Warped (23 page)

Weavyr raised her dark hands. “We warned you that if you did not return the threads, the consequences would be dire.” She sounded almost regretful, as if she were disciplining a small child. “The lost threads must be returned to us,” she went on. “They must take their rightful place on the Wyrd and return to their own lives. If this is not accomplished—”

“But it isn’t fair!” The words exploded from Tessa before she could think about the wisdom of yelling at the three otherworldly beings.

“Not fair?” Weavyr’s head gave a slight shake. “Fairness. Justice. Good. Evil. These are human concepts.
We
are not bound by them.”

“What are you bound by?” Tessa whispered desperately.

“Our ways are beyond your comprehension, mortal,” Scytha cut in. “Do not ask again. Return the threads.”

“But I didn’t take the threads!” Tessa yelled at the glass, her face inches from the wavering images. So close that her skin shone with the reflected blue glow from the mirror. “I told you before. It wasn’t me. It was Gray Lily.”

There was a cold silence. “You lie,” said Scytha.

“No. I don’t,” Tessa snapped. “And I think if you’re so damned powerful, you should be able to figure this out. She’s the one who made the tapestry.
She
has your threads. And now she’s taken Will’s thread away again. He may be back in the tapestry already. I don’t know. But I need to find him.”

“Why?”

The question came so quickly that Tessa didn’t have time to think; she just answered. “Because I need him.” Her shoulders dropped and the force went out of her voice. “He’s hurting. I can feel it. And I . . . care about him.”

Spyn, the Norn with the thin, twitchy fingers, turned to her sisters and emitted a derisive sound, like a snort, from beneath her hood. There was a long pause as the three figures huddled together, apparently whispering to each other. Their muttered tones sounded like the hissing of snakes. They turned to face her once more.

“Perhaps you speak the truth and did not steal the threads,” said Weavyr. “It does not matter. It seems that your goals and ours should be the same, mortal.”

Scytha’s deep voice rolled out like the rumble of thunder. “You must find the stolen threads. Seven threads. Seven lives.”

“But I’ve told you that Gray Lily stole them,” Tessa said. “Why can’t
you
find them?”

Her question hung there until at last Weavyr answered: “The threads have been removed from the Wyrd. They are beyond our control.” The words seemed like an admission spoken with difficulty, and one that Weavyr wanted to pass over as quickly as possible. “You must find this tapestry that Gray Lily has made,” she went on, “and retrieve them.”

“But how?” Tessa demanded. “Even if I can get close to the tapestry, how do I get the threads out?” What had happened with Will, she was still sure, was some kind of freak accident.

There was a pause. The three hooded figures remained motionless as their collective blue aura swirled like neon smoke. “The tree, Yggdrasil,” Scytha said finally. “It is the origin, the source of life. The threads are drawn to it. Look to see if the witch carries a piece of wood, or a twig.”

Tessa thought about this and recalled the words from Gray Lily’s book.
I have discovered the key
. Could the key the witch referred to be a piece of wood? Tessa didn’t remember seeing anything like that when Gray Lily pulled Will’s life thread. But maybe she carried it somewhere, hidden. Just great. What was Tessa supposed to do? Strip-search the Wicked Witch of the West?

But Tessa nodded her understanding to the Norn. “Okay. Supposing I do find this piece of wood. Then what?”

“You must find the first thread that was stolen,” said Scytha. “That is the only way all can be set right.”

“How do I do that?” Tessa questioned. “How can I possibly tell which thread was the first?”

There was no reply. This silent, looming act seemed to be a specialty of the Norn, Tessa realized. She felt like screaming, like smashing the mirrored glass and reaching through to grab the hooded cloaks and
see
what lay hidden beneath them. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. And it certainly wouldn’t help her father. After a few moments passed she said wearily: “You don’t know, do you?”

“Enough talk!” shrieked Spyn in such a high-pitched voice that Tessa jerked back. “Enough questions. Just get the threads, little human!”

