A young couple walked past, their shoulders brushing, hands linked. Something in my chest tightened at their easy intimacy.That's what I wanted, someone who chose me, knew me, saw all of me without flinching.
Was that too much to ask? Probably.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—a client with a last-minute order, no doubt. I should answer it, use it as an excuse to walk away from this ridiculous errand. I had a successful business, a comfortable home, clients who respected my work. I wasn't some lovesick teenager pining for a soulmate.
And yet I didn't reach for the phone. Instead, I found myself taking a step closer to the door, then another.
"Ten minutes," I told myself firmly. "I'll give them ten minutes, hear what they have to say, and then I'll go back to being a functional adult who doesn't believe in fate-threads or destiny or whatever nonsense they're selling."
Before I could overthink it further, I reached for the handle.
Monster, how dare you even look at me!
Then I closed my eyes to the onslaught of memories, took a breath that filled my lungs, and pushed the door open.
The soft chime of a bell announced my entrance as I stepped over the threshold, leaving the rational world behind. The scent hit me first, sage and amber resin. It filled my lungs as the door swung shut behind me, momentarily overwhelming my senses. The Golden Spindle's interior was nothing like the understated exterior had suggested. Every available surface seemed to house some manner of magical curiosity, from shelves lined with glass vials containing liquids in odd colors to bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling in constellations.
"Well, well, if it isn't the most eligible demon in the city."
The voice came from behind a curved counter that dominated the far wall. I turned to find a woman watching me with unabashed interest, her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts welcoming and mischievous. Her hair was a glorious riot of curls with thin strands of gold thread woven through them,catching light when she moved. She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, chin propped on her hands as though settling in for a show she'd been eagerly anticipating.
"Magnur himself," she continued, "master tailor, gracing my humble shop." Her eyes, bright and warm brown with flecks of gold, danced over me with the kind of open appreciation that most people tried to hide. "I was beginning to think you'd never come in, the way you were pacing outside."
Great. She'd been watching me have an existential crisis on her doorstep.
"I wasn't pacing," I said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “Nice shop you have here.”
She laughed. "I'll tell Atty you approve. She'll be absolutely thrilled." Her tone suggested the opposite was true. "I'm Cleo, by the way. One-third of the terror trio that runs this place."
I extended my hand, a gesture that often made humans nervous.
Cleo didn't hesitate to take it. "You're the reason my spools have been humming all day." She winked. "They do that sometimes when something interesting is about to happen."
I raised an eyebrow slightly. "And am I interesting?"
"Honey, you're the most interesting thing that's walked through that door all year." She released my hand and straightened, bouncing slightly on her toes. "And I had a literal phoenix in here on Monday."
Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upward. Her energy was infectious, there was no artifice to her, no hidden agenda I could detect. Just enthusiasm and... was that anticipation?
"So," she continued, circling around the counter, "you're here about a thread, yes? A connection? A..." She waggled her eyebrows dramatically, "romantic entanglement of the fated variety?"
I maintained my neutral expression through sheer force of will. "I'm here for a consultation."
"Mmhmm." She grinned like I'd confirmed her wildest suspicions. "Well, you'll want to talk to Lacey, then. She's the one who does the measuring."
She gestured for me to follow her toward the back of the shop. When she reached a curtain made of strung beads and thin threads that separated the main shop from whatever lay beyond, she turned back to me, mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Fair warning," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "Lacey's going to want to see your threads. The ones on your skin, I mean." She nodded toward my covered wrists. "Can't measure new connections without accounting for the old ones."
I stiffened slightly, my jaw tightening. The scars were private—not something I displayed casually, and certainly not something I discussed with strangers. But I supposed these weren't ordinary circumstances.
"That won't be a problem," I lied.
Cleo's expression softened, just slightly. For a moment, the hyperactive energy dimmed, and I glimpsed something like sympathy in her eyes. "She won't judge. None of us will." Then, quick as it had appeared, the seriousness vanished, replaced by her bubbly demeanor. "Now come on! Let's find you your perfect match before you change your mind and run for the hills."
With a wink, she swept aside the beaded curtain and led me into the back room, the strands tinkling musically as we passed through them.
The consultation room was a study in amber and shadow. Glass lamps cast pools of honeyed light across dark wooden surfaces, their glow catching on thousands of threads lining the walls in neat rows. At the center of the room sat a polished wooden table, its surface so reflective I could see the distorted reflection of my own face in it, three chairs surrounded it.
