As if sensing my weakness, a wave rises high, towering over me. Black and oily and hissing inrage. I grip Jinx’s line hard. With all the power in me, I bellow at my Entropy Thread,AWAY!But the Entropy doesn’t obey. The wave thunders down towards me, ready to devour the weaver that dares to contain it. Dares to wield it.
Jinx quivers on my shoulders.
A shadow bursts from the thread I grip, slamming against the wave and forcing it back. The rocks rise, clattering over themselves until I cannot perceive the oily ocean.
But the rock is weak with thin cracks throughout. I slide a hand along the wall, trying to fuse some of the fissures, but it’s useless. I’m too tired from battling the spider and saving Lucas. Jinx’s wall will have to stand on its own until I have my grimoire again.
The shadows wrap around me, Jinx’s rumbling voice echoing in my mind.You have two weeks at most. After that, the cliff will crumble and the black flame will consume you.
I go cold, my eyes opening and heat dispelling as the green light in my irises fades. Where Jinx’s fluffy cat form rests is the only warmth in me, but my familiar is too still. Too silent. I lift my trembling hand and slip my fingers through Jinx’s thick fur. She rubs her little head into my palm before slipping away, her round feet making no noise on the wood, and she walks out of the back room, her tail low and head bowed.
Pressure within my throat grows and I turn my head to the side to escape the discomfort. Memories of Viola come flooding to me and I relive those moments with her with a heavy, aching heart.
“You were always meant to be a Rosemont, my little love,” Viola says and plucks up her silver brush.
I sit patiently as Viola brushes my smooth hair in long sweeping strokes. The sunshine from the gardens pours into her bedroom in majestic rays, the large windows open to permit a summer breeze. Her vanity was so large to my small, child eyes then, and I could barely see myself in her enchanted mirror. Magical birds of pure gold flutter about the frame, their shiny metal wings spreading the sweet smell of enchantments with each beat. It mixes delightfully with lemony undertones of the soft pink heritage roses that sit in the vase beside her bed.
“Then why am I an Androclaria?” I wonder aloud.
Viola smiles softly, her pale skin striking against her dark hair. Her green eyes sparkle in the bright summer sunlight. “Once a century, the Great Tapestry permits growth within the Soul Threads and a new generation of weavers is born. It’s a wonderful time, where petty differences are put to the side and everyone celebrates in the splendor of magic. Your father…” She pauses, brush hovering above my small head. She slides it slowly from my crown to the tips of my reddish hair. “He wasn’t blessed by the Tapestry for a long time.”
My little face crunches in a frown. “Is that why there’s only Ali and me?”
“Yes. Your father is very old. He has lived through three of these fertility cycles. The second one created me before our father passed to the Weave. Because of this, there was a lot of pressure from the Council for Atticus to name an Heir, but your father believes very strongly in tradition. The Archweaver title has been passed from parent to child within the Androclaria line since the beginning and Atticus was determined to name his child Heir.”
I turn to see her better, “That’s silly.”
“It is, but your father is stubborn and he loved his mother very much. He never liked that my mother was of Preservation.”
My eyes light. “Does that mean Valen and Emelia are my cousins?”
A tinkling laugh bubbles from Viola and her bare arms wrap around me, the raised thick scars that mar them pressing against my smooth skin. “I am not a Bauer, but that’s why Rossana and I are very close. Her uncle loved and chose to marry my aunt Millie.”
My cheeks glow. I enjoy hearing about my great aunt Millie very much. “Can you tell me their love story again?”
“Pay attention to this lesson and maybe I’ll tell it to you later.”
I erupt in giggles as she pokes and tickles me. I seal my lips together and Viola straightens to continue her brushing. “It angered the Council that Atticus would risk the Archweaver line in such a way. Not only was I qualified to be Heir, but Vincentius as well. The position of Archweaver is not tied to blood, but to power. To deny us both out of pure selfishness…” Her lovely eyes flare. My hair shifts with the force of her exhale. “Regardless, Atticus was determined and he succeeded. That is how you and Ali came to be.”
“But you said I was a Rosemont? Why am I an Androclaria?”
“Because, my little love, you are very special. You are gifted with two threads. You could be either. Gildra—” her breath catches, her face shadowing. She clears her throat and tries again, “Your mother was the last Rosemont and you should’ve been named a Rosemont to continue the line, but you were born before Alasdair.”
I follow the blotchy formation of her scars with my fingers, tracing how they branch down to her elbows like rivers, and ask, “So?”
“Their first child… he did not take a breath when he was born. Because of this, Atticus feared that Alasdair would suffer the same fate. So, he claimed you, his living child who came into this world dripping with power.”
My legs are asleep from sitting on the floor for so long. I stretch them out, wiggling some of the tingling sensation back into them, before I drag myself to stand. The back room is too cold, too quiet. The enchanted window’s light is dull, with a dreary light that reflects my mood. My bare feet patter softly on the wood floor as I move to the main shop.
The crystals in their glass cases do their best to lift some of the heavy atmosphere. I touch the glass, the light dancing along my skin, then let my fingers slip away as I fall into another memory, this one from when I was older and began to understand my situation.
I soak my aching hands in the potion-filled bowl Viola hands me. My teeth are bare as I breathe heavily, rage sending little vibrations down my frame. “It was Alasdair’s idea to steal the cakes from the kitchen and yet I was punished. It’s not fair! I’m always the one who gets in trouble with Luciana. And Alasdair just stood there and watched as his bitch of a mother split my hands open with that fucking stick of hers.” I grumble. “At least he used to cry when that happened. I almost miss the sniveling. I should’ve known he’d turn out a heartless asshole since sibling loyalty clearly missed our bloodline. Valen would never let that happen to Emilia.”
“Language,” Viola murmurs softly, plucking one of the long-stemmed lavender flowers from the bouquet by her bed. She frees the buds from the spike and adds them to the water.
I scowl. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Of course not. Fuck Luciana.”
