When Madame Atropos is faced away, a thin white braid travels the length of her back to the floor, fixed in equal sections by matching golden spinal cords set like links to a chain, each rattling with her step. She is dressed in what should be a regal ensemble, but the Madame is anything but graceful in the flaxen liquid gown that hugs her haggard figure like silk over a cliff, draping the bones in her hips and sternum, miserably accentuated by her diamond-dazzled ribs seen through tears in the cloth. Her crown is a gold-plated skull, each tooth replaced and sharpened, while the decals that overhang a fixed and resplendent bottom jaw shimmer, catching each golden ray from the foyers low-hanging chandelier.

  Rivin’s not sure why his eyes flicker to Roach, but he’s gladder for it—she’s watching the pair closely now, like a cat with a swishing piece of string, amber irises attuned to the skull, the ribs, the spinal plait and diamond chimes. He’s half expecting her to pounce, to scale the mighty height of the woman in gold and pluck the helmet right from her head, and so he nudges her just to be sure. He has to do it thrice before she tears her gaze away and fixes it somewhere else, and he follows her a moment, drawing in the all too familiar scenery of the place he’d longed to forget, bitterness coiling in his chest and gut.

  The Triple Wick’s foyer is a labyrinth, a dizzying twist of marble staircases branching out over multiple floors, each rimmed with ornate lattice edges swarming with a thick midnight foliage dotted with tiny tufts of violet flowers. Signage hangs heavy on each olive green wall, but the markings are complex symbols and shapes rather than letters. It's code from the ancient tongue, shared only between The Threads, some of whom walk overhead and peer over the bannisters.

  The smallest are draped head-to-toe in formless ashen cloth, identical save for the bone and finery to Clotho, while those that pass them by are unbothered and dressed in gauzy clear tunics thinly stitched with gold edgings, bare silhouettes shimmering beneath translucent silk. Their bodies are wrapped methodically with a metallic twine that weaves under sleeves and over forearms to connect and coil around each wrist, attached finally to heavy-laden weights; each burden the same bronze, silver or golden sheen as the medallions woven into the lengths of their hair.

  Unlike the children, Cloth and the Madame, the eldest Threads, wear masks over their eyes, thin white sheets to blind them, and yet they ascend each step with ease and never trip nor stumble. Rivin doesn’t recall if they speak, only remembers the periphery of their shapes disappearing up the rafters all those years before, their touch like leashes as they lead the morally weak towards their fate.

  Instinctively, his gaze drops, lingering over an archway at the very far back of the foyer, the beams on either side painted a royal blue and topped with a coccyx—carved and painted—and a femur identically treated, both dipped at three points in precious metals. Above, a silver laurel wreath looms atop, leaves tipped with black wax, and his chest tightens on instinct, on muscle memory, his fingers clenching into fists.

  The doorway looks to lead nowhere and appears only to frame a blank and greasy brick wall, but Rivin knows better. He can smell the blood again.

  “We’ve been expecting you.” The Madame commands attention; her voice—unlike her frail body—is strong and resonating. “But the wait has been torturous.” She leans over to squeeze Abi’s cheeks, her fingertips hatted with arching amber nails that graze the small girl’s chin.

  “Where’s Mama?” Demands Coel, stepping forward to draw his sister away, and as he does so, the Madame’s expression tightens for a twitch before she smiles beneath the mask and gestures up the east staircase, where a symbol has been carved above the top stair: a staff imbued with a white gem.

  “Where do you think, child?” She queries, amused and almost teasing.

  The boy, holding Abi around the shoulders now, narrows his gaze, not moving forward, but rather pausing to look back, meeting Rivin’s eye, his own gaze rippled with anxiety. “I need to see her,” he murmurs, unsure of himself. “Will you...?”

  Rivin’s smile is small but kind. “We’ll wait,” he says, gently. “Take your time.”

  Coel returns the gesture, his scoured cheeks rosy and round as he grins wide, nodding his head as Chip leans over, clearing his throat. “But, like, make it quick, yeah?” Tries the blonde.

  Coel straightens and nods again more affirmatively. “We’ll be right back.”

  The Madame floats forward. “Allow me to escort you,” she muses, producing a titanium key from her sleeve. “Clotho, please ensure our guests are made comfortable.”

  Rivin raises a hand politely. “We’re fine to wait by the door.”

  Atropos’ expression sours, but her eyes are still crinkled, still smiling. “Of course,” the tall woman hums, “we won’t be long, but then I must thank you.” She does not move to leave, only bends over and softens her hand over Rivin’s shoulder, her scarred eye looking into him just as deeply as her indigo. “We must talk of your fate, Ghost.” Rivin’s body stills with the hitch of his breath, his blood switching cold as the Madame reaches out and traces a claw across the crest of his cheek. “I’ve seen where it bends in the Kismet,” she continues, gaze drifting over each of them now, slowly and one by one, before her glare settles upon Roach in the corner. “I’ve seen where it snaps.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Hm.” The girl has just finished stuffing something brassy into her front pack, one hand resting lazily upon the zip.

  “If you wish to change your fates...” Atropos follows, eyes unwavering now. “You must let me stop you.” The room, stifling now and too humid, grows all the more dense with apprehension.

