The rather surly young woman delivered their evening meal. A thin soup, cheese, and bread. Luis did, at least, have a cask of reasonable wine. The de Aguilera's weren't exactly generous with supplies, but they weren't entirely misers, Luis explained.

"So," Luis said, "the problems of getting the machine to work are

…" He began a litany of complaints, possibilities, conjectures and outright fantasy. Even Agustin knew more about wool and how it was processed, having seen the lavadero Alfaro, near Segovia in operation.

"Have you no sisters?" Agustin asked. "Have you not observed a shearing, even?"

Luis looked dumbfounded that he would even ask. "And what does that have to do with building the machine, I ask? We take the wool, we make the machine make the thread."

The woman, who had returned to pick up the remains of the meal, laughed out loud. Agustin, who had four younger sisters, joined her.

Luis looked hurt for a moment, then explained. "My family… my mother died, years ago, when I was small. So, no, I have no sisters. Only an aunt, who sent me to apprentice to a smith in El Ferrol, on the coast, after my father died. Which is how I became interested in clocks, because of navigation."

Luis' story was a long one, which involved quite a bit of travel, a number of misadventures, and untold heroism. At least, according to Luis. Through it all, the woman listened, leaning against the doorpost, spinning with a hand spindle. Agustin watched as the thread grew longer, then, when the spindle had nearly reached the floor, the girl drew it up and wound on the thread. Again and again, the thread lengthened.

Finally, Agustin could stand it no longer. "Why this way? My sisters use a wheel." He gestured at the spindle. "And what is your name, please?"