Our door, though, was my favorite. The facade itself was simple, but the surrounding frame was something else entirely. Even now, as I passed by our neighbors’ homes and found myself standing before my father’s handiwork, I couldn’t help but marvel at the intricate details. He’d taken a fallen branch from a nearby ash tree and carved an arch of interconnected roses and vines. He’d studied the flowers for weeks in order to capture even the most minor features. The thin veining in the leaves. The uneven crinkles in the petals. Buds blooming. Buds closed. Thorns of various sizes but precisely sharp. He’d polished it all to perfection, but he’d refused to stain it. For him, there was nothing more beautiful than the story told by the nuances in the grains of wood.
My heart twisted as I lightly fingered a petal by the bronze handle—my way of greeting him each time I returned home. My mother I kept with me at all times. Instinctively, my hand dropped to the front pocket of my pants, where I could feel the outline of an embroidered scrap of leather. She’d been excellent with a needle, often stitching designs into our clothes and crafting small toys for us with leftover fabric.
Years had passed since their deaths, and still I missed them so much I ached.
Once in the kitchen, I deposited my bag on the knobby, worn wood table and fished a heavy pot from the lower cabinet. After filling it with water, I lit the cast-iron stove. Heat bloomed outward in a drowsy bubble, cooking the space in a matter of minutes, and I tied my raven-black hair in a bun atop my head to keep the strands from sticking to my neck.
With deft fingers, I opened my bag and began sorting through herbs when my hand stilled. Something gold flashed between the muted greens and browns. At first I thought I’d picked up a coin in my foraging, but it was smaller than our currency and even more brilliant in its metallic sheen. Frowning, I drew myself closer, and the object—the insect—moved.
Beetle.My lips quirked up as it skittered across my knuckles. The edges of its outer shell were transparent, and two soft antennae twitched as it regarded me. Careful not to jostle the creature, I moved to the open window and let it crawl onto the sill. It stretched its wings as if preparing to fly, then stopped.
“It’s all right,” I murmured. “Take your time.”
Just then, a hesitant knock sounded from the front door. “Ms.Brillwyn? Are you home?”
Ms.?I bit back a chuckle. One of the children, then, hoping a touch of respect would gain my favor. I was only twenty-five, and I’d never really cared for titles. That was something only the elders—or those hoping to become pinnacles of our quiet society—cared for. Ridiculous. I dusted my hands together and crossed the kitchen to the small foyer, sidestepping the worn stairs winding upward toward the bedrooms. When I opened the door, a boy with bleary, red-rimmed eyes looked up at me. He breathed heavily through his parted, chapped lips, careful not to inhale sharply as one hand precariously shielded his nose.
Sighing, I opened the door wider and leaned against the frame. “Toman, why am I not surprised?” I’d never met anyone in all of Glaes who injured themselves as much as him, and our country was rather large.
“Hi, Ms.Brillwyn.” His congested voice trembled with the low whimper of a child hoping to avoid a scolding.
“It’s just Edira. You know that.” I tilted my head, trying to catch a glimpse of the injury he was hiding. “What happened?”
“Elbow to the face,” he mumbled. I glanced over the top of his head to spy a discarded, filthy ball waiting for him at the edge of my garden. No doubt he’d been playing rough with his brothers and ended up here instead of risking an earful from his mother.
Stepping to the side, I gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on, then.”
“Thanks,” he said as he easily found his way to my table and sunk into one of the sturdy chairs. At this point, he could’ve claimed it as his own. I’d helped him and his siblings more times than I could count—all free of charge. Which was probably therealreason they kept finding themselves here. Mrs.Marlow was nothing if not shrewd. I really should’ve refused her sons altogether, but I loathed the idea of holding her children accountable for her snobbery. At least not until they showed signs of it themselves, and then I’d ignore their pretentious comments, too.
Dragging one of the opposite chairs across the creaking floorboards, I seated myself directly before Toman. “Let me see.”
He hesitated, his caramel-colored eyes full of pain, and then slowly removed his hand to reveal a misshapen nose with dried blood caked around the nostrils. My brows arched toward my hairline.
“Does your mother know?”
His face blanched. “Are you going to tell her?”
“She’s going to find out one way or another.” With light fingers, I gripped either side of his grubby face and inspected the injury. The awkward angle, fresh, heavy bruising, and congested breathing were indicators enough. Broken. A prickling sensation spread outward from my chest and trickled toward my fingers, and I clenched my jaw to steel myself against the hidden surge of magic now flooding my veins.
And suddenly I was thrust into a memory of when I’d held Nohr’s crushed leg in my hands just a few years ago. He’d come back from the mines with his femur split after loose rubble pinned him to the earth until Noam wrenched him free. Nohr was already unconscious when Noam dragged him back to our home and screamed for me in the foyer.
Threadmending hadn’t even been a question then. Nohr never would’ve been able to work again if I hadn’t healed him. Hecould’ve died. I’d tapped into my power as seamlessly as breathing and watched as his life threads unfurled, searching until I found the mangled fibers tied to the devastating injury that was his leg.
And then I’d poured everything I had into stitching them back together.
Of course, there had been a cost. There was always a cost when it came to my magic. For every ailment that I healed, every life thread I put back together, I’d sacrifice a few strands of my own and diminish my lifespan. As well as, to a somewhat lesser degree, suffer the physical consequences of the injury or illness.
Nohr’s splintering pain had immediately become my own, and fires had ruptured from the bone in my left leg as tears stung the backs of my eyes. Heat flushed through my skin and left me raw. Every breath was a jagged, sharp exhale that stung, and I was a trembling mess coated in a thin sheen of sweat, until I finally finished my work and then collapsed beside my brother, letting the magic fade as I, too, succumbed to unconsciousness.
There was no way to know exactly how much of my life I’d sacrificed to save Nohr’s leg. Threadmenders couldn’t see their own threads. Why, I didn’t know. My aunt, a threadmender like me, didn’t either. But she speculated that the cost was scaled. Minor illnesses and trivial breaks? Possibly a few weeks. Major fractures like Nohr’s leg? Several months at least.
I never dared to ask her how much of her life she thought she’d sacrificed to cure my mother of a winter illness that lingered far too long in her lungs. An illness that caused the townsfolk to avoid my family at all costs, barely offering condolences if they saw one of us in passing. I’d been young when it happened, but I still remembered how they refused to look directly at us. As if averting their eyes would somehow absolve them of acknowledging our pain.
But for Toman’s nose . . . I forced myself back to the present, to the mild ailment at hand. I would not threadmend him. It wasn’tworth it. Still, my power recognized Toman’s need, and it flourished just the same, filling me to the brim with a near-unbearable tingling warmth. Fortunately, Toman had no idea I possessed such magic. And I had to keep it that way.
“Can you fix it?” he mumbled.
“I’m half tempted to leave it as is and teach you a lesson.” I let my hands fall away and instead toyed with a sprig of lavender, giving myself a chance to squash the nagging pull of my magic. “Not to mention you’d acquire some of that roguish charm I hear is very attractive.”
