Seraphina cocked an eyebrow, causing the linen that covered her face to shift higher on her forehead. Even though no one could see her in the cell and in the dark, having her face covered made her feel less exposed and vulnerable.
“You don’t know the basics of how a relic is made, but you know about lattices,” she said, disbelievingly.
“I...” Rune hesitated. “My memory is fuzzy. I know things, or I know that I know things, but I can’t always grasp them.”
“So, you didn’t live a sheltered life. You suffer from memory loss.”
“Both.”
“Both?”
“Sheltered,” he said. “And forgetful.”
She heard a thud, then another. A third and a fourth thud followed, and Seraphina was certain he was banging his head against the wall. She pressed her palm against the cold stone.
“Tell me about yourself, Rune. What was your life like before... this place?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t remember?”
“I remember things. Sometimes. If I try hard enough, reach deep enough.”
“Tell me one thing you remember.”
The silence that stretched between them told Seraphina her question was too much for him. Still, she waited, giving him space to think. She wondered about this man. Who he was, where he came from, and if he was truly a murderer. Seraphina had come across many men in her twenty-four years of existence, and half of them had been wretched, violent, or at the very least, uncouth. Rune didn’t sound like any of them. She knew he came from the dregs of society – nothing else made sense – yet he behaved like someone with higher tendencies in his blood. Toward her, he’d shown kindness, compassion, curiosity. How many prisoners in this godforsaken dungeon would’ve shared their bread with her?
“For a Quietus Net, start with tight-woven linen and lay a hexagonal mesh,” Rune said out of the blue.
Seraphina stiffened, her back ramrod straight. A chill ran through her, and it had nothing to do with the night air sweeping in through the bars of her window.
“Set the corner hexagons first, then ladder the run so you finish at the head-end, where you seat the keybone and mark it with a green stitch. Every sixth hexagon carries a breather gap. Use light wax-resin, just enough to lock nodes without stiffening the cloth, and stitch two opposed kill-stitches along opposite seams that cross active rings, so the net can be dropped at a moment’s notice.”
“How do you–”
She choked on the words and covered her mouth with her hand. She breathed in and out a couple of times, her heart hammering in her chest, her body taut like a drawn bow. She squeezed her hand into a fist and bit down on her knuckles.
“How do you know that? Only a weaver knows how a Quietus Net is made.”
“You asked me to tell you a thing I remember,” he whispered, sounding defeated. He must’ve interpreted her reaction as a sign that he’d annoyed her.
“Are you a weaver?”
“N-No?”
“No?!”
She turned to face the wall, both hands pressed to it, her nails scratching the stone.
“Are you mocking me? You make me tell you about the Sarumite Order, explain how relics are made, and then you recite the pattern for the Quietus Net like it’s a thing you just happen to remember?”
“I’m sorry...”
She wanted to say more, was on the verge of screaming at him, when she heard the familiar banging of wood against metal, and shrunk within herself. The guards were here for the evening rounds. Hopefully, this time her food would stay in the bowl and not land on her dress, but it was probably too much to ask for.
“Seraphina Bell, you have a visitor.”
She recognized Weber’s voice. It had a singsong quality to it, and he even had the audacity to whistle a tune as he approached with two other men. One of them grunted a low protest, and Seraphina recognized Bauer. Her cell door was unlocked, and before she could scurry in a far corner, the third man descended upon her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet. She smelled garlic and stale beer on his breath, and nearly gagged.