Tessa gathered herself. She had to know one thing more. “If I return the threads, you’ll put things back the way they were? My life will be back to normal, right? My dad and Opal and—”

Scytha’s roar drowned her out. “We do
not
make bargains with mortals! The only promise you have is this: if the threads are not returned before the full moon, your father will die.”

A cold hand fisted around Tessa’s heart. She stared into the black murk beneath the hoods of the Norn and imagined cruel eyes looking back at her. She sensed no compassion, no feeling at all. “And Will,” she said, forcing herself to go on even though her voice sounded more and more feeble. “If Will’s thread is returned to you, then he’ll get his life back too?”

There was a pause; then Tessa heard the gloomy voice of Scytha. “Yes. His life will be restored. Just as it was before his thread was stolen.”

“But does that mean that—” Tessa began, but stopped. The figures wavered in the mirror.

“Find the first,” the Norn whispered together. “Return the seven.”

“No. Wait!” Tessa cried.

But the Norn had disappeared.

Chapter 36

A
lone in her room, Tessa dressed carefully. She dressed for bravery. Her most comfortable jeans, faded and worn until they were soft as flannel, and patched on both knees with swatches of velvet. A black stretch tank top, and over that a delicately crocheted black sweater with white and crimson roses scattered through it. She brushed her hair until it lay shining in a thick curtain down her back and then braided it, twining a piece of soft red velvet ribbon through it.

She looked in the mirror and saw herself as she never had before. Her blue eyes were bright, and stood out in contrast against the dark arches of her eyebrows and her pale skin. Patches of rosy color stained her cheekbones, as if she were lit from inside. She stopped for a moment to put on earrings: two dangles of tiny pink crystals and freshwater pearls that had belonged to her mother.

She wondered if this was how Will felt putting on armor. She looked down at the jade pig bracelet on her wrist. Somehow it didn’t feel very lucky now.

Still, it couldn’t hurt.

Tessa walked to the hotel carrying the
Texo Vita
, which she had wrapped in brown mailing paper and twine. The sun was setting and the sky was tinged an eerie purple. It wasn’t far to the Portland Regency, but maybe she should have called a cab; fog from the harbor was drifting through the narrow streets. The air smelled of salt and seaweed. Tessa tugged her sweater closer against the damp and quickened her steps.

The hotel lobby was warmly lit with crystal chandeliers; soft piano music played in the background. Tessa walked across the broad marble foyer.

At the desk she said, “I’m Tessa Brody. I have something for Gr—Ms. Gerome.”

The desk attendant smiled. “Oh, right. She told us she was expecting someone.” He reached beneath the counter and handed her an envelope.

“Thank you.” Inside the envelope was a card key and a slip of paper. The paper said:

Room 413. Come alone or de Chaucy will die.

A shiver passed through Tessa, but she stuck the note in the pocket of her jeans and went to the elevator.

On the fourth floor she walked down the carpeted hallway and stopped at 413. She listened. She couldn’t hear any voices or movement inside. She hesitated for a moment, thinking. This was probably not the smartest thing she had ever done. But what choice did she have? Her father, Will, Opal . . . Everything she cared for was at stake. She slid the card key into the lock, opened the door and went inside.

“Hello?” she called.

The hotel room was empty and silent. Next to her the door to a darkened bathroom was open. A king-sized bed stood against the wall, and a desk, a TV console and an armchair were arranged against the opposite wall. The room was dimly lit from a small tableside lamp, and the striped drapes were drawn tight. Tessa approached the bed, where the tapestry was spread out.

She fixed her eyes on the frayed square of fabric that had made such a mess of her life, searching. She let out a breath, half relief, half disappointment. He wasn’t there. The center of the picture was empty; the unicorn was still gone. The background was different, however. It seemed darker and much more ominous. Woven in thick yarns of umber and black and the deepest of hunter greens, the forest now twined like a thick cage around the grassy clearing. There were no flowers; there was no hint of brightness or life anywhere. The only light in the scene came from a streak of lightning that tore across one corner of the fabric and lit a thundercloud into an eerie, glowing mass. On the distant hillside the dark outline of the castle still appeared, but the fairy-tale quality was gone; the castle loomed over the scene like something from a horror movie.

