Thistle’s dark eyes went wide as they met mine. “It can’t be broken, at least not by me,” she said. “Time and Tether are both higher-order magics. I’m a Hedge. Lower-order magics have never been capable of breaking spells cast by the higher order. Even spells in the same order level are difficult to undo or manipulate with differing gifts.”
Quinn angled her head. “Am I to understand that even though you can sense the weave, it is beyond your reach?”
Thistle nodded. “I can see it and maybe pull on it, but I shouldn’t.” She didn’t oblige with miracles. Thistle never did.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. “Can’t you try and cut the thread?”
Dark curls danced as she shook her head hard. “It would be dangerous for me to even try, for all of us.” Her gaze dartedbetween Quinn and me. “Best case, you both sleep for a week. Worst case…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. We could all end up dead or cursed beyond any hope of redemption.
The kettle interrupted with a squeal, and Thistle poured steaming water into five teacups. One for each of us. One for Vesper. One for the empty chair she never explained. Some griefs kept their own names.
Quinn wrapped her hands around hers. I leaned forward, letting the steam hit my face, needing to anchor myself to something tangible.
“So we’re stuck like this?” I asked, though it was more an admission of defeat than a question.
“For now. Unless you find someone with power in the right orders and a reason to risk helping.”
Vesper yawned. “Or we could all nap and pretend it isn’t happening.”
“Helpful,” Thistle muttered.
I tipped the cup to my lips. The tea was sharp, mellow, then punched the sinuses. “Perfect,” I wheezed. “Is there no other way?”
“I don’t know another…” Thistle ran a hand along her cheek. “But I have a friend who might. He owes me a favor, but the journey is too long to make before nightfall.”
“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, he still owes me fish from last time,” Vesper added.
“Can we stay with you and all go tomorrow?” I asked. “I wouldn’t rush but…” My eyes slid to Quinn and back. “Time is of the essence.”
Thistle smiled as she stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “Yes, tomorrow.”
8
QUINN
Only the occasional pop of a stubborn ember troubled the hush, scattering sparks across the dimming hearth. From the kitchen, Mav and Thistle’s voices drifted in low, unhurried tones. Perhaps they spoke of provisions. Perhaps of me.
It was not my place to ask.
I sat with my legs folded under me on a lopsided settee. The fabric beneath my fingertips was coarse and sun-faded, patterned with a dozen careful thread repairs. Someone, Thistle I presumed, had loved it enough to keep mending it, even as time urged it toward surrender.
The room felt lived in, the sort of place that had outlasted seasons and wars, outlived lovers and grief. This chamber and I had much in common. It was rare to feel at home in a place newly discovered; rarer still to feel held by a mutual resilience.
A soft creak from the floor drew my gaze downward. Vesper, the sleek black cat, padded into the room and sprang lightly onto an armchair, his spine unfurling in a sinuous arch before he settled.
“Cold night,” he observed, wrapping his tail about his legs.
My mouth parted unbidden. Creatures with the faculty of speech were not unheard of, but this feline was the first I had personally encountered. The smooth voice issuing from his whiskered mouth remained a source of surprise. Ashamed of my rudeness, I closed my lips and inclined my head toward him.
“Quite.” I set my teacup down upon a wobbling, lace-draped table. “My apologies for not introducing myself earlier. I am?—”
“Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia.” He turned luminous green eyes upon me. “I heard. And you already know I’m Vesper.”
A courteous smile found my lips. “If I may, how long have you and Thistle been familiars?”
“Thirty years or so.”
