Atropos’ hand squeezed hard enough to leave marks. Iliana bit her tongue to keep from crying out. “Patience, child,” the crone said.
“Attie, let’s just get this over with. Thanatos is already annoying me with requests for updates,” Lachesis groused.
“Fine.”
Before Iliana could ask another question, her world skipped, as if reality had hiccupped. The golden room wavered, reformed, then expanded impossibly. When she could see clearly again, she was somewhere completely different, in an enormous room so vast she couldn’t see the ceiling or the far walls. And the walls she could see…
She moved closer and gasped. They were moving—glowing.
The walls were made of threads, billions of them, radiating with light and woven impossibly. Some flickered dimly while others snapped without warning. Threads lengthened and branched, joining others in intricate patterns.
Curiosity overwhelmed caution, and she reached toward one of the glowing strands—white, humming with light.
A hand grasped her wrist.
“Unless you want Martha from London to drop dead, I would suggest you keep your hands to yourself,” Atropos said firmly.
Iliana stared at the goddess. “I’m sorry—Martha?”
The goddess gave her a dry look. “Each strand is a life. Touch it, and you alter their fate. Or end it.”
Acid churned in Iliana’s stomach at what she’d almost done, and she quickly stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Right. No touching the pretty lights. Got it.”
“Come,” Atropos commanded.
They followed Clotho and Lachesis as they moved through the twisting path of lifelines. Iliana was careful to stay well away from the pulsing strands that lined the walls, although the variety of colors and number of threads interwoven into them held her transfixed.
A nearby strand snapped, its light dying out before the thread dissolved. The air wavered where it had been, and a cold breeze rushed past, moving Iliana’s hair.
“It was their time,” Atropos said.
Iliana’s voice broke. “You felt that?”
The crone turned to her, smiling. “Oh, child. So did you.”
Death. That was death. A person had just died.
Iliana shivered. The callousness with which the goddess said those words sent horror skating through her. She could understand hardening yourself to something you dealt with day in and day out. Thanatos and Anubis dealt with death, too, but this seemed different. Colder.
The Fates didn’t carry death.They arranged it.
Iliana wasn’t sure if she was just another name on a string or the thread about to get snipped.
The sisters stopped before a cluster of strings, not woven into a wall but floating above the ground at the end of one hall, with a marble wall as its backdrop. Five blindingly white strands were wrapped around a single, duller one.
This was hers; her lifeline. Her hands jerked in her pockets. One wrong move and everything could fall apart.
“Breathe, child,” Clotho said. “This is you. And those,” she plucked two of the radiant lines where they rested against hers, “are the gods who have crossed your path.”
Iliana flinched, expecting the fragile strands to snap, but they held. “Okay, so, if these are their lifelines, where are yours?”
Lachesis hummed. “‘Crossed your path’ is too light a phrase. They will mean more to you and you to them if you let them.”
“Mean more? I’m human. They’re gods. How can our lives possibly intertwine like that?” She motioned to the strands.
“They haven’t,” Lachesis said.
Iliana leaned in. Now that she looked closer, she saw it. None of the gods’ lines truly entwined with hers. Two wrapped themselves loosely around her thread, and the others barely touched it. She wondered if one of them was Panacea’s but decided against it. They hadn’t known each other long enough. Maybe one day, her line would meet Iliana’s, too.
