“On your way home tomorrow, could you pick up an envelope and a stamp, love?”

  Martin paused, his spoon of porridge halfway to his mouth. He resisted the urge to reach for the letter from Aelar he still had in his jacket pocket and glanced over at his wife. Boudica was looking at him, her own spoon resting in the bowl as she tore off a piece of bread to dunk.

  “Sure. Writing a letter to your paramore?”

  Boudica made a face and dunked her bread. “Don’t be stupid. It’s for Connach. He never replied to my last letter, and I’m worried it might never have been delivered.”

  “Ah, of course. I’m sure he’s fine, but I’ll grab one tomorrow evening.”

  “Thank you.”

  The situation in the Northern Village had remained mostly unchanged. Whatever had fallen there had caused a ripple effect, slowly spreading out over the empire with tales of cosmic corruption. Some even said Inquisitors had been dispatched, and where Inquisitors went, death was never far behind. Regardless of the truth, goods out of the village had been viewed with increasing suspicion. Crane’s Landing was one of the few dockyards taking shipments of goods from the Northern Village. Bartholomew Crane wasn’t one to turn away from a profit, but the amount of soft complaints that had come in was enough to test even Victor Harrow’s patience.

  Martin tried to change the subject and began chatting with Boudica about anything else to get her mind off her brother. Boudica didn’t have much to say, but she looked at him softly throughout, seemingly appreciating his efforts. This was a side of her husband she hadn’t seen since before he left for the colonies, and she was relieved to have it come out again after so many years. Boudica did the dishes as Martin settled in with a book about Alderbridge history. Boudica teased him only slightly about marrying an egghead.

  The next morning, as he left for work, Martin discreetly pulled the tack out of his bedpost and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Work passed uneventfully, Martin managing to only stab himself once by mistake with the tack. He was worried about his condition after returning from the Black Dog, so he stopped by the shop just after work and dropped the envelope and stamp off at the house, kicking himself as he did so, as he realized he could have just picked up the tack now rather than spend the day working with his own self-laid booby trap. Despite Aelar's assurances, the thought of returning to the Black Dog still filled him with unease.

  He went back to the library for a few hours to continue his research, but found nothing else of value, just more of Warren’s preaching regarding the dangers of cosmics and the cost of pursuing power not of the True Creator. He felt deeply for Sister Honora as he read some of the passages targeting traditional healers. It must be difficult to love so deeply an institution that held such hate for one's own family.

  When the bell chimed for the closing of the library, Martin made his way to the same restaurant across the street from the Black Dog where he had sat with Aelar before. After a quick dinner of braised meat and potatoes, he crossed the street and entered the Black Dog. The patrons were mostly different, but the pub was exactly as he remembered it. Seraphine sat in the same corner table, her finger deftly manipulating the tarot cards for the benefit of the old man sitting across from her. The candlelight flickered over her hooded figure, casting shadows that seemed to dance with the movement of her fingers. Martin spared her just a glance before walking over to the bar. The bartender gave him a quick nod of welcome and swiftly served his beer. If he recognized Martin from before, he gave no indication of it. There must be dozens of new faces in this place weekly, so Martin would have little expectation of being remembered under normal circumstances, but this place was hardly normal, and he expected that Seraphine wasn’t the only one connected to the Weaver God here.

  Martin wandered over to a table and took a moment to watch the room. The old man across from Seraphine was standing at this point, bowing several times in thanks before shuffling away and being quickly replaced by a young woman with golden hair. Her friends sat at a table just out of earshot, covering their mouths and whispering to each other about what fortune might await their friend. Martin people-watched for a few more minutes until the woman with the golden hair seemed satisfied with her answers and left Seraphine to rejoin her friends. Martin picked up his drink and walked over to the corner table before anyone else could sit down.

  “Excuse me, may I have my fortune told?” He asked, his voice steady despite the tension pulling at the edges of his heart.

  The woman lifted her head to look right at him. Even with the angle and the lighting of the room, her face was somehow still obscure under her hood.

  “I welcome all who wish to observe the threads of fate. Please have a seat,” the woman said, her voice warm and inviting. Martin took the seat opposite her, watching closely as she shuffled the cards.

  As her fingers moved, Seraphine spoke. “People usually come seeking their own personal satisfaction. Will this business deal be successful? Will the man I love return my feelings? Will I ever feel less alone? But you come carrying a burden, a letter not meant for your hands. You seek to deliver it, to unburden yourself.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Martin took a sip of his drink to hide the surprise on his face. “As I should expect from a fortune teller. Did you check my future when I walked in?”

  “Many come seeking knowledge of the future, unaware that it is often the past that holds the key.”

  “That’s hardly an answer, but you’re right. I was asked to give this to you by someone a bit more sensitive to the weave of fate than I am.”

