Chapter Twenty-Two
AGNES
Sometime in the Seventeenth Century,
Thornhill
The Monster tests me before breakfast.
It leads me into the dining hall, where the table is cluttered with threads. Dozens of them—some silvery, some dull grey, a few red like wounds. Each one sings slightly different, like strings plucked from a harp.
“Which thread belongs to the lost shepherd boy?” it asks, pouring tea from a lavender-honey pot.
I frown, brushing my fingers just over the lines. Threads carry echoes, emotions like dried petals folded into parchment. This one hums grief. That one, longing. Another, sharp with guilt.
I close my eyes, searching for the boy in question. I don’t know him, but if he’s inked into any of these threads, I’ll be able to sense him. The third from the left tugs slightly. It’s tangled, warm at the centre, but frayed at the end.
“This,” I say.
The Monster doesn’t confirm if I’m right, just pours another cup.
“You’re improving,” it murmurs. “You’re listening more.”
“I’ve always listened.”
It shakes its head, its long hair moving like seaweed. “Not like this.”
The tea smells of chamomile and thyme, but I’m too restless to drink it. Instead, I glance out the windows.
The light is shifting. My heart flutters with excitement. I tuck my spindle charm beneath my collar, the glass thread pulse of it fluttering faintly against my skin.
“I need to check the altar,” I say, standing.
“It’s been checked.”
“I would just like to make sure.”
It watches me, stilling, the teacup halfway to its mouth. My cheeks warm, and I have the sense it knows I’m lying.
“Be back before dusk,” it says, voice low, without pressing. “Magic ripens in the light. But it curdles in the dark.”
I nod, then hurry out, my steps measured so I won’t give myself away with my excitement. I can sense him before I catch sight of him. The garden is beginning to memorize him as well. The thyme opens and the violets face the wall long before I do.
He’s already there when I arrive. Sitting on the edge, his knees pulled to his chest and his face lifted to the sky like he belongs to it.
“You’re late,” he says, his warm gaze finding mine.
“You’re early,” I reply, and he grins.
“Isn’t that just another kind of late?”
I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me.
I climb up beside him, like I’ve done dozens of times, and we sit in companionable silence. His shoulder brushes mine and he suddenly shifts. I don’t move away.
There’s something in the way he speaks to me, like he doesn’t see strangeness. Like the herbs in my hair make me whole. I’m just Agnes to him. And that’s starting to feel like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been.
“I brought you something,” he says after a while, and pulls a book from his coat. The cover is worn soft, as I brush a finger across it. “Poems. Thought you’d like them.”
I swallow, my eyes meeting his soft browns. “Why?”
He shrugs. “You speak them.”
I don’t open it, not yet. I don’t trust my hands not to shake. Instead, I say, “Do you believe in fate?”
He turns toward me with his whole body, one brow already lifted. “You’re the one who sees threads. You tell me.”
His words slide over my skin like the sunlight itself. I hadn’t told him about the magic we wove. He somehow knew, long before I dared to think about sharing it with him. And it didn’t frighten him. Not at all.
“I think…I think fate isn’t fixed, not like people tend to fear. I think it waits for us to decide. And then it weaves around the choice.”
“Like ivy.” He tips his head, and I smile, with teeth and all.
“Like ivy.”
That night, when we sit for dinner, I tell the Monster.
Not everything. Just enough. That Eli makes the garden feel different. Like he belongs here just as I do.
The Monster is quiet, too quiet. And my chest clenches under my clothes. It slices the bread like it’s slicing through a decision, precise.
“You’re young,” it says finally, and I frown a little.
“I’m seventeen. Eighteen in a few months,” I answer.
“You don’t know what you’re weaving.”
I bristle. “But that’s the point of learning. To make my own patterns.”
The Monster’s hands still. “You are not ready.”
“I’m not asking to marry him,” I say, harder than I intended, then instantly regret it.
A pause. “But you want to go beyond the grounds. That’s just as dangerous.”
I glance down at my hands. “He wants to show me the river.”
“The river will not unmake itself if you don’t see it tomorrow.”
“But—”
“No.”
The word lands heavy. I have never heard it use that word before.
“I’ve kept you safe,” it says. “All these years. I’ve sheltered you from the worst of this world. You think it’s kindness, what he offers? You think it’s harmless?”
My heart skips.
“Eli is good!” I answer, pushing to my feet.
The Monster doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
“You are acting reckless, Agnes. That’s dangerous for someone so close to fate.”
We stare at each other, then I storm out of the room.
The next morning, I go anyway.
I wear my cloak with the petal-stains. The spindle charm thrums beneath my collarbone, fast as a rabbit’s heart. I bring the book he gave me. I carry it like a promise.
The garden is warm. The lilacs blush. The thyme is awake.
But Eli is not there.
I climb the wall and wait.
And wait.
I walk the perimeter, search the corners of the forest with my eyes.
Nothing.
Not a single chestnut curl. Not a single laugh.
Just birdsong. And wind.
By nightfall, I return to the manor. The Monster is waiting by the hearth, its long fingers curled around its tea.
It doesn’t look up.
“You knew,” I say quietly, betrayal burning my throat.
Silence. Then it slowly lifts its gaze. There’s something ancient in its eyes.
“Sit,” it says.
And I do, curling into the empty armchair beside it. The weight of my aching heart sinks me with ease.
“You see the threads, Agnes. You know how easily they tangle, how quickly they break.” It looks into my eyes, the warmth of the fire playing on its skin. “People are no different. The world is not made for soft-hearted girls like you. You’re safer here, where I’m always close.”