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“Crisps?” he asks, leaning in to stare at my wad of dough. He’s fascinated by baking and eating, perhaps because the Spidae do neither.
I nod. “Crisps are thin wedges that are baked. They snap and crack when you bend them. Bread is more pliable…and I wanted bread.” I turn the dough ball with my hands again and then pause, considering it. “Maybe if I add some seeds.”
“Why would you add seeds?” He reaches out one spidery finger and touches the dough, then rubs his fingertip thoughtfully. “It’s wet.”
“It is wet,” I agree. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe…”
I trail off because a shadow looms in the doorway. Neska is there, and his eyes narrow at the sight of myself and Ossev.
“You’ve been here long enough,” Neska says, stepping into the room. “Your duties await.”
With a guilty look at me, Ossev retreats and slides backward into the webbing that covers the wall, disappearing. No doubt he’s reappearing upstairs in his chamber.
I smack the dough again, imagining it to be Neska’s sour face. “That was rude of you.”
“He neglects his duties.Ourduties. We all have tasks we must accomplish, and we cannot afford to be distracted away from our work. Certainly not by a pretty face.”
“So you think I’m pretty?” I’m determined not to get offended by him. He doesn’t know how to be around people, and definitely not around women he likes. That much is plainly obvious.
Neska is silent, and I wonder if I’ve embarrassed him.
I glance up at him. He’s frowning down at me. His gaze flicks to my limp dough, then back to my face. “Come with me.”
Curious, I wipe my hands on a towel and follow after him. We start to head up the ramp, but then he makes an irritated noise and pauses, turning and offering his hand. I immediately take it, and in the next moment, our environment changes. I gasp at the sight of the room—Neska’s room—filled with glowing strands that crisscross every bit of space.
He leads me forward, his touch delicate but strong. “Touch nothing. It could have consequences.”
“Consequences? That sounds worrying.”
Neska does not reply to that. He releases my hand and steps forward into the snarl of threads, somehow managing to avoid touching any of them. I remain where I am, watching. He lifts a hand, and his long, strange fingers dance through the threads, flicking and sorting through them as if looking for something specific. He moves faster and faster, his hands working at a speed that makes them blur before my eyes.
“Ah.”
He pauses, running a finger along the back of one particular thread as if plucking it from its environs, and turns towards me. “Here.”
Cautious, I step forward. “What is it?”
“A baker.” His tone is carefully neutral. “He makes bread about this time every day. I thought perhaps if you saw his actions, you might understand why yours is not the same.”
His words are vaguely insulting, but it’s the actions behind them that touch my heart. Neska has seen my frustration and wants to help. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know how to pose it. I smile at him, thrilled, and move to his side. “Truly? Thank you.”
“As I have said before, touch nothing.” He gives me a sharp look, his finger still on the thread, holding it captive so it cannot sink back into the web of its brethren.
I glance up at him. He’s trying so hard to be sour and failing miserably. His actions have said everything. “Can I hold onto you?” I slide my arms around his free one, smiling up at him. “If not, I’ll back away.”
He doesn’t touch me…but he doesn’t tell me to leave, either. Instead, he pulls the thread in. “Can you see it?”
“I can see the thread and your hand…but nothing else?”
Neska thinks for a moment, then traces a finger in the air. A mirror appears, floating in midair, and I gasp at the sight. I’m reminded again that he is a god and can create—or destroy—at a whim. The glass shows me against Neska’s side, and I have to admit that we look good together. Him so ethereal and tall, and me, vibrant with curves. I am warm brown skin enrobed in a rich, fanciful gown, with as many pleats in the sleeves as my long hair has curls. At my side, Neska is all smooth, colorless mane and equally colorless robe.
The mirror’s surface ripples, and then it’s like we’re looking into a bakery. Neska picks up the thread again, and pulls it toward the mirror as if anchoring it there. “Better?”
I stare at the images playing in the mirror. There’s a man in there, of middle age with ruddy skin. He has loaves laid out in neat rows on racks behind him, and in front of him is a flour-dusted table. Off to one side, a large brick oven glows. It looks so real that I could reach out and touch it. “How did you…is this real?”
“It is real. You are seeing a hint of what I see when I touch a thread. This man owns a bakery. Perhaps by observing him, it will help you with your breads.”
“Thank you so much, my lord. I love this.”
