I dash to the next tapestry, flipping it—like turning the pages of a book I can’t gobble down fast enough.
This scene is similar, but the black silhouette is gone, the green-cloaked man atop the mountain of roses now folded in a lifeless lump. The border is no longer black, but a beautiful, ghastly illusion that makes it appear as though numerous bloody swords are threaded through the weft, pointed toward Arrin, each wielded by snarling Unseelie.
War.
Someone murdered the High Master of Arrin, and the entire continent went to war over the unclaimed land …
My heart hammers so hard I can hear it rushing in my ears.
I flip the next tapestry.
Silvery dunes are overlooked by a riot of angry, swollen clouds riddled with luminescent forks. Gathered people—no,Unseelie—are stalled mid stride, weapons dropping from their hands as they run from bolts of lightning powering down from bulbous, gray clouds.
There’s wild fear in their inky eyes that weep bloody tears, mouths agape, jagged lines of silver scribbled across their skin, swallowing some of them whole.
I feel the image take root inside my chest. Weigh me down.
Reaching out, I trace the forks of lightning, some innate part of meknowingthat these hidden tapestries are ancient threads of history. That I’m peeking through the folds of time at the decimation of the Unseelie.
Given what I know of their history, I should be looking upon these weaves feelinglightened…
Instead, a deep sadness overwhelms me.
Frowning, my gaze drifts to the right, and I find my hands shaking when I reach down and grip the hem of the next tapestry. This one is large, harder to flip, and my shoulder muscles ache as I wrestle it over.
I drop the drape against the wall in a puff of dust that makes me cough. I bat at the swirl of it, squinting through the haze.
My eyes widen, and cold dread seeps through my veins, chilling me to the bone.
A lone hill graces the center of the tapestry, littered with hundreds of wildflowers stitched in the boldest colors.
I’ve seen a likeness of this image before, back at Castle Noir. Hung before the hidden passageway that led to my secret nook where I’d watch the monthly Tribunal. A tapestry I’ve looked at many times, heart swelling with a curious sadness I could never understand. A sadness I feelnownipping the backs of my eyes as I study the perfect stitches. The way the flowers tilt their faces toward the light. The shape of the petals, like a flurry of tiny flames.
And I justknow …
Both tapestries were woven by the same pair of hands.
* * *
Night sits upon the shoulders of the palace like a weight, choking the life out of it, giving it a lonely, cold aura despite the muggy air. Even so, I’m not surprised to find Old Hattie in her room off the lobby, sitting on a stool before her loom—her long, silver braid coiled on the floor.
Tucked behind a half-open door, I barely feel the tired ache of my eyes while I watch her weave, huddled within an orb of lantern light. Her fingers move with grace and speed, like the missing two have never been there.
I hunger over every twist and knot, bright threads woven and pulled as taut as her hunched shoulders. She uses the warp stick to tighten the line, and my gaze drifts to the half-finished masterpiece.
A nest of flowers surrounds what appears to be the makings of a pale face, the vibrant pops of color so achingly familiar a lump rises in my throat.
Wildflowers.
She makes a small grunting sound that shatters the sleepy silence, and her hand lifts from the threads. She doesn’t turn from her task as she crooks her finger—a quiet request for me to approach.
A chill scurries up my spine.
I’m sure most people don’t sense me coming and going, dashing through the halls and slipping through rooms. Melding with the shadows.
Not unless I want them to.
Clearing my throat, I tuck my hair behind my ears, checking the dark, empty foyer through the doorway to my right before I ease forward. Old Hattie edges along the wooden stool, setting her lantern on the floor and patting the empty space.
