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Maybe I should have waited to charm the fennisley. But I thought we might be able to get the cook to put it in the King’s dinner, or perhaps in a late-night snack. No such luck, because the moment I returned I heard two of the servants gossiping about the “gold-spinning girl” and how she’d been taken for another demonstration. Despite the King’s earlier unease about making Juliette’s “gift” public, it appears the news has spread, at least among the servants.
The moment I heard she’d been taken, I went to look for her. I didn’t take time to find the cook and give her the fennisley. I’m regretting that decision now; but at this point it’s too late. I have to play this hand through to the end, whatever that may be.
I need to reserve a little magic—enough to distract the guards and get myself out of here unseen. Whatever happens, I can’t be found in this cell with Juliette. That will throw her power into question and put her in more imminent danger.
But if I spin too little of the straw, the King will be unhappy. He will mutilate Juliette’s friend, which will carve a permanent wound into my girl’s heart.
I can’t allow that to happen. I won’t.
Juliette and I talked for a while toward the beginning, but we’re both growing exhausted now, deadened by the rhythm of the wheel and the pedal, the countless bundles of straw, the ongoing parade of bobbins, both empty and full.
She’s singing softly. Humming sometimes, and other times I catch a few murmured words… something about “the lake was her face and the moon was mine” and “kisses on mirrors beneath cold, cold snow.”
“What is that awful song?” I ask.
She breaks off the tune. “Rude. You don’t like my singing?”
“Your singing is lovely. The song sounds dreadfully dire. Songs should be jaunty and bright. Raunchy.” I wink at her.
“I know a few raunchy ones.”
“Do you now?”
“I’ll sing you one.”
I’m about to reply, but a tremor runs through my body at that moment—and my heart stops beating.
Only for a second or two, and then it starts up again, but I’m shaken.
“Rupert?” Juliette’s forehead puckers with concern. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” I force a smile. “Sing to me while I work.”
Just a little longer. Until the end of the song, and then I’ll stop. I’ve got that much left in me.
Juliette’s voice takes on a merry lilt, singing about a young milkmaid who is seduced first by a tinker, then by a tailor, and then by a knight, before finally losing her heart to a princess with a talented tongue. The song rhymes cleverly and spares no detail—just the sort the Elves enjoy, though I can tell by the rhythm it’s not an Elvish composition.
I cling to the song like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a broken bit of the ship, the only thing keeping him afloat. Whatever I may envision of my inner resources, my yarn-ball of magical energy, I don’t have a precise gauge for it; but I do know that I’ve never gotten this low before. I’ve never felt this hideous quaking of my bones, the hectic spasming of my heart muscle, the pinpricks of pain all through my skull. I’ve never experienced the thickening of my breath, the slow heave of my lungs.
Juliette breaks off the song partway through what was probably the final verse. “Rupert. Stop. Right now.”
I try to speak, but my tongue feels twice its normal size and my lungs won’t haul in enough air for the words.
“Rupert!” She steps forward. “You look like death. Stop!”
My foot keeps moving mechanically on the pedal, my hands continue their motion along the wheel, along the thread, over and over. I’m… frozen into the spell. I’ve become part of it, and I don’t have enough strength left to pull myself free.
A panicked impulse flits through my brain, fueled by an inner voice somewhere deep inside me crying, Stop, stop, you’re dying, you’re dying! The magic will eat you up until you’re dead!
But I can’t act on the warning. Something is wrong. This is more than exhaustion, this is a compulsion. I’m being held here on purpose until I’m drained dry.
“You can’t stop, can you?” Swearing at the realization, Juliette leaps behind me, gripping me under the arms and trying to pull me from the spinning wheel’s bench. But I’m fused there, and even her strength can’t move me.
Juliette has ceased feeding the spell, but the spinning wheel isn’t done with me. A current of air stirs around the wheel, growing stronger, sucking straw from the piles into the glittering transmutation circle. Since Juliette won’t feed it, the spell is feeding itself.
Dimly, in the hollow haze of my brain, I register the thought that this isn’t any magic I’ve done. It’s something else. Another force set in play. A curse infused into either the wheel or the straw, undetectable to me because it was laid by a talented human sorceress.
“What is happening?” There are tears in Juliette’s voice, tears in her eyes—the sweetest tears—I can smell their fragrance faintly through the metallic odor inside my own head. I’m bleeding from my nose, and I think from my eyes as well… something’s trickling out of them, warm and wet.
