BLYTHE COULD STILL FEEL THE MUD CAKED BENEATH HER FINGERNAILS as she
snapped her eyes open. She threw herself from the chaise in a panic; it felt like a hundred tiny insects were crawling inside her, buried beneath the first layer of her skin.
Her library was still just that—her library, a placid dreamscape where rain pattered against the window and a mighty hearth warred with the winter chill. Had it not been for the soil dirtying her fingertips, she might have believed that her discussion with Mila had been a dream. Truthfully, she wished it had been, for as pleasant as Mila had been, Blythe couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that she’d spoken with a ghost. How Signa managed to do it on the daily was beyond her understanding.
Blythe asked the room to make her a river that glinted silver beneath the moonlight, and in that river she scrubbed her hands clean before hurrying out of the library to hunt for Aris. It didn’t take long to find him—he’d left the door to his study ajar.
With quiet steps Blythe approached Life’s portrait. She must have passed it several hundred times, only now she felt the chill of the water against the woman’s skin and had the memory of her gown being tugged by the pond. As certain as she was that she was no longer dreaming, the hum of insects irked the corners of her mind and Blythe couldn’t silence what sounded like the quiet chirping of foxes and rattling bushes behind her.
When Blythe scrutinized the portrait, she recognized that Life had not been alone in it. Aris had been shading himself beneath the trees, and Blythe heard his voice teasing her from the depths of this memory. So
distracted was she in her effort to make out the words that she nearly missed his true voice calling out to her in the present.
“So the dead awakens,” Aris called. His voice was oddly hoarse. “Come in, Sweetbrier. I’ve something to show you.”
His voice drew her to the present. No longer did she feel the lapping water at her waist but instead the polished marble beneath her feet. She curled her slippered toes against it, grounding herself. As quickly as it came, Life’s memory slipped away like a falling star.
She forced down the weariness in her body as she crossed the threshold. And while Blythe knew better than to be surprised, she had a fleeting sense of disbelief that what she was seeing could be real. For how else was she to explain the factory that awaited behind a portrait?
Probably, she supposed, the same way that one might explain a library of stars and windows of forever-dreary skies. She doubted there would ever come a day when she would walk into one of Aris’s creations and feel nothing. When she wouldn’t find his mind positively magical.
Blythe followed his voice, ducking under rows of tapestries strung on moving lines. She had to weave through them, stumbling in the dim light and tripping over a corner of a rug. She threw out her arms to catch herself, only to be halted by a thousand golden threads before she could bump into one of the creations.
“Mind your step,” Aris said from behind her, his words low and heavy with exhaustion. “You don’t want to touch those.”
Aris’s shirt was looser than when she’d last seen him, the top buttons undone and his sleeves disheveled and rolled up to his arms. There was a splash of red paint on his collar that made her blush at the memory of how it’d gotten there.
“What is this place?” she asked as the threads unwound themselves from her, disappearing into a slant of light.
“It’s where a soul comes to have its fate woven.” He waved her forward, maneuvering through the room with the grace of someone who’d walked these floors a thousand times. Blythe tried her best to keep up, craning her neck this way and that, curious where the souls might be hiding. The room wasn’t chilled as was usual when Death or a spirit was nearby, and she could see no tiny mud creatures like the one Mila had helped her build.
“I don’t see any spirits,” Blythe whispered, not wanting to offend them
in case any could hear her. Aris only laughed.
“I didn’t mean it so literally. This room is fueled by my magic. Even when I’m without a needle in hand, fates are forever being woven. It’s the perk of my powers, and I suppose the powers of those like me. Regardless of where we are or what we’re doing, so long as we exist then the world will continue as it should.”
That, at least, answered the question of her own abilities. It stood to reason that if Fate and the others had a purpose, then Life must, too. But Blythe had existed for twenty-one years without knowing what she was capable of. She had never crafted a life in her hands, nor had she so much as glimpsed a soul until moments ago. There were a million things she didn’t understand, but at least she could feel relief about this.
She glanced again to the tapestries that emerged from God only knew where. Each one that slid into view was empty at first, gaining stitches as it traveled across its line. On the opposite side, coming in from the reverse wall, were stitches that undid themselves thread by thread until they ended up bare. Where the threads went, however, was a curious question indeed. For while she watched them fall to the floor, they disappeared before she could blink.
She had to give Aris some credit; it was meticulously organized.
As odd a place as this self-sustained factory was, it captivated her. Though Blythe told herself to keep close to Aris, she found herself distracted by the glistening threads and wandering closer to the tapestries, desperate to understand the stories they foretold. She stretched out her finger to skim it along one’s surface without any awareness of what she was doing, but Aris caught her hand before she could make contact.
“As nosy as ever,” he chided without any harshness. “Fight the temptation. Should you touch those threads with your bare skin, you’ll feel like you’re inside someone else’s body, experiencing their entire life in a matter of seconds.”
