He eyes me, wiping away some of the tears streamingdown my face from the intense round of sneezing. “You sure you want me to do that?”
I nod, because fixing one meal for this woman isn’t going to solve her problems. We must fix all of them or else she’ll just go back to eating rotten food and be just as bad off.
“You’re too soft-hearted,” Kalos chides, even as he pulls the next jar out of the shallow root cellar.
By the time he’s done, I’m shivering with fever, a cold sweat coating my limbs. I can handle this, though, because I expect it. I manage a smile when he shoots me a look of concern, and grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. The water has been boiling for several minutes, and I scoop a dipper of it out and put it in a cup to cool, then add a few sprigs of the herbs we’ve been wearing at our belts. Can’t hurt to give it a little flavor.
The old woman sits up in bed, watching us move about her house with a perplexed expression. “Who are you?” she asks when I hand her the hot cup of water.
“Just someone looking for a spinner. Drink up, please.”
She eyes my sweaty face and doesn’t reach out to take the cup. “Do you have the plague?”
“Literallyno onein this town has plague.” I try to keep my tone from being sharp, but jeez, do these people think about anything other than plague? “Just drink.”
“But you’re sick?—”
Kalos leans over the woman’s bed and gets in her face. “She is sick because she is with me. Understand?”
I see confusion on the woman’s face, and growing horror. She makes the salt throwing gesture against each shoulder, shrinking back.
“No one’s here to hurt you,” I say wearily. “And thanks for blowing our cover, Kalos.”
“I’m tired of the arguing. You’re trying to help her, and shedoesn’t seem to grasp that fact.” The smile he gives her is dangerous. “She understands it now, don’t you?”
Wordless, the old woman nods.
“Drink your water,” he says. “Even if it’s hot.”
She puts the cup to her lips and starts drinking, her gaze never leaving Kalos’s face.
“Are you a real spinner?” Kalos continues, his voice casual and easy and somehow more chilling because of it. “Tell the truth. We’ve already wasted enough time here.”
She swallows and puts the cup down, nodding. “I can see through the threads sometimes. Not every time, but I can do a reading for you, aye.”
“That would be very beneficial. My partner has questions she wishes to ask.”
His…partner? It might be the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. I’m not his equal in any sense—he’s a freaking god, for fuck’s sake—but knowing that he thinks of me as his partner melts something inside me. If I weren’t feeling so feverish, I might throw my arms around his neck and kiss him just for being sweet.
The old woman points at a table at the far side of the room. “My spinning bag is there. Fetch it for me?”
I pick up the woven bag, noting that it feels incredibly light, like it’s full of nothing. When I hand it over, she turns it over on the blankets, and out spills a huge pile of loose yarn threads in all different colors. They clump together and she runs her fingers through the mess, separating them as best she can before scooping them into the bag once more. She gives it a shake and closes her eyes.“What is it you wish to know?”
“Is anyone pursuing us?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Nothing else is as important as knowing if we’re in danger.
The spinner holds the bag out to me, the mouth of it gaping open. “Avert your gaze and pull out a thread. Just one.”
I do as she asks, fishing around in the bag before pulling a random thread out. It’s a pale color, not quite white, and about as long as my palm.
“A neutral thread,” she intones, taking it back from me and setting it aside. “You are not being pursued right now, but the thread is short. It means your window of safety is not a long one.”
“Exactly how long is long?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I do not know if it is long by your reckoning or long by the reckoning of the Fates. If I was lying to you, I’d suggest an answer that would make you happy.” Her gaze steals to Kalos, her expression tense. “But my goal is not to lie.”
It’s something, at least. “Can we ask more questions?”
The woman picks up the strings again. “As if I’d tell a god and his Anchor no? Ask all you like.”
