“I—” My speech was hoarse, filtered through gritted teeth. Pits of the Other, did I have to say it? “It will settle soon.”
“Oh.”
“It will,” I affirmed, reassuring myself as much as her. She waited, patient as a sister, keeping the pressure firm and steady. I focused on her bravery. To her, I was the Butcher. A faceless figure who had slit a man’s throat before her eyes, who had torn limbs from limbs upon the Reach of Atonement, as she beheld them litter its planks. What tall tales must she have heard about me? The ridiculous lie about my penchant for collecting the tongues of heathen preachers? The rumors of arson, settingdistant templums ablaze, priests and priestesses locked inside if they dared resist Dendralis’ authority? The countless bodies left to rot as I’d carved my way through a crusiax battlefield?
Yet, she flinched not. If anything, she pressed harder against me, as if to make clear that an erratic heart was no reason to flee.
I focused on my breathing, as I did when I scented grace; through the mouth, out through the nose. The taint of it lingered faintly, even here, distant yet never entirely absent. It never truly left, even when I was far beyond the Red Sea—it seemed to carry on the wind.
Pulse calming to a steady beat, I cleared my throat.
“Are you well?” she asked.Smug little seamstress.
“Quite. We can proceed.” I should do this. She needed answers, just as I. The riddles coiled tighter around my neck, demanding to be unravelled before I choked on their noose.
I gulped down another breath. The stagnant air in the Unmantle bubbled, bright and fizzing. She found my irregular pulse amusing then, her delight akin to sparkling wine. “It may be best for you to tell me something neutral first. Something to lull it into a regular beat, just so you can get a feel for my natural rhythm.” I was grateful for the divider, masking my wince.
“Like what?” The flavour of the wine grew headier, more concentrated, lingering on my tongue as well as fizzing up my nose.
“Something mundane,” I continued, determined not to get drunk on it. “Something about your profession, maybe? Anything you deem fit to not provoke a reaction within me.”
“Is this just another way of testing me for lies?” she asked.Peppercorns.I’d made her suspicious.
“No.” The sun would be overhead by now, and I was already late for the druid’s council. The heat of her hand continued to invade me, far more alluring than the cold, dusty ministerial rooms.
A sigh.
“When we used to tailor certain garments,” she divulged, “the guild women and I would sometimes weave a secret line of thread that matched the colour of the person we made the garments for. We’d hide it in a seam, one of their sleeves, perhaps, or the hem.”
My lips lifted into a smile. “Which colour meant what?”
She paused for a moment, one of her fingers tapping my collarbone.
“Undyed thread for those who were dull. Nondescript ladies or fellows with no distinguishable quirk.”
I remained silent.
“Green for handsome,” she continued, her nostalgia thick on my tongue. “Purple for kind. Black for those we deemedsuspicious.”
She laughed, her giggle flapping bird wings trapped in the cage of metal.
“Red thread is expensive, so we only used a little for those we thought brave.”
“Like Dennis?” I asked, at a loss as to why.
She released me slightly, as if it had only just dawned how fiercely she was pressed to my heart.
“Demetri,” she corrected. The pressure of her touch remained, though it was lighter than before.
“More like women with babes clinging to their skirts,” she explained, despite my attempt to rile her. “Those whose husbands were offered, leaving them with four or six hungry mouths. Or Pines, the ones who smiled and jested, though their whole family were long since dead.”
My shame was earthy; mushrooms turning to rot.
“Which colour would you have selected for me?” Stubborn as ever, my knee jostled. I stiffened it, battling the urge to let it bounce freely.
“Black, of course.” A truth. And alie.
“They’re bitter, you know. Like raw cacao beans from the South.”
