A pained smile tugs at my cheeks. “I suppose that is the age-old question—how much control do we have over our own fate? Who knew my wife was such a philosopher.”

Blaise tugs at my hand, and though my chest feels tight, we walk across the room to read the many stories of my sister. When we get halfway across the room, I stop, closing my eyes. “You go on ahead. Look first?” I ask.

It’s a silly thing to ask, because Blaise has already seen the tapestries.

Blaise squeezes my hand. “Of course.”

I wait as she patters to the other side of the room. Soon, her heart begins to race, her breath turning ragged.

No.

Something is wrong.

“Nox,” Blaise says, her pitch heightened. “I think you should look at this.”

I steel myself and join my wife, following to the portion of the first tapestry, where she’s pointing.

“This one’s changed,” she says. “I used to stare at these when I sat in here with your and Zora’s bodies.”

“You’re sure it’s different?” I ask.

“I’m telling you, I would have remembered this.”

That’s when I look.

Because woven into the tapestry, holding a child, is Zora.

Except she’s had twins.

And holding the second child is Farin.

“No.” The word slips from my mouth without my permission. “No,” I say again, this time more firmly. I take the tapestry by the hand, feeling the sudden urge to rip it to pieces. To pluck the story away, thread by thread, just like Blaise did with my deaths.

Blaise turns to me, her silky black hair framing her face as she knits her brow, and takes my hand, uncurling my fingers from the thick tapestry.

“Why don’t we look at the rest?” she asks.

My ears are buzzing with Zora’s screams as Farin shoved the knife through her gut.

No, he can’t…

But the next tapestry is the same. A different setting, this one a mountain cottage, but by the fire are Zora and Farin, grasping their children in their arms.

“They look happy,” says Blaise, and then she scoffs a bit. “Well, maybe not to begin with.” She points toward the top of the tapestry, where Zora is holding a knife to Farin’s throat.

The next tapestry tells the same story, and the next, until in dozens of realms, Zora and Farin are brought together, sometimes by sea, sometimes by land, sometimes by war, sometimes by wind.

But by the middle, they’re always together.

And by the end…

Well, the endings vary.

No matter what, Farin always finds her.

“But he’s a…” I stop myself, swallowing the word.

Blaise gives me a knowing look. “A monster?”

I grimace. “I was going to say a murderer.”

Blaise cringes, but we do it together. “Well, I suppose he fits right into the family then.”

But then my wife adds, “But I want to know how he did it.”

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head. “He wasn’t here before—in the tapestries. I would have noticed, I’m sure of it.”

I shrug. “You said the Fabric has a mind of its own.”

“It does,” she says. “But how can it change itself without a weaver? Unless…”

She claps her hand over her mouth and races to the end of the line of tapestries, where the last, pitch-black tapestry has always hung.

Except the tapestry is no longer blank.

Within it, woven in the silver of a ghost, is the spirit of a male who looks suspiciously like Farin.

Farin isn’t who catches my attention.

It’s the three figures, tall as looming shadows, hands folded before them, hoods drawn.

Behind them is a loom.

Farin’s voice rattles through my mind. Don’t be frightened of death. It’s dark and lonely for beings like you and me, but you’re a fool if you believe the Fates forget about us. Stay interesting enough, and they might just weave you back into the story.

“Blaise,” I ask, my breath fogging the frigid air, “whatever happened to the tapestry you wove me into?”

Blaise frowns. “I left it behind when I kidnapped Asha. I was in such a daze, such a rush to get her to the Rip, I didn’t think to bring it. Didn’t think it would be any use to me, since I was running out of time.”

“So it’s just sitting abandoned in a field in Charshon somewhere?”

Blaise furrows her brow, then her eyes go wide. “No. No, it isn’t.” She rummages through her satchel, yanking out a crumpled letter. Her eyes dart across the page, scouring the text. “I didn’t know what she was talking about… Thought she was just being childish.”

Blaise shoves the letter into my hands, points to a section of text toward the end.

Oh, and by the way, I really liked the love story you left behind. I tried to tell it to Marcus, but he didn’t think it was romantic at all. He says villains don’t make for good love interests. Though I will say, the ending left me hanging. I thought for sure that wasn’t how you planned to end it—it’s kind of a cliffhanger, you know—and that you got interrupted, but the final stitches are all done.