A drawn-thread hemstitch runs a hand's width in from every edge in a linen blended napkin, the detail that separates a napkin from a square of cloth. The weave is open and slightly slubbed, pressing flat under a glass and folding into a sharp point when you want one. At fifteen centimetres they are cocktail size meant for the base of a coupe, a wedge of something on a side plate, the hour before dinner rather than dinner itself. Twenty-four to a set, because these are the things that go missing.
