Celeste’s wings begin to beat so rapidly they create a small dust storm in the kitchen. “There’s a woman in your house. And she’s still alive. And she’s smiling!”
“Celeste,” I say with what I consider admirable restraint. “This is June Hartwell. June, this is Celeste Moreau, my business partner and the bane of my existence.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” June says with that practical politeness that comes so naturally to her. “I’ve never met a… mothwoman?”
Celeste’s face breaks into a wide grin. “Mothman is the proper term, actually. I mean, think about it. You aren’t a huwoman, are you?”
June laughs, the sound warming the room. “Fair point.”
“Anyhow!” Celeste exclaims, finally releasing the doorframe and practically bouncing into the kitchen. “I have beendyingto meet you! The delivery driver who got past Mr. Trust-Issues-And-Security-Webs! The woman who didn’t run off screaming the moment she saw Mr. Grumpylegs!”
“The bacon is burning,” I announce, turning back to the stove with a growl of frustration.
“Let it burn!” Celeste waves dismissively with her upper arms while her lower ones begin collecting the packages she dropped. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in this house since… ever!”
“There was a mudslide,” June explains, moving toward the coffee pot with the casual confidence of someone who belongs in this space. “I’m stuck up here until they clear the roads.”
“A mudslide?” Celeste repeats. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“And you’ve been here since then?” Her compound eyes dart between us, clearly calculating the timeline and its implications. “Overnight?”
“Celeste,” I warn.
“What?” She adopts an expression of exaggerated innocence that wouldn’t fool a blind cave fish. “I’m just making conversation with your houseguest who mysteriously appeared during a natural disaster and is now making herself coffee in your kitchen while you cook breakfast wearing pink slippers. Oh my God, it’s so beautifully domestic!”
June hands me a spatula with a smile that suggests she’s enjoying this far too much. “The bacon really is burning.”
I rescue the bacon from imminent cremation while Celeste continues her enthusiastic interrogation of June. Withinminutes, they’re seated at the table, June sipping coffee while Celeste gestures wildly with all four arms.
“So you’re the one who brought him those slippers! Oh, you must forgive him for making you drive such a dangerous route to deliver such a frivolous purchase. He has aproblem,” Celeste stage-whispers, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Eighty years of deprivation followed by unrestricted access to online shopping. It’s like giving a toddler a credit card and a case of energy drinks. I really should have considered the consequences when I first showed him how to use a laptop.”
“I can hear you,” I remind them, preparing plates of somewhat presentable eggs and only slightly blackened bacon.
“We know,” they respond in unison, then break into matching grins that send a chill of foreboding down my spine.
“You should have seen what it took to drag him into the twenty-first century,” Celeste continues, accepting the plate I push toward her despite not being invited to breakfast. “When I met him twenty years ago, he was still living in a cave with no electricity, working by candlelight like some gothic novel protagonist.”
“That’s not entirely accurate,” I protest as I set down the remaining plates and sit at the table.
“He hadonebattery-powered lamp he stole from some campers. He treated it like it was made of solid gold.” Celeste sighs, her proboscis unfurling to delicately sample the eggs. “Anyway, I finally convinced him to join the modern world when I pointed out that he could sell his textiles online for triple what we were getting through my local connections.”
“So you’re basically like his agent?” June asks.
“You could say that, I suppose,” Celeste answers. “I got trapped in one of his webs long ago, and I managed to talk him into letting me represent him and sell his beautiful weavings. It was that, or get eaten, but it wasn’t a lie. When I saw all the textiles splayed across his cave, I knew I was looking at the work of a master weaver. He’s honestly the best silk producer on the continent. Museums buy his tapestries through me. They have been even since before the Great Unveiling, when I still had a human disguise. They thought I represented some reclusive genius who refused to appear in public.”
“Not entirely untrue,” I mutter.
“So you’ve been creating and selling art for decades now?” June looks at me with new appreciation.
“It passes the time,” I say, uncomfortable with the attention.
“It paid for this entire house and his ridiculous shopping addiction,” Celeste corrects. “I’m glad he discovered online shipping. I used to have to deliver everything he wanted myself, with these tiny little wings! One time, I had to fly in a whole memory foam topper for him!”
“That seems perfectly reasonable,” June defends me, though her eyes are gleaming with amusement. “He has eight legs. That’s a lot of pressure points to consider.”
Celeste’s wings flutter with delight. “Oh, I like you. You’re exactly what this grumpy spider needs.”
