At first, Arachne just smiled at the lady’s compliments-- yes, it had been a lot of work all on her own, but to say so might imply she was less than magnificent at her craft. And she certainly couldn’t afford to cast any doubt over her skill in this precarious bargaining position-- nor could she afford to back away from any challenge set before her. So when the lady encouraged her to identify the silk gown’s origins, Arachne was fully prepared to do so. She strained her eyes to study the garment (merely for certainty’s sake since she already had her theories) when the carriage lantern lit up most inexplicably. It was so sudden and unexpected-- and Arachne’s eyes were so unused to the light-- that she stumbled backwards a step, squinting. When she finally regained her balance and opened her eyes once more, Arachne didn’t have time to ponder how the fine lady had managed to light the lantern in the first place. It took all she had to keep her expression free of any scowling when the lady asked how long she’d been in the woods-- it wouldn’t do to disregard sympathy simply for her own pride’s sake, not when the fancy lady appeared even more splendid and regal by lantern’s light.
“It’s been three months,” Arachne admitted briskly, trying to keep her tone from becoming to terse and a smile plastered across her face. And although she certainly felt powerful shame gnawing at her guts like a hungry rat, Arachne was determined to keep her chin up as she addressed the lady in her carriage-- no matter how dreadful she looked in comparison. “But I can still tell Zhongguoan silk from any other-- which is the only proper choice for a gown, of course. Bharatan silk is all well and good but the stuff just isn’t as pure, not as smooth, barely fit to touch skin if you ask me. Bharatan silk belongs in tapestries and curtains. Zhongguoan silk is the stuff of gowns and bedding. And you, my lady, are most certainly a woman of taste and means since you’re wearing the very best Zhongguaon silk from the small villages in the river lands-- though I couldn’t tell which village precisely without handling the material myself and I fear the great weaving goddess, herself, would strike me down dead if I did so with three months’ worth of filth on me,” the stitch witch explained, raising her dirt-caked fingers up demonstratively.