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“So the eyelet is still here?”
I shake my head, unsure. Something’s here all right, but I’m not confident it’s anything balanced enough to provide us safe passage.
Still, I think I can fix that.
Maybe.
I cross the room, passing the corpse of the spider Farin killed. Then I run my fingers across the dangling spider silk that coats the back wall. It’s torn and shredded from where the eyelet closed, but the strands that remain are thick, firm to the touch.
“You really think this will work?” asks Farin, coming up behind me, his fingers gently squeezing my shoulder.
In the distance, we hear the rumble of the island, the beast of the volcano that dwells within the earth.
My throat goes dry. “It has to.”
“Nox said Gunter was the one weaving my stories into the Fabric this entire time,” I say, tying a knot between two loose strands of spider silk. “That Gunter tapped into the Fabric with thread made from the flax that grew near the Rip. Flax infused with the Fabric’s magic. So what’s to say,” I say, stroking the silk, “we can’t weave our own eyelet?”
Farin reaches from behind me, feeling the silk himself. “You think the silk is infused with magic from being near the eyelet, like the flax was infused with magic by being near the Rip? I thought the magic in the silk is what made the eyelet.”
I shrug. “Does it matter which came first, as long as it still contains the magic?”
Farin hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just that, I thought you said the Fates were the ones who created the eyelets.”
“So?”
Farin shuffles. “I’m not sure the Fates will be fond of me trying to replicate their artwork.”
I flash him a smile, if only to hold the queasiness in my stomach in. If only so I don’t have to ask what, exactly, Farin’s relationship is with the Fates. “Then don’t get in my way.”
Farin flashes me an amused smirk, then steps backward, gesturing me forward.
I get to work.
It takes several hours, but eventually I manage to weave a portrait similar to the one we initially found here. I can’t replicate it perfectly, of course. Not when part of the silk has been damaged and my memory isn’t perfect, nor are my weaving skills.
But when I take a step back, I find I’m proud of my work.
“Is that your parents’ home?” Farin asks, and I swallow, wiping the tears from my eyes.
Beside me, Farin gently traces the rolling hills of my parents’ property, even down to a makeshift catapult in the yard.
“I thought you didn’t remember them,” he says.
I swallow. “I don’t. But the house I remember.”
“So what now?”
I bite my lip. “I think it needs to be activated with blood.”
Farin goes to prick his finger with his dagger, but I grab his wrist to stop him.
“My blood. I’m the one whose soul’s been here so long, it’s interwoven with the Fabric, remember?”
Farin wrinkles his brow, but he places his dagger in my hand all the same.
