“He’s busy.”
“Well, we were just about to go to sleep.” To make my point, I sat back in bed. Unfortunately, I moved a bit too erratically, and the cider sloshed over the edge of the cup, burning my hand. “Ouch,” I grumbled, pressing the affected skin to my mouth. “Elliot, just—okay,fine. Come here.”
Elliot plopped into my bed, jabbing me with cold feet and a skinny elbow as he opened the book he was carrying. It was in quite the deplorable state, pages velvet soft and spine crumbling from years of enjoyment. My bed was too small to properly fit three, but I made room for Eden, too, cocooning us all in my least scratchy blanket. Winter always found its wayinto our bedroom, clawing up from under the floorboards or squeezing its frosted body through the walls. I fought against the urge to shiver, wishing that I could turn the pages of the book without stiff, clumsy fingers.
“Oh, she’s my favorite,” Eden noted, peering at an illustration of a silver-haired woman dressed in a gown of silk and starlight. “Theia, Weaver of the Future,” she said reverently, pronouncing the Weaver’s name with careful respect. “She’s beautiful.”
“I suppose,” I said with a sigh, then flipped past Xander, Weaver of the Present, to a man with long ink black hair adorned with a crown of bones. “But Somnus is far more interesting.”
Eden scoffed. “What can the Weaver of the Past do? Theia would give us dreams of ourfutures. That’s what counts the most.”
“Like what we’ll have for dinner tomorrow,” Elliot chimed in.
Eden’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “Or who our friends will be.”
“Or our enemies,” I added.
“Who we’ll love. Who we’ll marry,” Eden suggested.
“How we’ll die,” I countered.
The thought hung heavy between us.
But only for a moment.
Elliot made an impatient sound. “Hurry up; I want to read the stories.”
Eden laughed, the sound as clear and sweet as a silver bell. We were similar in some ways, but different in the ways that counted. Where she was graceful, I stumbled. Where she was smart, I was dull. Where she was kind, I was selfish. Her goodness came naturally, and it couldn’t be replicated. Not even by her thirteen-year-old sister.
Eden flipped to the next page. A warrior, glistening with the flames of a thousand suns at his back, stared up at us, defiant and taunting. Fenrir, the Fire Weaver. The next page held Nephthys, the Water Weaver, her dark blue hair crowned with shining jewels.
“I wonder what it’d be like to dream,” Elliot said. “Do you think I’d be able to visit Nephthys’s castle by the sea? I want to see what a purple sky looks like, too. I bet it’d be strange, and one of the Weavers could teach us, like they used to, and—”
“Is that all you want? To see castles and purple skies?” I teased, pulling the blanket tighter around our shoulders. “Think of what you could do. Orbe. If we dreamed, we could learn to fly across those purple skies. Travel across the Dream Realm in a blink if we wanted.”
“That would be amazing.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Eden said, thumbing her jaw. “I sometimes wonder what it would be like, too.”
I flipped the page this time, past Ceres, the Earth Weaver, in her emerald forest and Lelantos, the Air Weaver, on his mountain, to a masked man wrapped in gold, sunlight spinning from his hands. His radiance filled his page with bright, shimmering waves, washing over those who worshipped at his feet. Mithras Atrelle Tethebrum, our sovereign and holy Light Bringer.
“The Light Bringer!” Elliot exclaimed with a toothy grin.
The next page depicted the seven Dream Weavers in battle against the Shadow Bringer. It was the final confrontation before the Weavers disappeared and Corruption slid over Noctis like a black cloud, leaving the Light Bringer to carry on alone. The artwork exploded violently with shadows, blood, and demonic beings devouring dreamers’ souls. The Shadow Bringer sat hunched in the middle of the page, teeth sharp and dripping with gore as he tore apart a Weaver with his claws. Black horns sprang from his skull-like face, framing hideous red eyes.
“I don’t like this page very much,” Elliot grumbled, squirming deeper into the blanket. “What about the one where—”
A noise sounded from below, much like the heavy creak of boots on a wooden floor.
Father.
“It’s bedtime, Elliot,” Father called. “Leave your sisters be.”
Elliot sighed dramatically, plodding downstairs to the room he shared with our parents. As the door shut behind him, wind snapped against our sole window, rattling the glass. An omen, maybe. But if it was, we missed it.
Or decided to forget.
“We should go to bed,” Eden whispered, reaching for her vial of elixir. “I’m cold.”