“Seconds?” Blythe snatched her hand back, clutching it to her chest as though it were primed to betray her. “How is that possible?”
“In the same way that all this is possible, which is to say that I have no idea. In this room, only seconds would have passed. But you’ll feel every minute of their life. Every breath, every ache, every last piece of who they are. And when you are yourself again, you’ll feel lost in your own body.”
Blythe clamped her teeth tight, keeping her hands tucked to her sides. “And that’s what you do each day?” Terror weakened her voice. “You
disappear like that? Into another life?”
A hint of a smile cleaved Aris’s face. “For the ones I weave by hand, yes. At least in a sense. I’ve grown to become more aware that it’s not my own body or memories that I’m experiencing, but ones that I’m in control of weaving. Still, I’m sure you understand now why I prefer some variety in my stories.”
She did, though Blythe could hardly stomach the idea of being trapped in such a state. She’d always known that Aris held more power than she could fathom, but to live so many lives… to be so many different people while still trying to stay true to himself. She wondered how he managed not to split at the seams each time he came back to himself.
They came to a desk at the back of the room. Upon it was what was probably meant to be another tapestry, though compared to the others it was an abomination, disfigured and fraying at the edges.
“Is that normal?” She bent to get a closer look at the monstrosity. Where the other tapestries started with a thread of silver and ended with one of black, this one was reversed. And if that wasn’t odd enough, no other colors existed in between. There was only a starting stitch of black, and everything else that followed was silver. Even as it lay spread atop the table, new stitches wove into the tapestry. And yet, somehow, it never appeared to grow any longer.
Aris lifted the tapestry, holding it at a distance as though the thing might somehow soil him. “It certainly is not normal,” he scoffed, squinting as he twisted it from front to back to inspect the endless stitching. “I was looking for any signs of who might be responsible for Thorn Grove’s vandalisms when I heard it calling out. This abomination even sounds hideous, as grating as a bow dragged across too-taut strings.”
Blythe listened for the sound but heard nothing. “Who does it belong to?”
Aris’s frown deepened. He pried one hand from his gloves with the help of his teeth and brushed a bare finger down the length of the silver threads. “That’s the strangest part; I haven’t a clue. I can touch the threads all I like, but I see nothing. I’ve only ever known one other like this. It was years ago, but the entire tapestry turned black before I could piece together whose it
was.”
If it was true that silver was meant to represent Life, then perhaps this monstrosity belonged to her. Blythe lifted her own hand to inspect it, and when Aris didn’t draw away, she held her breath and gingerly tapped the threads with a finger. Her breath loosened when nothing happened. At least, she hadn’t seen anything. But the moment she eased away from the tapestry her stomach hollowed as if someone had dug a shovel through her insides.
“I don’t see anything, either.” She pressed a hand over her mouth, which began to prickle as though she’d eaten something tart. “But good God, Aris. It’s sickening. Can you not burn the thing?”
“I already tried.” Aris tossed it back on the table and promptly wiped his hands with a handkerchief. “Even the flames want no part of it. Your tapestry and Signa’s were odd, too, though they were nothing like this.”
She heard Mila’s warning—you must fix what has been set in motion— as her attention fell to the tapestry once more. It had not changed in the seconds she’d looked away, yet she still had to rub her hands over her arms to ease the rising goose bumps. The longer she stared at it, the more ill she felt, as if the ground were trying to swallow her whole.
“You think it’s connected to whatever is happening at Thorn Grove.” It wasn’t a question, but Aris nodded.
“I don’t believe in coincidence.” Looking at the tapestry, neither did she.
“Whatever it is, I will handle it,” Aris promised, the authority in his voice making Blythe realize just how terrified she must have seemed. She was still so cold. Still fighting wave after wave of goose bumps and a churning stomach since touching the tapestry. A sudden cough rattled her lungs, and her fear turned to alarm at the spray of blood on her fingertips. Aris was beside her within the second, one hand steadying Blythe as more blood spilled from her throat onto her trembling hands.
“Breathe.” It was an urgent, whispered command that Blythe had no use for. It took every ounce of her effort to draw the breaths in, her eyes watering as she collapsed against him. Her mouth tasted of iron, and she realized with horror that part of the blood had come not from her throat, but from the roof of her mouth. She pressed her tongue to the spot, letting out a cry when she felt the rough, painful patches.
Sores.
Blythe clutched her throat, praying that this was a dream. That she would wake up any minute to find that she was still lying on her library chaise.
“Aris.” Blythe grabbed for his hand, heart thundering as she tried to process what was happening.
Had someone fed her something? Given her something?
For over a month she’d been so tired but had believed it a passing illness. Remnants of an old poisoning that she was still recovering from, or a lingering cold.
But as her vision filled with flashes of dirt and her skin itched as if invisible insects were crawling on her, she knew the truth of it. Her husband was right—nothing was a coincidence.
“Aris.” She whispered his name again, fingers digging into his skin as she tasted belladonna on her tongue. “It’s Chaos.”
