Chapter 28 #3
“It gets rid of the Vulture God’s foul touch,” Kalos offers. “He’s cursed the water here.”
I shoot him a look.
Kalos shrugs.
I try to pick up the heavy cauldron by the handle, but it’s like trying to heft a boulder.
Jesus, when did I become so weak? I start to drag it across the floor before a hand touches my back, stopping me.
Kalos takes it with one hand, lifting it to the hook atop the fireplace.
He squats down next to it and taps a finger on the wood left there, and it instantly bursts into flame.
I sneeze.
“The…Vulture…God…has cursed us?” the woman asks as she sits up. I can see a wild array of gray tangles around her head, and her face is heavily lined. The dark circles under her eyes are so pronounced they look like bruises.
“Not you,” Kalos continues, taking the bucket of water and pouring it into the cauldron. “Just your well.”
“But…why?” she asks.
“Who can say what the gods are thinking?” he comments blandly.
I touch his hand to thank him for the assistance. I’m sweating already, and the room feels stifling hot. Probably a touch of fever thanks to him using his magic. “We’re going to boil your water and you’re going to want to do that every time from now on,” I tell her. “Understand?”
Wordless, she nods. Then her face contorts, and she reaches for the bowl next to the bed.
I turn away, wincing, as she’s sick, and Kalos moves to my side.
He puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close, and leans in to whisper against my ear.
“Check the root cellar. She’s eating something that’s bad. ”
More than just the water? I nod, trying to focus. It’s difficult when his lips are practically brushing against my earlobe.
The woman in the bed dry heaves, and that ruins the moment.
I turn around, eyeing the floor. “Where’s your root cellar?”
“Don’t steal my food! It’s all I’ve got to eat!”
This is going to be trickier than I thought.
“Trust me, I don’t want your food,” I say as nicely as I can.
I remind myself that to this woman, I barged into her house and started going through her things.
She doesn’t know that I’m not here to steal from her.
I spot a woven rug with a depression under it and flip it back.
The moment I do, the sour stink hits me like a wall.
Choking, I step back and go outside for a breath of fresh air, my eyes streaming.
I pull my dress up over my mouth and nose and re-enter the house. “What do you have down there?”
“Pickles,” she says.
“Do they always smell this terrible?” I flip the rug back again and there’s a wooden trap door in the floor.
When I lift it, I see a pit a few feet deep, and inside it is jar after jar of what must be canned vegetables.
I lift one into the air to get a good look at it and it’s cloudy inside. Bad choices, indeed.
“Just this batch,” she says, panting. “But I don’t have anything else to eat.”
Poor woman. I give Kalos a helpless look.
He shrugs, holding his hands out as if to say, what do you expect me to do?
“We’re going to get you something decent to eat,” I promise her. “But don’t eat these. Feed them to your pig.” I hesitate, because I don’t want her to poison her pig, either. “Actually, don’t do that. Let me think.”
Would burying them solve the problem? Pouring them out and re-using the jars sounds like it would create a toxic mess. I rub my forehead, thinking, but the noxious smell is getting to me. Covering my mouth, I fight the urge to dry heave myself.
Kalos sighs heavily, as if he’s incredibly put out. “You owe me a favor,” he mutters to me and takes the jar from my hands and stares at it. As I watch, the cloudy contents become clear, showcasing what look like pickled turnips inside.
I sneeze violently again, three times in a row. Then, three times more, until my head is throbbing. He hands the jar back to me and I point at the rest of the woman’s cache. “Can you do all of them?”
He eyes me, wiping away some of the tears streaming down my face from the intense round of sneezing. “You sure you want me to do that?”
I nod, because fixing one meal for this woman isn’t going to solve her problems. We must fix all of them or else she’ll just go back to eating rotten food and be just as bad off.
“You’re too soft-hearted,” Kalos chides, even as he pulls the next jar out of the shallow root cellar.
By the time he’s done, I’m shivering with fever, a cold sweat coating my limbs.
I can handle this, though, because I expect it.
I manage a smile when he shoots me a look of concern, and grit my teeth to keep them from chattering.
The water has been boiling for several minutes, and I scoop a dipper of it out and put it in a cup to cool, then add a few sprigs of the herbs we’ve been wearing at our belts. Can’t hurt to give it a little flavor.
The old woman sits up in bed, watching us move about her house with a perplexed expression. “Who are you?” she asks when I hand her the hot cup of water.
“Just someone looking for a spinner. Drink up, please.”
She eyes my sweaty face and doesn’t reach out to take the cup. “Do you have the plague?”
“Literally no one in this town has plague.” I try to keep my tone from being sharp, but jeez, do these people think about anything other than plague? “Just drink.”
“But you’re sick—”
Kalos leans over the woman’s bed and gets in her face. “She is sick because she is with me. Understand?”
I see confusion on the woman’s face, and growing horror. She makes the salt throwing gesture against each shoulder, shrinking back.
“No one’s here to hurt you,” I say wearily. “And thanks for blowing our cover, Kalos.”