  Rivin is sweating; he can feel the beads rolling down his brow and back, but he can’t speak, can’t summon the words to soften the moment, and all eyes—even his—watch the same place. The same corner. The same girl.

  Roach looks up, amber irises flickering to catch the dim glow of the low light, meeting a mismatched and brazen stare. Simply, she cracks a smile before snorting out a crude bark of laughter and swiping a knuckle across her nose. “Hard pass,” she chuckles.

  “Sick of this nonsense...” Sen groans.

  “Me too,” chimes Ricket.

  “Got enough of that.” Follows Chip.

  Rivin feels his lips curl, a smile blossoming as the Madame returns her glare to his face. “You heard the room,” he muses, “we’re good for fate.”

  Atropos doesn’t move for many moments, only stares, silent and bent, head tilted to the side, before straightening, unfolding like a taut fleshy spire as her spine cracks alongside the rattle of her hair. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she sighs before her hand lifts to cover the rapturous laughter bubbling past clothed lips, poorly trapping the sound beneath fanged fingers. She’s grinning again as her gaze returns to Roach, who’s already watching her closely, fingering an opal chalice poised on the display table by the nearest stair. “After all…” Atropos continues, grinning wider, her eyes disappearing beneath the folds of her lids. “You can’t change it.”

  Rivin’s stomach drops, with defeat or disgust, he’s not certain. He moves to speak but pauses quickly as Roach stands straighter, flicking her braid free of her shoulder. “Hmm.” She starts, lifting the goblet up as though to conduct a toast, twirling the neck between her fingers. It’s filled with a small amount of fluid, a deep rich red that swishes against the bowl.

  “Roach…” Rivin warns, sensing the shift in her, but she doesn’t listen, only tips the cup forward to rest the rim ever so lightly against her lips. She doesn't drink, but her mouth is quickly curling against the edge as she summons a challenging smirk, ruby lakes flowing down either side of her face, spilling down her neck to collect in her collar. The Madame is still observing intently, eyes caught on that smile—stuck like flies in a trap—as the girl releases her fingers and lets go, dropping the chalice into the held-open pack at her hip, the cup clanking against several other ornaments already pilfered.

  The Queen’s smirk only widens, her gaze unflinching. “Watch me.”

  The room falls silent save for footfalls, the children overhead scattering as they retreat from the rafters, and even Clotho seems to grow tenser, bowing her head towards the floor. Yet, the Madame does not shout, does not rage, merely clasps her hands before herself and chuckles softly, her voice low and rumbling. “Take as you please,” she muses. “I knew that you would.” Roach’s eyes narrow at that. “Consider it thanks.” The girl's grin twitches and falls away altogether as the Madame turns away to guide the siblings towards the stairs. “We will return to you soon.”

  “Wait!” Coel pleads, standing bolt straight, hands tensed into fists to still the tremor in his bones. “A-Actually, Rivin…” he squeaks. “C-Could you…?”

  Abi tugs at his sleeve. “Hurry, Coel,” she whines.

  “Would you come with us?” Her brother forces it all out in one sharp breath. “I’d—I’d just feel…” His gaze flinches away from the Madame, and Rivin doesn’t let him finish, only steps forward, swallowing the cold lump in his throat.

  “Sure.” He replies, stepping between them, turning his head to face the tall woman with a blanched, albeit neutral, face. “Lead the way.”

  “Riv—” Chip attempts, reaching out.

  “I’m fine,” the older teen promises, forcing a small smile. “I’ve always been curious.”

  “I bet you have,” Slink snorts.

  Rivin shoots back a glare but doesn’t dignify the taunt with a response, instead clenching his jaw. He draws a breath, exhales it through his nostrils, and raises a hand to point purposely at each of them. “I won’t be long,” he says. “Don’t. Move.” His steely grey gaze returns to the tall woman. “Let’s make this quick.”

  Atropos smiles again. Tighter. “Clotho…” Her voice is sickly sweet. “With us.” Cloth immediately bounds into obedience, and without another word, those departing begin to ascend the steps to the second floor to disappear from view, leaving little else but the breathless quiet of those left behind in their wake. The group are alone in the silence for all of a minute, caught in the thick scent of incense and hurt pride, before Roach scoffs and plunges her bare toe into the corner of the table, spilling the rest of the contents onto the floor: a bowl of herbs, a bottle of red wine, and several books of poems.

  She sucks in her agonised scream and replaces it with the upending of her pack, loudly emptying the stolen contents onto the tile, lip curled with disgust. “I don’t want it then,” she hisses, booting the chalice across the floor just as Ricket reaches for her hand and provides a gentle tug, and while it’s not much, it’s enough to soften her into stillness.

  “It’s okay,” he tells her, his voice wise and knowing as his watches the cup spin across the marble floor, his eyes looking—in that moment—far too old for his face, far too bright for the light in the room. His smile grows wider as the goblet rolls between the laurel wreath doorway and vanishes from sight. His gaze returns to greet amber, a stare that must long to tunnel right through his face. “She’s lying.”

  “How do you know?” Her voice is small, uncertain, but Ricket only squeezes her hand tighter.

  “Because nothing stops you.”