Chapter 12 #3
“Then maybe don’t play with the loom while you’re mid-appointment,” he retorted. “Finish the reading. We’ll dissect your crisis while you’re in your pajamas later.”
Fair.
I turned my attention fully back to Greta, who was gaping at me as I muttered to the squirrel on my shoulder, fingers curling into my palm under the table to stop myself from reaching for more threads.
“Greta,” I said softly. “Astrology doesn’t usually come with a neon sign that says quit your job.
It gives us cycles and themes, windows where certain choices are supported.
You, right now, are in a powerful window for building something from home that’s rooted in your heart.
Something that honors your grief instead of pretending it’s not there.
Your second house, your income, is lit up with opportunities for work that’s relational and creative.
Your tenth house is screaming for a career that is personal and not some faceless corporation.
Your fourth house, home, is where the action wants to be.
This quilting business? It aligns with all of that. ”
“But the risk,” she whispered. “What if it fails?”
“It might,” I said honestly. I didn’t want to sugarcoat it.
“Not because you’re not capable, but because any new business has growing pains.
But your chart shows that if you give it a structured go—set hours, real pricing, treat it like a job, not just a hobby—you have every chance of making it work.
Especially over the next eighteen months while that North Node is in your career house. This is your jumping-off point.”
Greta’s eyes brimmed again. “I’m scared.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “That’s totally normal. I would be too.”
“You would?”
“But you’re not just leaping without a parachute,” I continued.
“You can build a bridge. Could you, for example, scale back at the supermarket first? Reduce shifts as your quilt orders increase? Give yourself a timeline—say, six months where you throw everything at this business and reassess? That way you can ease into it. It’s a transition. ”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I could ask for fewer nights. They’re not desperate for staff, so … they might let me drop some shifts.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, thinking. “And I could use the time I’m currently trying to nap in the day to sew instead. At least at first.”
“The chart supports that,” I said. “It doesn’t say the path will be effortless. But it does say that if you work with this energy—if you choose to step into it—you’re not walking alone. You’ll find allies. Your community wants what you’re offering.”
“That sounds … really rewarding,” she whispered.
I reached for my tarot deck, the cards familiar under my fingers. “Do you mind if we pull a couple of cards to clarify?”
She nodded quickly. “Please.”
I shuffled, centering myself. “Let’s ask. What does Greta need to know about stepping into this business? What is the outcome if she commits to it with structure and heart?”
Greta’s eyes widened as three cards slipped free, nudging my fingers. I laid them out.
The Empress. Three of Pentacles. Eight of Pentacles.
I exhaled a soft laugh. “The universe really is unsubtle today.”
“What do they mean?” Greta asked, leaning in.
I tapped the Empress. “This is you. Nurturer, creator, mother. She’s abundance, but not in a flashy way. She grows things slowly and steadily. This card is about tending to what you love and watching it flourish.”
Next was the Three of Pentacles. “This is collaboration. Community. You don’t build this alone. Word-of-mouth recommendations, maybe even partnering with local funeral homes or new parent groups down the line.”
Greta’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“And the Eight of Pentacles,” I said, smiling. “This is the card of the artisan. The craftsperson who hones their skill over time, building a solid reputation. It’s long-term work. Not a quick fix, but something you become known for.”
Greta stared at the cards, then at the chart, then back at me. “So … you think I should do it?”
I took a breath. The threads above the chart shimmered, waiting.
“I think,” I said carefully, feeling the truth anchor in my bones, “that if there was ever a time for you to give this an honest go, it’s now.
I think your chart shows that your soul is crying out for work that honors your love for your husband, your love for your kids, and your own need to create.
And I think this quilting business of yours has the bones to support you—emotionally and financially—if you treat it like the real thing from the start. ”
We spent another twenty minutes going through practicalities like timing, brainstorming business names—we both liked HeartStitch Keepsakes—looking at months where the energy ramped up. I gave her some dates to circle for launching.
All the while, the threads hovered, occasionally pulsing when we landed on a timeline that aligned with them. I kept my hands firmly on the physical side of the table.
Eventually, Greta stood, tucking her notes into her bag alongside a small piece of rose quartz I pressed into her hand for courage.
“Thank you,” she said, voice trembling but steadier somehow. “I … I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for a year and someone just told me I’m allowed to breathe again.”
“You are,” I said, throat tight. “And you don’t have to do it perfectly. Just … start. One stitch at a time.”
She laughed wetly, wiping her eyes. “That sounds like something my gran would’ve said.” She glanced at Bracken, who was now grooming his tail like he hadn’t just watched me manhandle fate. “And thank you … to your friend.”
“He says you’re welcome,” I said.
“I like her,” Bracken commented. “She’s got a brave heart.”
When the door shut behind her and her car pulled away, the house fell into a thick, humming silence.
The threads above the coffee table were fading, sinking back toward the chart, but not entirely gone. I stared at them, pulse roaring in my ears.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “What the actual hell was that?”
Bracken hopped off my shoulder onto the table, tiny nose twitching as he sniffed at the remaining shimmer. “That, lass, was you stepping into what you are. A chartweaver.”
