Another flash of calculation in his eyes; to be expected when speaking with Solmir, apparently. Every word out of his mouth always seemed carefully calibrated, honed to cut. “Being one of them,” he answered. “Never being anything else, because once I was a King.”
She wanted to respond with something sharp, something that sliced. But a ghost of vulnerability hung around his sneer, and for reasons she couldn’t quite name, that kept her silent.
The Seamstress turned back around from the cupboard, whatever she’d retrieved hidden in all her spider legs. “If I were you,” she said, ignoring the conversation they’d had while her back was turned, “I’d start with the Serpent.”
“You make it sound like the Serpent will welcome us,” Solmir said.
“It will, for it knows what your coming will mean. Live long enough, once-King, and death becomes a kindness. You aren’t there yet, I don’t think.” A pause. “I am.”
It hung there, a casual death wish. Neve couldn’t tell whether it surprised Solmir or not. If it did, he hid it this time. No emotion flickered on his face at all; he could’ve been marble-carved.
The Seamstress broke the silence. She waved a hand at the corner of the cabin. “You look the same size as I was back when I had need of boots, Shadow Queen. There might be some over there.”
She was loathe to turn her back on these two, but Neve did need shoes. She went to the corner and brushed away cobwebs, finding a dusty pair that looked ancient but intact enough to be an improvement over bare feet. She shoved the boots on and laced them up, glad for something to cut the chill even if it was centuries old.
Behind her, Solmir and the Seamstress stood in silence. But it was a heavy kind, one that made her wonder if they were carrying on a mental conversation of their own, one she’d been dismissed for.
“Thank you,” she said as she walked the short distance back across the cabin, both out of genuine thanks and as a way to signal her presence if they were deep in each other’s thoughts.
The Seamstress didn’t look at her but gave Solmir a sad, small smile. “One favor for another.” Her legs turned, revealing what she’d taken from the cupboard.
A bone.
On first glance, it looked like a human femur. But the proportions were off—it was too short, the nodule at one end too small. The other end had been carved into a sharp point, making it about the size and shape of a dagger.
“The Weaver gave me this,” she said, peering at the ivory as if she could see a future in it. Maybe she could. “So many eons ago, when I was just a human woman with no idea what awaited me. A bone from one of my Weaver’s own legs, as a token of our devotion.” Her eyes turned to Solmir. “You have been a good friend, once-King. At least, in the way of friends in this place. And you hold the magic for the Shadow Queen.” She put the bone in Solmir’s hand and, slowly, knelt before him. “You will need more. And I am so tired.”
Understanding slipped into place like a hand to a glove; the death of the wormlike lesser beast, the way it broke into shadow—but the shadow had been magic, unmoored from the Shadowlands, free for the taking.
That’s what the Seamstress offered. More magic, through her death.
“I grow weary, Solmir. This world dies all around us.” She looked up, faceted eyes peaceful. “My power is small. But you will need every scrap of it you can get, to do what you must do.”
The King’s eyes blazed blue, a battle in them whose sides Neve couldn’t make sense of. Then he nodded, one jerk of his chin.
“May the next world be kinder, Beloved,” he said quietly.
The Seamstress closed her eyes, smiled. “It has to be.”
Then Solmir plunged the sharpened bone into her neck.
No blood. Instead, shadows, spilling from the wound like smoke. Scraps of magic skittering away from a dead vessel.
Solmir raised his hand. The shadows flocked to him, inking his palm black, his forearm, seeping up to his heart. His teeth set on edge, but he made no sound.
Neve wondered if it hurt.
Thank you.
It was a bare breath of sound against the inside of her skull, and she somehow knew Solmir heard the same thing, a warped kind of intimacy.
Then the Seamstress was gone, the cottage empty but for Neve and Solmir. She didn’t even leave a stain on the floor, no sign of her life but the pulsing shadow working through Solmir’s veins. Slowly, it faded, packed down and shut away.
Solmir stared at the spot on the floor where the Seamstress’s body should be. Then he turned and strode out the door.