Iseult walked in a slow circle, unwinding a strip of gray thread her mother had given her. First a circle around her, then zigzags across Alma’s still form. And as she walked, she tugged at the broken Threads within herself. Little severed beacons meant to draw Alma’s soul into life.

All the mistakes Iseult had made—so many—and all the relationships she’d lost. It didn’t have to be this way. We didn’t have to be this way. Like drawing poison from a wound, she pulled out each splinter that had festered too long beneath her left lung. Round and round she walked until the entirety of the gray thread was gone.

Then she began anew, except this time with magenta thread. This time with thoughts of love and memories of affection. The times she and Alma had played with dolls made of straw, had climbed an oak tree and gotten stuck in its branches, had discovered eggs hatching and tens of tiny turtles waddling toward a marsh. Every instance in which they had acted not as rivals but as the sisters they could have been.

And finally, Iseult draped sage-green thread over Alma’s body, envisioning what she wanted for Alma’s future. The friendship and connection they could share—and would share once Alma’s Threads had returned.

Because this would work; it had to work. Where Portia had only ever used gray, had only ever tapped into the Threads that break, Iseult was drawing on all three Threads. Life contained love, loss, and growth, each powerful in its own unique way.

When at last all the threads were unfurled, and all the Threads poured forth from Iseult’s being, she whispered the words all Threadwitches used when focusing their magic: “Bind and bend. Build and blossom. Family fills the heart.” She’d never gotten those words to work before, but this time …

This time was different.

Iseult smiled up at her goddess. The night smiled down, washing her in silver light. She might not be like Safi, golden and gleaming and good, but that didn’t mean she was only destined for darkness. It didn’t mean she had to live in shadow.

After all, the moon shone light too.

Iseult turned away from Alma’s body. There was nothing more to do but wait for the Threads to work.

“Come,” Gretchya said, stepping from the trees. A tension hugged her muscles, a tautness in her arms as if she wanted to offer Iseult her hand or an embrace, but, as was the curse of all Threadwitches, still did not know how.