“Depending on one’s point of view,” Lillith says.
“I did notice the gift box beside your bed.”
“Yes. It was waiting when we arrived. Apparently from a secret admirer.”
“Oh?”
Lillith smiles.
Clearly she doesn’t know Poppy has read the card, because “secret” admirers don’t usually sign their initials. The thought needles Poppy. Is there indeed a secret lover in Lillith’s life? Another rival for the inheritance? A more challenging obstacle than Arrabella or Patrick?
“So ... you have no idea who sent the gift?”
“No.”
“But it must be from someone on the ship.”
“Who knows,” Lillith says simply.
The elevator pings. As Poppy helps Lillith out, she says, “Surely Roshaan, our concierge, would know who left it there for you? I mean, she—or someone else with room access—would have put the box there?”
“Probably.”
Lillith offers nothing further.
They move slowly toward the Deck 14 doors, pausing to read a plaque mounted beside a floor-to-ceiling mural titledThe Loom of Fate.
The plaque reads:
In Greek mythology the Three Fates are called the Three Moirai.
Clotho, the Spinner, spools out the threads of life. She represents birth.
Lachesis, the Allotter, measures the threads: She determines lifespan.
Atropos, the Inflexible One, snips the threads with her shears: She decrees time of death.
Together the trio weave the threads into the fabric of life. Their decisions are final, unchangeable, inescapable. Not even the gods can overrule them.
Poppy frowns at the painting. It reminds her of something found on ceilings of ancient chapels. Clotho is shown as young, radiant, robed in flowing whites and golds. She sits at the start of the loom, gently drawing thread from a spindle. Lachesis is depicted as middle-aged. She measures the spooling thread with golden calipers. Atropos is old and somber in black. She wields an obsidian blade with which she slices the threads. The severed ends disappear into shadows behind her, and in the shadows are shapes of skulls and bones. The loom itself is immense—part ocean, part globe, part constellations, part machine.
“It’s magnificent,” Lillith murmurs.
Poppy feels a shiver, but nods in spite of the chill. She’s thinking about her own beginnings. Her own thread and the trajectory of her life, how disasters piled one atop another, until she finally ended up here with dying Lillith on theBlack Orchid, standing in front ofThe Loom of Fate.
“It’s bollocks,” she says crisply.
“What is?”
“To think that everything is predestined, that we can’t change it. We have choice.”
“Do we? Really?”
Poppy glances at Lillith. A strange glint sharpens her good eye. It’s unsettling.
“Well, personally I plan to choose something from the dinner menu right now,” Poppy says. “Those Three Moirai are not having any say in that.”
Lillith smiles and hooks her arm through Poppy’s. “Come on, then, let’s go order something fabulous, shall we?”
