloth.
No, it was too heavy, too disturbing… too dirty
You wouldn't want to sleep in Drusilla's visions made solid.
Good thing it burned up.
In one big ball of stinking, sizzling flame, whoomp!
Thanks to the Slayer, Drusilla's hands now sit idle, waiting for their shuttles, wanting to work, missing their calling.

It's just as well they are idle.
The world doesn't need something as heavy
As visions rendered in lace.
Not like Drusilla's lace, anyway.
Definitely not like Drusilla's lace.