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Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Map
  5. Epigraph
  6. BEGINNINGS
  7. PART I
  8. ONE
  9. TWO
  10. THREE
  11. FOUR
  12. FIVE
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. EIGHT
  16. NINE
  17. TEN
  18. ELEVEN
  19. TWELVE
  20. THIRTEEN
  21. FOURTEEN
  22. FIFTEEN
  23. SIXTEEN
  24. SEVENTEEN
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. TWENTY-NINE
  37. THIRTY
  38. THIRTY-ONE
  39. THIRTY-TWO
  40. THIRTY-THREE
  41. THIRTY-FOUR
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. PART II
  45. THIRTY-SEVEN
  46. THIRTY-EIGHT
  47. THIRTY-NINE
  48. FORTY
  49. FORTY-ONE
  50. FORTY-TWO
  51. FORTY-THREE
  52. FORTY-FOUR
  53. FORTY-FIVE
  54. FORTY-SIX
  55. FORTY-SEVEN
  56. FORTY-EIGHT
  57. FORTY-NINE
  58. FIFTY
  59. FIFTY-ONE
  60. FIFTY-TWO
  61. FIFTY-THREE
  62. FIFTY-FOUR
  63. FIFTY-FIVE
  64. FIFTY-SIX
  65. FIFTY-SEVEN
  66. TRICKSTER
  67. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  68. Also by Susan Dennard
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

And if Iseult was being honest with herself, she didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if she had become an expert at this new stasis overnight. If anything, she felt more awkward and unsure than she had before. But maybe one day, she and her mother would figure out some way to show they cared. Maybe one day, this stiffness between them would grow into something comfortable.

Maybe.

“Your Threadsister claims to know a good spiced-wine recipe.” Gretchya rubbed the cold off her arms. “It will be ready soon, back at camp.”

Iseult grimaced. “S-Safi’s idea of good is relative, Mother.” She paused. Swallowed. “Yes, it’s better than what Habim used to make, but that isn’t saying much.”

Now Gretchya grimaced. A stiff and awkward expression, but an attempt all the same. “Then perhaps I should make it.”

Iseult nodded. “And we’ll save a mug for Alma.” She gave the Thread-wrapped sheet a final glance and offered a final prayer to Moon Mother, who had been watching over Iseult all along. Not Trickster, not Wicked Cousin, but the goddess who did indeed look out for her own, just as Alma had told her.

Iseult joined her mother at the edge of a silver fir, and side by side, they entered the night. Stasis through and through, in their fingers and in their toes.

TRICKSTER

The Rook King gazes down at the body, covered in so many threads and Threads. It has been a long time since he has returned a soul permanently to its body, and even longer since he has returned it to a body dead this long. He hasn’t attempted such magic since Sirmaya became the Sleeper. He isn’t sure it will work without Her there. But he also knows he would do anything to see the shadow-ender happy, and so he will at least try.

Not that she will ever know. Or see him again as an ally. His work is done, his plan set in motion. There will be no stopping the Lament now.

The weasel squeaks at him as she curls tightly around his neck. She is pleased with her work, and he nods. “I am pleased with your work too. You guided her well.”

Preening on a branch nearby, the Rook huffs. So needy, he seems to say, but the Rook King only sends him a sideways smile. “You were once the same.”

He pets the weasel, enjoying how she purrs. Enjoying the sensation of reciprocated love. Perhaps he should bind dying souls into animals more often. After all, it is the closest he will ever have to friends. Am-lejatu, she had called him. The life-sleeper. He wishes it were less true.

He kneels and rests a hand over the dead girl’s forehead. A cold cloth and threads hardened to ice pierce against his palm. Portia has always used this pose to claim Threads. He uses it to give them back.