  Seraphine let out a laugh that sounded as musical as a short trill of a flute. She put the shuffled deck to the side and held out her hand. “May I have the letter?”

  Martin reached into his pocket and pulled it out, placing it gently in Seraphine’s outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed together briefly, and her hands felt unnaturally soft. Martin pulled back quickly and rose to leave, thinking his job was done, but the woman held up her palm.

  “Wait a moment, please.”

  Still fearful of another spell, Martin thought of refusing, but ultimately he nodded his agreement and sat back down. With a quick gesture, Seraphine produced a long needle from inside her sleeve and broke the seal. She read for a moment in silence. At one point, Martin observed her shoulders shake silently, as if she were laughing. In the silence, he wondered just what sort of letter Aelar had him carrying.

  When she finished, the lady put the letter down and rested her hands on the table. After a moment, she said, “I owe you a thanks, Martin.” She raised her hands and lowered her hood, revealing her dark brown hair, interlaced with the same strings he had seen in the drawing. What the drawing hadn’t captured were the little flecks that sparkled like tiny stars strewn about the sky. Her features were just as perfect as the drawing, if not more so. It was as if the artist had tried his best to draw the ideal woman and had still fallen short of reality. That woman smiled at him now, and he could see why Aelar had taken the risk to send this letter.

  “I don’t like to be beholden to anyone, so let me repay the favor now.” She said, “How about having your fortune told?”

  “I’m not one for tarot cards,” Martin replied when he finally found his voice, gesturing to the stack of cards between them.

  “Oh no, these are for the common folk looking for solace and advice. I will show you the true power of the Weaver God.”

  Again, feeling like refusal would be worse than acceptance, Martin tersely agreed, ready to reach for the pin in his pocket should he need it. Seraphine reached up again and slowly pushed her right hand into her long hair. With a sudden jerk, she closed her fist and yanked it away, taking with it a few of the starry strings and clumps of hair, while another string and more hair fell to the floor.

  Martin started to rise in alarm, but Seraphine shook her head. “Calm yourself. It will grow back.” She opened her hand and slowly plucked the hair out of it, casting it to the floor and leaving just the three strings that had come with them. “Three strings. Not bad. That means you get three questions.”

  “One string per question?” Martin asked, “And what about the one that fell to the floor?”

  “You are as sharp as Aelar said you were,” Seraphine replied. “The one that fell to the floor represents an opportunity that has been forever lost. Nothing can change its fate, so waste no time asking about it.”

  While she spoke, she straightened the strings and brought the ends together. Holding one end of the string between her thumb and forefinger, she lay the other three ends together on the table in front of Martin.

  “When you’re ready, pick up the strings and bring them up as high as you can.”

  Martin raised an eyebrow. They were thin strings, smaller than the yarn Boudica used for her sewing, and Martin reckoned he could throw those over this building. However, he reminded himself he was in the presence of a Cosmic and thought of what happened the last time he touched the thread of a spider’s web.

  He took a moment to prepare himself, controlling his breathing.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  Seraphine watched him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as if she could read his thoughts, but she said nothing. After a few more breaths, Martin reached out, and with the force of pulling a sword out of a sheath, he lifted the strings.

  As he lifted, he felt like a curtain was pulled up around them, blocking off the rest of the bar and enclosing him and Seraphine in a dark, candlelit space. In his surprise, he lost his grip on the strings, and they stopped, suspended in midair around chest level.

  “Not bad,” Seraphine said again. “These strings represent three questions. The higher you are able to lift them, the more detail can be gleaned from them. After you speak your first question, I will drop my end of the first string and read the way it lies on the table. We shall repeat that process for the remaining two strings, but be warned, as the strings fall about each other, certain interferences develop. It’s best to start with your most important question.”

  “May I have a moment to think about it?” Martin asked.

  “Just a moment,” Seraphine replied. “I cannot maintain this forever.” As she said that, Martin suddenly realized the position she was in, her arm raised with three strings held supernaturally straight in the air. He muttered a soft word of thanks and closed his eyes.

  Martin immediately set to work thinking of what to ask. His family, of course, was most important, but she had said she was reading his future, not his past. He couldn’t be sure what information she would be able to give him. The fourth string that had fallen suddenly came to mind. A lost opportunity, not worth asking about, Seraphine had said. Could that be a warning to him not to ask about his family? He thought just a few seconds more, to the point he thought Seraphine would snap at him, and then finally made up his mind. His family was most important; he had to take the risk.

  Martin opened his eyes and looked at Seraphine. She still wore the same composed smile she had since she had taken off her hood, but Martin could see the edges begin to fray a bit from the weight of her prophecy.

  “I apologize for the delay, and thank you,” Martin said.

  “No matter. Have you decided what you wish to ask about?”