I hadn’t believed him then. Not really. But when Beatrice died years later, I understood. Death might be unjust, but he never lied.
I flipped carefully through the final pages, avoiding the names that blurred by. My heart thudded louder with every turn, a metronome ticking down to truth.
Page 705.
With a silent and desperate wish, I opened it.
There it was. Ishani’s name, written in gleaming gold ink at the top. Threads spooled outward like a tangled spiderweb, beautiful and cruel. Every strand led to the same ending.
Seven years. That’s all I’d purchased with Regina’s life.
Seven years for Ishani to live. Seven measly, borrowed years.
If I could, I’d give her all of mine. Every star-strewn night, every moonrise, every burning sunset. I’d trade my endless youth just for her to see one day past seventeen.
“I want to see my own.” I snapped the book shut, tossing it onto the nearest pile.
Grim winced as though I’d just hurled a priceless artifact into a fire pit. His expression soured, nose wrinkling.
“My fate,” I clarified, as if that wasn’t obvious.
Feodora glanced toward the window with dismay, wrapping her arms around herself, her body swaying to a rhythm only she could hear. Then she said, softly, “No.”
Just that.No.
“No?” I stammered, my mouth falling agape.
She swayed aimlessly, her mannerisms reminding me that I might very well be wasting my awe on another of Death’s tricks. “No,” she repeated, her movements pausing to lock eyes with me.
That glimmer of movement behind her irises from earlier seemed to swallow them whole now, leaving only pits of tar that seemed to tear at my tender flesh with the one look alone. Itfrightened me, and the sharpened anger fell away, leaving only an acute awareness that I was in the presence of something—someone—that defied comprehension. I was an eternal being, yet compared to her vastness, my endless existence was only a breath in the dark.
“I’m sorry, Astoria. I cannot. One must not tread into the threads of the written. I do not wish you harm.” Her gaze softened again, her earlier dance halting. Her eyes, once so kind, now gleamed with a sorrow that seemed to transcend mere mortal understanding. Her attention drifted to Grim, silent as ever, and the air thickened with a tension so palpable it could be cut with a knife.
She could not show me my future, but what about my past?What ifsplagued me almost as much as Death. Could this all have been avoided? Was there a life where I could’ve kept my daughter? Where my husband wouldn’t have to pay the price?
“What of my past? Could you show me that?”
Feodora shook her head, her chin lowering as a look of pity crossed her face.
I hated pity.
“I see…” The words left my lips, but I wasn’t sure if they were for her, for me, or just the empty room that seemed to swallow them.
I couldn’t decide if they refused me simply because they could, or if something greater was at play here—something that depended on their answers. Either way, I was nothing to Fate and Death. Hardly a speck in the grand tapestry.Mostly a nuisance.
A knock at the door interrupted the suffocating silence. A head peeked inside, spilling the raucous sounds of the party beyond into the room.
“I see I’ve been missing out on the real party,” a voice rang out, and a man with striking silver eyes strode into the room,his gaze locking onto mine and pinning me in place. “Death, you bastard! You’ve been holding out on me,” he teased with a strange accent, his grin almost too mischievous. “I’m Day. Nice to meet you, Storybook.”
I glanced at Grim, who let out an exasperated groan, rolling his eyes.
Day followed my gaze, his grin widening. “Pay him no mind. He’s just jealous we’re about to become the very best of friends.”
“Lay off, Day,” Grim muttered, but Day was already turning his full attention to me.
With an easy confidence, he took my hand and left a light kiss to the back of it. I hesitated, studying him, trying to place the feeling of familiarity that seemed to hang in the air. There was something comforting about his presence. Unnerving, but comforting.
His blonde hair curled at the nape of his neck; his eyes shone the color of storm clouds, piercing and intense. But his skin glowed with an almost otherworldly golden hue, a stark contrast to the simple white shirt he wore, tucked into well-worn jeans. Barefoot, he looked as if he’d been part of the mansion for as long as it had stood.
