The bulldog version ofLook here, peasants.
Keegan lifted the tablecloth.
My breath caught.
Luna’s travel basket.
She never left it.
Ever.
Inside, nestled among rose-gold wool, lay a stitched message, with witch-thread intertwined with fae braid patterns. Luna’s signature stitch-language.
“She left us a note,” I whispered.
I reached in, fingers brushing loops and knots. Warm magic tingled beneath my fingertips.
Then I spotted it. A faint shimmer behind a skein embroidered with my name, as if the threads themselves were whispering. Nestled there was an envelope, waiting like it had been holding its breath for me.
I slit it open and my breath shook.
If you find this, you waited long enough to listen. Good.
I left to keep you from following the wrong seam.
You’ll be tempted to take the path that looks like a path. Don’t.
Follow where the fabric pulls. You’ll know it because it will feel like the wrong
choice… the shortcut that isn’t.
Bring the hinge. Leave the hammer.
Pack for cold.
He was in danger, and I knew if I didn’t hide him, someone else would find him.
The shadows are chasing him.
Twobble made a squeaky gasp.
I continued:
I am with him because sometimes the only way to stop a storm is to stand in its
center and refuse to move.
Forgive me and the method.
Trust the motive.
Find the dropped stitch.
—L.
Stella’s eyes shone. “She’s not a traitor.”
Nova’s fingers hovered over invisible threads vibrating around us. “Find the dropped stitch,” she echoed. “She wants us to mend something.”
