’Twas the new till and it spoke enough.”
I followed that pulse—toward the shelf lining the wall beside the hearth. Nothing. And nothing on the second. But the third, right above my eyeline … There.
I could almost smell his salt-and-citrus scent. The Bone Carver had been correct.
I rose on my toes to examine the shelf. An old letter knife, books in leather that I did not want to touch or smell; a handful of acorns, a tarnished crown of ruby and jasper, and—
A ring.
A ring of twisted strands of gold and silver, flecked with pearl, and set with a stone of deepest, solid blue. Sapphire—but different. I’d never seen a sapphire like that, even at my father’s offices. This one … I could have sworn that in the pale light, the lines of a six-pointed star radiated across the round, opaque surface.
Rhys—this had Rhys written all over it.
He’d sent me here for a ring?
The Weaver sang,
“Then bespake the treble string,
‘O yonder is my father the king.’”
I watched her for another heartbeat, gauging the distance between the shelf and the open door. Grab the ring, and I could be gone in a heartbeat. Quick, quiet, calm.
“Then bespake the second string,
‘O yonder sits my mother the queen.’ ”
I dropped a hand toward one of the knives strapped to my thighs. When I got back to Rhys, maybe I’d stab him in the gut.
That fast, the memory of phantom blood covered my hands. I knew how it’d feel to slide my dagger through his skin and bones and flesh. Knew how the blood would dribble out, how he’d groan in pain—
I shut out the thought, even as I could feel the blood of those faeries soaking that human part of me that hadn’t died and belonged to no one but my miserable self.
“Then bespake the strings all three,
‘Yonder is my sister that drowned me.’ ”
My hand was quiet as a final, dying breath as I plucked the ring from the shelf.
The Weaver stopped singing.
CHAPTER
21
I froze, the ring now in the pocket of my jacket. She’d finished the last song—maybe she’d start another.
Maybe.
The spinning wheel slowed.
I backed a step toward the door. Then another.
Slower and slower, each rotation of the ancient wheel longer than the last.
Only ten steps to the door.
Five.
The wheel went round, one last time, so slow I could see each of the spokes.
Two.
I turned for the door as she lashed out with a white hand, gripping the wheel and stopping it wholly.
The door before me snicked shut.
I lunged for the handle, but there was none.
Window. Get to the window—
“Who is in my house?” she said softly.
Fear—undiluted, unbroken fear—slammed into me, and I remembered. I remembered what it was to be human and helpless and weak. I remembered what it was to want to fight to live, to be willing to do anything to stay breathing—
I reached the window beside the door. Sealed. No latch, no opening. Just glass that was not glass. Solid and impenetrable.
The Weaver turned her face toward me.
