The weaver worked the tapestry in vertical strips, hanging each finished column on the frame before starting the next. Leftmost first, then each column to the right in turn. When the frame was full she stepped back to admire it — and saw the moths. They had found the oldest thread, the first column she'd hung, the one that had been exposed longest while she worked on the rest. Eaten to nothing while the newer columns, still smelling of the dye vat, were untouched. She rewove the ruined strip and sealed the room.