I draw a shuddering breath, then sit.
She collects my blistered, bloody hands and holds them tight, her skin so fine and papery it makes my breath hitch.
They don’t even feelreal.
Frowning, I look into her pale eyes, noting the sheen of tears glazing them as she tightens her grip, cradling my visible hurts. But there’s something about her sorrowful gaze that makes me think she sees the pain beneath my skin, too.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Smiling gently, she shakes her head.
I break eye contact and squeeze my lids shut, feeling her fingers coast across the burn mark on the inside of my wrist. She makes a soft humming sound, then eases both my hands toward the tapestry.
Realizing her intentions, I try to pull back. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say, but her grip only tightens before she twists spools of color around my fingers, guiding me to make the weaves.
I resign to her whim, awkward at first—uncertain—but there’s confidence in Hattie’s silent instruction. In the way she manipulates my hands so that together, we move almost as fast as she does on her own.
My hammering heart slows, worries melting, mind fixating on the twist of thread as she guides me through her craft.
Many minutes slip by, and I wonder over the spool of timeHattie’sspent on the weaves she’s made. Over the stories she’s told in her own abstract way.
Perhaps, like me, she spins circles to escape the noise in her own head.
She uses her warp stick to tighten another line, giving the flowers a little more shape, and I look at her.
Hands stilling, her powdery gaze strikes me.
“I’ve seen these flowers before,” I whisper, and a line forms between her brows. “On the wall at Castle Noir.”
Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and a whimper slips out, features crumbling as tears spill.
Shit.
Perhaps I’ve made a terrible mistake. Poured salt in old wounds that haven’t healed.
I reach for her hand—
The clock above the mantle chimes, and Hattie jumps, her wild gaze whipping to the door. Then her hands are moving fast: elbow resting on her flattened palm, the other pointed to the ceiling. She flips the supporting hand and stretches the fingers on that reaching one, making it look like branches waving in the wind. She moves again, making a V shape with her fingers, the tip of her middle finger touching her upper cheek before pointing the same gesture forward, grunting at me.
I shake my head. “I-I don’t know, Hattie. I’m so sorry …”
A groan drones out of her, and she pushes her lantern at my chest, stealing nervous peeks at the clock. Then she’s fisting my shirt, lugging me to my feet with a strength that belies her frail stature. She shoves me toward the door so hard I stumble back, catching myself before I fall flat on my ass.
My mind whirs; heart hammers.
“Fwee!”
Her rasped voice shakes me to the bone.
Shecantalk … she just can’t do it properly.
She makes the second hand gesture again, waving her stretched hand. “Fwee!”
“I— I don’t …”
“Fwee!”
Fwee … Fwee …
