Thread by @Joannechocolat

Cup of tea: half an hour to kill: you know the drill, Twitter, #Storytime.

New followers, #Storytime: in which I write a story, live and on Twitter; some people listen; some unfollow. And it always starts like this:

There is a story the bees used to tell, which makes it hard to disbelieve. #Storytime

To a city of the Folk, known for its weavers and dyers of silk, there came a traveller from foreign lands. #Storytime

He must have been a man of wealth, for he came in the finest of carriages, upholstered in yellow leather and drawn by eight horses, exquisitely matched, and bearing a mountain of baggage. #Storytime

The man himself, when he emerged, was the picture of elegance, wearing a coat of grey velvet embroidered all over with silver thread. His stockings were silk, with extravagant clocks, and his shoes had heels fully five inches high. #Storytime

But the most striking thing was his waistcoat, which was a perfect crimson red; a red that the dyers and weavers of the city had longed for years to make for themselves. #Storytime

The man settled into his quarters in the most fashionable part of town, and became acquainted with everything the city had to offer. The people called him Redbreast because of his crimson waistcoat, and courted him for his money, his looks and his extensive wardrobe. #Storytime

And every day, he wore something in that arresting crimson red; a pair of the softest leather gloves; a feather in his tricorne hat; an evening coat of fine moiré that seemed to rival the sunset. #Storytime

“Where does he have these fabrics made?” whispered the nobles of the town. “What tailor knows his secret?” #Storytime

Finally, an enterprising dyer of the city came to the man with a purse of gold. “I must know the secret of this dye,” he said. “It is so much brighter than any we have; the rose, the coromandel. “What dye do you use? What mordant? Share your secret. Name your price.” #Storytime

The man looked amused. “My price is not in gold,” he told the dyer. “But if I tell you the secret, one day you will certainly pay.” #Storytime

“Tell me,” persisted the dyer, dazzled by the magnificent red of his patron’s velvet coat, and of his silken waistcoat, adorned with grosgrain ribbon.
“Very well,” said the man, and whispered something into the dyer’s ear. #Storytime

The dyer grew pale. “Surely not,” he said. “This cannot be the secret.”
The man simply shrugged. “You have it,” he said. “But it is your choice to use it.” #Storytime

The dyer thought long and hard about the secret the man had given him. The dye to make the crimson and the mordant to make it stable came from such a terrible source that he barely dared consider them. #Storytime

And yet the crimson was so fine, and his customers so eager, that he decided to try it out, just once, on a roll of silk, which he sold to a tailor to fashion a gown for a beautiful lady. #Storytime

But the gown was such a success that the lady’s friends all wanted the same; and crimson gloves and fans to match; and feathers for their tall coiffures. #Storytime

And all the men wanted waistcoats and hose and cloaks and coats in the new crimson red; and the dyer made a fortune. The tailor, his friend, made a fortune too, although he was resentful of the fact that the dyer would not tell the secret of the new colour. #Storytime

“Tell me, my friend, if you love me,” he would say, until at last, in confidence, the dyer told him the secret. #Storytime

And such was the tailor’s horror at the origin of the crimson dye that he told all his customers too, every time in confidence, until it became the best-known scandal in town, and his crimson the most sought-after shade in the whole of the city. #Storytime

The rich wore it on capes and gown; the poor in knots and ribbons. And the terrible secret was passed around the city like a crimson plague; and the more people heard, the more they were shocked, and drawn to the wonderful fabrics. #Storytime

“Yes it is very shocking,” they said, “But everyone is wearing it.” And soon the whole of the city was nothing but a crimson sea of velvet, taffeta and silk; of leather, lace and calico. #Storytime

By then, the man they called Redbreast had quietly left the city. No-one ever saw him there again, or even thought to remember him. #Storytime

And the city became the capital of dyers and tailors of fabrics; and its wealth and beauty were famed throughout the many crimson lands of Hell.
#Storytime
The end