“I’ve never even heard that word before,” I protested. “Gran never said I was—”
Bracken gave me a look. “Your gran also didn’t tell you you’d end up sharing a house with your former friend’s ex-boyfriend, but here we are. Just because you didn’t get a pamphlet at birth doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Please explain,” I said, crossing my arms, heart still racing. “Seriously, I’m, like, shaking.”
He puffed himself up. “There are witches who read charts like reading a map. There are witches who sense threads of fate like feeling vibrations on a web. And then there are the rare ones who can actually touch those threads and shift them a hair. Not rewrite fate entirely,” he added quickly, as if he saw the panic rising on my face.
“That’s beyond anyone. But they can … nudge.
Strengthen certain paths. Soften others. Help mend tears.”
“So, weaving. Or re-weaving, I guess,” I said slowly.
“Aye.” His eyes gleamed. “Chartweavers. They see the pattern in the chart and the threads of what could be, not just what is.”
My stomach dropped. I stared at the empty chair where Greta had sat. “So when I told her to take the chance—”
“You didn’t hypnotize the woman,” Bracken said firmly. “You didn’t force her hand. You simply strengthened the thread of a choice she already wanted to make. You could see that path in her chart. You didn’t conjure it out of nowhere, Liora. You listened. You guided.”
“But what if I’m wrong?” I whispered. “What if I encourage someone down a path that ends badly? What if I weave something that tangles?”
“Then you’ll learn,” he said bluntly. “And you’ll be more careful next time. Power without humility is dangerous. Power with your level of overthinking? Likely manageable.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I muttered.
He patted my hand with a tiny paw. “Listen. You already meddled with fate the minute you flung that truth spell at Torin’s face.”
“Wow, thank you for the reminder.”
“You’re welcome. My point is that you’ve always been messing with threads, lass. You just didn’t see them. Now you can. Which means you can be more mindful. More deliberate. That’s a good thing.”
I blew out a breath, mind spinning. “Gran,” I murmured. “She must’ve known something. She had to. She kept saying my chart work was different.”
“You need to spend more time with her books,” Bracken said simply. “And I know just the right one.”
“You do?” I gaped at the squirrel.
“Aye. You only had to ask.”
“Damn it, Bracken. Can you show me the book with the information that I’d dearly like to know so I don’t have a meltdown?”
“Humans are so dramatic.”
“Och, please. I’ve watched you fling yourself at a bird feeder and run away in a huff when you couldn’t reach it.”
“Wasn’t me.” Bracken shook his head.
“Lies.” I laughed at the squirrel as he ran his little paws over a stack of books until he found the one he wanted.
“This one.”
“How do you know?” I asked, looking at where his tiny paws rested on a book in the middle.
“I don’t know. How did you know that you liked shoving your tongue down Torin’s throat?”
“So rude.” I glared at him and hauled the book onto the low table, the spine creaking as I opened it. The pages fell open naturally, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t something more at play here.
I frowned. The top of the page was headed with a word in Gran’s looping script.
Chartweavers.
My pulse thudded.
I bent closer, eyes scanning the text.
“Some magickals read the stars. Some feel the pull of the tides of fate but cannot grasp them. The rarest of all are those who can see the threads and place their fingers upon the loom. Chartweavers are born, not made, though they may sleep for years before their gift awakens. They are keepers of possibility, not dictators of destiny. Their task is not to force a future, but to mend what is torn, strengthen what is weak, and illuminate paths for those who stand at the crossroads.”
My throat tightened as if someone had slipped a hand around it.
“Great care must be taken. Every weave has consequence. A gentle touch is required. The weaver must never forget the sovereignty of the soul before them. Consent, intention, and ethics are their safeguards.”
I swallowed hard, eyes blurring. On the next page, a diagram of a chart much like the one on my laptop was drawn by hand, with threads sketched between points and notes in the margins.
My name was written, a question mark and a heart next to it, on one of the pages.
Tears stung my eyes.
“She knew,” I whispered. “She knew and she didn’t tell me.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to overload you,” Bracken said gently. “You were busy trying to survive algebra and bad haircuts. She might’ve been waiting for the right time.”
“The right time being … after she was gone and I accidentally wove someone’s career path?” I sniffed.
“Witches are dramatic like that.”
I huffed a wet laugh, brushing at my cheeks. I read on.
“The chartweaver will often awaken fully in moments of crisis or deep service—when heart, chart, and need align. When this happens, the threads will reveal themselves. The weaver should ground, breathe, and remember. You are a guide, not a god. Speak truth. Offer choice. Weave only where the soul already leans.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. That was what had happened with Greta. I hadn’t conjured a path she didn’t already want. I’d just … given it a little cosmic scaffolding.
Still terrifying. But slightly less so.
A clock chimed faintly from somewhere in the house. I jumped.
“Shite.” I glanced at the time on my phone. “I really have to go.”
“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on your tree man.”
“He’s not my—” I stopped. “Never mind. There’s no use arguing.”
I walked toward the front door, my mind buzzing with charts and threads and the image of Greta’s future shop.
Outside, the autumn light slanted golden across the loch, and for the first time since I’d arrived in Loren Brae, I felt the strange, dizzy sensation that maybe, just maybe, I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Even if I was a chartweaver with zero idea what I was doing.
One stitch at a time, I thought, echoing my own advice to Greta as I grabbed my coat and headed out.
One stitch at a time.