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Several shades of wool, dyed from the range of plants Isabela had grown for her once she had explained what she was trying to do. Many random-looking rolls stuffed into her mochila. One of those spindles Tío Bruno had made for her past birthday, turning out to spin very evenly and long, despite his self-effacing remarks about the shoddy quality.
Mirabel was ready for battle, armed against the moths who had hidden behind the walls - and time itself.
She spun and plied some skeins to compare, then held them up to Bruno’s shoulder. “Which green do you think looks best?”