Page 40 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
It could never be mychoice.
Jaw clenched, I stabbed the fabric quicker, harder. “I’d rather have my freedom, thanks.” My home, my belongings, mylife.
“I’m afraid that isn’t an option.”
“Isn’t it? Or are you just not willing to offer it?” I shot him a glare, and his tanned skin paled.
Drawing himself up straight, he took a step away. The stiffness ill-suited him, but so what? Captivity ill-suited me.
“You are bound, Ariadne, just as I am. Under the terms of the Tithe, you must stay with me forever.” With a curt nod, he stalked from the room.
Forever. That word lodged in my throat, choking. If not for that, I might’ve laughed, a bitter, sneering thing.
I’d spent my life thinking I was powerless—to stop my magic awakening, to keep Callum, to save Mama and Papa, to fight off the wolves at my heels. At least in Briarbridge there had been achance.
But I’d been blind and foolish, because here I was bound to Lysander, and now I trulywaspowerless.
I balled the toile in my fist.
Raspberries & True Names
When I arrived in the workshop the next day, another armchair had appeared by the fireplace, and later that morning he darkened my door. I gave a polite, if cold greeting, and handed him the finished toile to change into behind a screen. It only required pinning over his narrow hips, but otherwise the pattern was there. Silence reigned between us until he left.
Much later in the day, after I’d taken dinner alone, he appeared again.
“I come with entertainment.” He waved a book. “Well, a peace offering, really.” He raised his eyebrows as if asking whether I’d accept.
I’d cut the gloves and sewn the lining together. They sat at the bottom of the work basket next to the armchairs. My guilty conscience tugged my gaze in that direction, and Ly must’ve taken it as an invitation, because he took a seat and looked at me expectantly.
He was bound by the Tithe, just as I was. A good night’s sleep had lessened my anger somewhat, but it still grated that his side of the Tithe involved his life continuing as normal while mine had changed completely.
Still, that wasn’t his fault. So, with a sigh, I took my work to the armchair and flopped into it.
“I’m afraid I’m no storyteller, but I have some good books.” He flicked his fingers and a decanter and two glasses appeared on the low table between us. “And if all else fails, you can always drink to distract yourself from my poor diction.”
He was going to read to me as I worked. My chest swelled.
The first story was one I’d heard before—The Maiden of the Tower. It had been Mama’s favourite since it came from her homeland. I didn’t mind hearing it again and not only for the reminder of Mama. For all he said he was no storyteller, Ly’s deep voice took on that cadence, filling the room and lulling my breaths as I sewed.
A little of my energy sapped into each stitch. “Strength,” I whispered into the seams, voice as soft as the thread I drew through the fabric. My magic was in that thread, silver in my mind’s eye, part of the dim web that threaded through the world. From me to Lysander, to the sickly yew outside, to the flowers in the gardens, to the ground below the house, to the owls hunting in the gathering darkness. The threads connected all things.
Most of the time I was a fly caught on one bar of that spider’s web. But at least working made it feel like I controlled this single strand. It was better than being trapped, waiting for the spider to come and devour me.
Ly had fallen quiet, his story finished, and when I looked up, I found him watching the rise and fall of my hands as I took small, even backstitches through the layers of cloth.
“Raspberries,” he murmured with a faint smile.
My magic. It was weak compared to his, but he could still taste it across the few feet separating our armchairs.
Something about that was intimate. Maybe because I’d never known anyone else who could taste magic—at least, none of the other fae-touched in Briarbridge had ever mentioned it. I swallowed and nodded. “I don’t really notice it anymore, but yes, I’ve always thought it tasted like raspberries.”
He made a soft sound in his throat and turned the page of the book resting in his lap.
The next story was new to me, about the ancient times when humans and fae lived side-by-side across Albion. A human woman longed for the strength to save her sister from a bargain with a kelpie. Although she was gifted, her magic was too weak to stand against the lake beast.
She asked a local cunning woman what she could do. “Find your True Name, girl,” the cunning woman told her, “and all power will be yours. The Lady of the Lake knows all things. Give an offering and declare your truest desire. If you want it with every part of yourself, she will grant you a Name.”
So she journeyed across the country to the Lady of the Lake and declared her wish to save her sister. She gained her True Name and used it to break the wards on the kelpie’s stronghold. There, she fought the beast and won, only to discover her sister crying. For, although she thought she’d saved her sister from a terrible fate, her sister had fallen in love with the kelpie and married him.
