to near invisibility?
When Iseult finally reached her mother’s round home, she found it as strangely tiny as everywhere else. Though Gretchya’s hut wore the same orange rugs over the same wide plank floors from Iseult’s childhood, it was all so small.
The worktable that had once come up to Iseult’s waist, now only reached her mid-thigh—as did the dining table beneath the window on the eastern side. Behind the stove was a hatch that led to a dug-out basement. It looked so compact that Iseult wasn’t sure she could even brave it down there.
The two times she’d come back—for only one night each visit—the cellar had felt terrifying and enclosed compared to Mathew’s open-aired attic. And, after having had a bed of her own, the single pallet Iseult had always shared with her mother had seemed cramped. Inescapable.
“Come.” Gretchya gripped Iseult’s wrist and towed her to the four low stools around the stove that were customary in a Threadwitch’s home. Iseult had to quash the need to wrench free of her mother’s fingers. Gretchya’s touch was even colder than she remembered.
And of course, her mother didn’t notice the bloodied wrapping on her daughter’s palm—or maybe she noticed but didn’t care. Iseult couldn’t gauge her mother’s emotions because Threadwitches could neither see their own Threads nor those of other Threadwitches. And Gretchya was far more skilled at masking her feelings than Iseult had ever been.
In the guttering lantern light, though, Iseult could at least see that her mother’s face had changed very little in three years. Perhaps a bit thinner and perhaps a few more lines around her frequently frowning mouth, but that was all that was different.
Gretchya finally released Iseult’s wrist, snatched up a nearby stool, and set it before the hearth. “Sit while I’ll spoon out borgsha. The meat is goat today—I hope that is still to your taste. Scruffs! Come! Scruffs!”
Iseult’s breath hitched. Scruffs. Her old dog.
A thump-thump-thump sounded on the stairs into the house, and then there he was—old and saggy and with a listing canter.
Iseult slid off the stool. Her knees hit the rug, happy heat chuckling through her. She opened her arms, and the ancient red hound galloped toward her … until he was there, wagging his tail and nosing his grayed muzzle into Iseult’s hair.
Scruffs, Iseult thought, afraid to speak his name. Afraid the stammer would be there from this unexpected surge of emotions. Contradictory emotions that she didn’t want to wade through or interpret. If Safi were here, she’d know what it was that Iseult felt.
Iseult scratched at Scruffs’s long ears. The tips were crusted with flecks of what looked like parsley. “Have you b-been eating borgsha?” Iseult backed onto the stool, still rubbing Scruff’s face and trying to ignore how foggy his eyes were. How much gray had taken over his snout.
A melodic voice broke out. “Oh. You are home!”
Iseult’s fingers froze on Scruffs’s neck. Her vision throbbed inward, smearing the room and the dog’s face. Perhaps if she pretended not to notice Alma, the other girl would simply fade into the Void.
No such luck. Alma skipped from the door to Iseult. Like Gretchya, she wore the traditional Threadwitch black dress that fit tightly through the chest but was loose over the arms, waist, and legs. “Moon Mother save me, Iseult!” Alma gaped down, her long-lashed green eyes shuttering with surprise. “You look just like Gretchya now!”
Iseult didn’t answer. Her throat was hard with … with something. Anger, she supposed. She didn’t want to look like Gretchya—a true Threadwitch like Iseult could never be. Plus, Iseult hated that Scruffs wagged his tail. Butted his head on Alma’s knee. Turned to Alma and away from Iseult.
“You are a woman now,” Alma added, plopping onto a stool.
Iseult gave a curt nod, skimming a quick eye over the other Threadwitch. Alma was a woman now too. A beautiful one—no surprise. Her chin-length coal-black hair was thick, glossy … perfect. Her waist was small, her hips curved, and her shape all that was feminine and … perfect.
Alma was, as she’d always been, the perfect Threadwitch. The perfect Nomatsi woman. Except when Iseult’s gaze settled on Alma’s hands, she saw thick calluses.
Iseult flipped up Alma’s palm. “You’ve trained with a sword.”
Alma flung a furtive glance at Gretchya, who nodded slowly. “A cutlass,” Alma admitted. “I’ve been practicing with one for the past few years.”
Iseult dropped Alma’s wrist. Of course Alma had learned to fight. Of course she would be perfect at that too. There could never be anything