Somewhere down the Ley Line (Song of the Leytouched #1)

1. Threads

Threads

“ I think these should be higher up. It looks like it’s lying in wait to strangle someone.” Isolde gestured from atop the stepladder, holding the end of a long flowering vine with one hand.

Otto sighed dramatically. “My lady, these are not mere decorations. My flowers are art . They skirt the line between flirtatious and dangerous. Innocent and predatory. The guests think themselves hunters, but they will turn out, as the evening continues, to be nothing but prey –”

“Alright, alright,” Isolde laughed as she carefully climbed down the ladder.

“You are the artist. The silver floribunda , though,” – she pointed at a cluster of roses artfully wrapped around a pillar – “will snatch on someone’s hair.

Did you know their tendrils can detect body heat?

I read that in Flora of the South . They’re not parasitic, exactly, but they’re… clingy.”

Otto blinked at her. “Are you accusing my plants of forward behaviour?”

“I’m just saying,” Isolde said, “if someone's expensive wig ends up on the floor, you will be responsible.”

“That would be a tragedy, to be sure,” Otto replied, eyes twinkling.

He waved his hand at the offending roses, and the flowers shifted upwards, only a bit, but enough for even the most extravagant headpiece to pass underneath.

Isolde swallowed the familiar surge of envy at the sight.

To manipulate the world like that, with a mere thought, or a touch…

They stood side by side to survey the result of their work.

The grand ballroom looked like something straight out of a fairytale, with every wall, door and surface decorated in an abundance of summer flowers.

Isolde brushed her hands down her skirts.

“It looks beautiful, Otto. You have outdone yourself.”

The steward gave her a deep bow. “I could not have done it without your invaluable assistance, my lady.”

Isolde smiled. “You absolutely could have.” He was indulging her, she knew.

He did not need her help; why would he? Otto could make plants bloom, grow, and wilt with a touch, and he had an army of servants at his disposal.

She was merely here so she could avoid getting ready for a little longer.

Her stomach was in knots about the midsummer ball, about the announcement her father was going to make.

She should be happy about it. Her life would not change all that much.

Bastiel Laghain was polite and charming.

They would be good together. And yet, it felt so…

final. Like a tapestry that could only be woven in one way after tonight. One colour, one stitch, one thread.

Isolde shoved the thoughts away. She was being ungrateful.

In this city alone, thousands of young women would kill to be in her position.

And she was ready for this next step. She would have the freedom to pursue arts and charity, and she would find other meaningful things to do.

With any luck, they could even travel and see the world. It would be fine.

“I should probably head upstairs,” she told Otto. “Thank you for letting me help.”

“The pleasure was all mine, my lady,” he said with another deep bow. “I look forward to seeing you dazzle the guests tonight.”

She made her way through the halls of her ancestral home, up the stairs and to her rooms. Lost in thought, her hand trailed absently along walls and furniture. The house was quiet but for a low, expectant hum of last-minute tasks being performed in the background. Silence before the storm.

Leni was waiting for her when she opened the door to her private quarters .

“My lady! We were just about to come find you! There is barely enough time left to get you ready,” she said, dragging Isolde over to her vanity and fussing over her. “Triad above, there are leaves in your hair!”

“I’m sorry, Leni,” Isolde said, smiling despite herself.

“I was helping Otto.” She stepped around the maid and lunged for the book on her bedside table.

She was only pages away from finishing Tales of the Sands , desperate to know how it would end, so she flipped it open to where she had left her bookmark and attempted to balance it precariously on the armrest of the chair Leni pushed her down into.

“Oh yes, and I’m sure Otto could not possibly have managed without you,” the maid replied, attacking Isolde’s hair with a brush and a scowl.

Meanwhile, two seamstresses were putting the finishing touches on her ballgown. It was a stunning dress; Isolde had worked with them on the design for weeks. Midnight blue – to match her eyes – with silver thread at the seams and decorated with small crystals that glittered in the light.

“Put the book away, my lady. Hold your head up.”

“Mhm,” Isolde replied vaguely, her gaze glued to the page.

They descended the steps slowly, their swords held out in front of them. Ready to face whatever dangers lurked in the depths of the –

The maid brushed out her hair and tutted. “You must let it grow longer, my lady.”

Isolde bit her lip to stifle a smile. Leni told her off about the inadequacy of her shoulder-length hair at least once a day.

“It will be so much easier to style it properly if there is more to work with!”

Isolde murmured something in acknowledgement and tried to keep her focus on the book.

– temple. A howling noise came from within, sending shivers down their spines. This was it.

One seamstress coughed. “The dress is ready, my lady...”

Isolde sighed and reluctantly closed her novel, double-checking her bookmark was in place.

Tomorrow will be a quiet day. I’ll have plenty of time to finish it then .

She stood carefully still as the two seamstresses guided the gown over her head.

The fabric was smooth against her skin, light and airy for the warm summer eve, and the skirt cascaded down to the floor in a waterfall of silk.

Leni motioned for her to turn and look in the mirror, but as soon as she did, there was a rip and a snap. The hem caught on the dressing stool.

“Oh no,” Isolde whispered, glancing down. A delicate section of silver lace at the base of the gown had come loose, the unravelled threads dangling sadly.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” one seamstress said, already reaching for her kit. “Just a slight snag. Sit, my lady, and we will have it fixed before you know it.”

Isolde sat on the stool while the seamstress knelt at her feet. She watched, mesmerised, as the woman threaded a thin needle with silver thread, then wove it deftly through the fabric, gathering the loose strands together. When she was done, nobody would have been able to tell at all.

“That is amazing,” Isolde murmured. “It’s like you used magic.

” The longing surfaced once again, just for a heartbeat.

She ignored it. She was no mage; she had no gift of magic, and that was that.

It was well past time for her to accept the fact and embrace what she did have, which was a lot more than most.

The seamstress blushed. “You are too kind,” she said as she straightened.

Leni ushered Isolde back to the vanity, where she finished pinning her hair up. Then the maid doused her in perfume and a touch of face paint, and fastened a sparkling necklace around her throat.

“Absolutely beautiful, my lady,” Leni said as she stood behind Isolde once it was done, surveying her work. “All eyes shall be on you tonight. Your papa will be so proud.” The maid’s eyes went glossy as she spoke, and she gently squeezed Isolde’s shoulders. “Remember, deep breaths.”

“Thank you, Leni.” Isolde smiled. He would be proud.

She was doing everything right, as a dutiful daughter should.

There was strength in that, in making the right choices.

Not only for herself, but for her family and their legacy.

She wrapped the thought around herself like a scarf, like armour, and stood slowly, taking care not to step on her skirt again .

“Thank you so much for all your help. The dress is beautiful,” she told the seamstresses. With a last longing glance at her book, Isolde took a deep, slow breath and headed for the door.