“I’m tired of the arguing. You’re trying to help her, and she doesn’t seem to grasp that fact.” The smile he gives her is dangerous. “She understands it now, don’t you?”
Wordless, the old woman nods.
“Drink your water,” he says. “Even if it’s hot.”
She puts the cup to her lips and starts drinking, her gaze never leaving Kalos’s face.
“Are you a real spinner?” Kalos continues, his voice casual and easy and somehow more chilling because of it. “Tell the truth. We’ve already wasted enough time here.”
She swallows and puts the cup down, nodding. “I can see through the threads sometimes. Not every time, but I can do a reading for you, aye.”
“That would be very beneficial. My partner has questions she wishes to ask.”
His…partner? It might be the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.
I’m not his equal in any sense—he’s a freaking god, for fuck’s sake—but knowing that he thinks of me as his partner melts something inside me.
If I weren’t feeling so feverish, I might throw my arms around his neck and kiss him just for being sweet.
The old woman points at a table at the far side of the room. “My spinning bag is there. Fetch it for me?”
I pick up the woven bag, noting that it feels incredibly light, like it’s full of nothing.
When I hand it over, she turns it over on the blankets, and out spills a huge pile of loose yarn threads in all different colors.
They clump together and she runs her fingers through the mess, separating them as best she can before scooping them into the bag once more.
She gives it a shake and closes her eyes. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Is anyone pursuing us?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Nothing else is as important as knowing if we’re in danger.
The spinner holds the bag out to me, the mouth of it gaping open. “Avert your gaze and pull out a thread. Just one.”
I do as she asks, fishing around in the bag before pulling a random thread out. It’s a pale color, not quite white, and about as long as my palm.
“A neutral thread,” she intones, taking it back from me and setting it aside. “You are not being pursued right now, but the thread is short. It means your window of safety is not a long one.”
“Exactly how long is long?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I do not know if it is long by your reckoning or long by the reckoning of the Fates. If I was lying to you, I’d suggest an answer that would make you happy.” Her gaze steals to Kalos, her expression tense. “But my goal is not to lie.”
It’s something, at least. “Can we ask more questions?”
The woman picks up the strings again. “As if I’d tell a god and his Anchor no? Ask all you like.”
I do. I ask if she can locate Kalos’s other aspects. She cannot.
I ask how many are left. She has me pull, and two different colored threads cling to my fingers. If arrogance is truly gone as Omos said, this tracks.
I ask how long the Anticipation will go on for. She has me pull again, and this time the strand is longer than my hand. “A moderate length,” is all she says, but what moderate could mean is anyone’s guess.
She’s unable to tell us if we’ll be successful when I ask. “You must be more specific. Successful with what?”
“With…avoiding Seth?” I spread my hands, helpless. “Let’s try that.”
The spinner shakes the bag and has me draw again, and this time I can’t seem to locate a single strand to pull on. Every time I reach in, I find clumps that don’t separate from each other.
After a few moments of fishing, she shakes her head. “You’re taking too long. The gods don’t want to give you an answer on that one.”
“Oh.” I pull my hand back. “Let’s ask about another Aspect, then. Are there any others in this area?”
But the Fates aren’t inclined to answer that.
Again, I’m thwarted by the tangle of threads, and the spinner grows impatient when I take too long again.
“If there is an answer, there is an easy pull,” she explains, taking the bag away and palpating it to mix the threads.
“If not, the gods don’t wish to share their knowledge. ”
I try asking about other aspects, then advice on where we should go, but each time we pose a question, the strings aren’t responding.
It’s like they’re in a deliberate knot, tangled and determined not to let me snag any of them.
Restless and frustrated with the non-answers, I glance up at Kalos.
He shrugs. “Ask something different, then.”
“Anything?”
The spinner nods, gathering the threads into her bag once more. “Anything.”
“Can you tell me if my brother is all right?” I blurt out.
I clap my hands to my mouth the moment the words come out, heartbroken. I’ve told myself I shouldn’t wonder. That I need to move on and have faith in what Lachesis promised. It’s just…I can’t stop thinking about him. If David’s all right, it makes everything worth it.
To my surprise, Kalos puts a comforting hand on the back of my neck. It’s such a strange, intimate touch, but I appreciate it. His thumb strokes against my skin.
“I know I shouldn’t ask,” I murmur. “I just…wonder.”
“You can always ask,” Kalos says. “It’s the answer that’s the trickier part.”
I nod, aching.
The spinner watches us. She hesitantly holds the bag out, a question in her eyes. Do I want to see if there’s an answer for me? Or should I just let it go?
Closing my eyes, I reach into the bag. Kalos’s thumb continues to drift across my neck, stroking me in an almost possessive way. I shiver, but not from fever, and stretch my fingers into the pouch. Almost immediately, I touch a single thread and pull it free.
The thread in my hand is a brilliant shade of gold, and so long that the end trails out of sight.
It’s the affirmation I needed, and I burst into tears of relief.