Could it be a different tapestry? Tessa reached out with a tentative hand and recoiled at the contact. The fabric was as warm as living flesh. Tessa thought she could hear something: a faint thrumming sound was coming from the woven cloth. She peered more closely. Then she saw them—threads that were moving, shimmering and gliding through the interlacing network of fibers.

“So. You can see them,” said a low, whispery voice behind her.

Tessa whirled around. “Gray Lily.”

The elderly woman stepped out of the shadows. She wore a silky blue dress whose draped neckline dipped, showing too much of a bony, caved-in-looking chest. Again, as in the alley, Tessa had the initial impression of frailty as the haggard woman shuffled forward. But up close, Gray Lily’s eyes conveyed strength. Small, black, almost reptilian, and yet filled with a fierce power.

“Good evening, child,” said Gray Lily, nodding. “The tapestry draws you, doesn’t it? And you
can
see the threads moving, I’ll wager. Interesting,” she mused, her gaze fixed avidly on Tessa. She gave a nod that might have been grudging approval. “Most people can’t.”

“What have you done with Will?” said Tessa. “Where is he?”

“The boy?” Gray Lily scowled as she looked at the tapestry. “Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure.” She rubbed her stomach, a peculiar gesture, as if she were hungry and were debating what to eat. “Because of your father’s impromptu arrival in the alley, I had to put de Chaucy’s thread away before I could weave my unicorn. I believe his thread passed through the tapestry. He’s inside somewhere.” She waved a hand at the tapestry. “But don’t worry. I’ll find him and have my unicorn back once more.” She glared at Tessa and stretched out a hand. “Now give me the book. I’ll have no loose ends trailing behind me.”

Tessa hefted the package in her arms but made no move to hand it over.

“Give it to me,” Gray Lily ordered.

“How can you be so selfish?” asked Tessa quietly. She took a step backward. “And so cruel?”

“Cruel?” Gray Lily gave her an incredulous glare and lowered her hand. “Stupid girl,” she muttered. “You think I am the villain?
I’m
not the villain. I was wronged. By
them.
” She paused. “You know of whom I speak?”

“The Norn,” said Tessa in a whisper.

Gray Lily nodded, then hobbled to the draped window. She stood there for a moment as if mulling something over. Finally she turned.

“I was a girl once, like you.” She let out a raspy chuckle. “Full of hope and love and dreams. Can you imagine?”

Tessa narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“It’s true.” Gray Lily nodded. “I loved a young man. John Porter was his name. One summer’s day he fell from his horse and struck his head. He died three days later. Three days of torment. I sat by his side, watching him jerk and drool. I was powerless to help him,” she said. “Nowadays they can treat such things, but back then—I just sat and watched as his brain swelled and burst inside his skull.” Gray Lily’s forehead furrowed and her small black eyes blinked. As if she were trying to remember how tears were shed.

Tessa stayed silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “But if he fell . . . ” She shook her head. “It was just an accident.”

“No!” Gray Lily shouted. Her face twisted in an ugly snarl. She stamped her foot. “Don’t you understand? Even now? There
are
no accidents. It’s all them. It’s all planned by the Fates. Or the Norn, to be more precise.” She bobbed her head at Tessa and said in a low, eager tone, “But that was the day I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

Gray Lily’s crooked hands wove a trail in the air. “I saw a faint thread drift away and out, through a crack in the shutter. I looked down and John was dead. Everyone in my village thought I imagined it, that I was crazed with grief,” Gray Lily remarked. “But I knew what I had seen. It was only later that I
understood
it. It was the thread of John’s life. It was his very soul leaving his body. I knew there must be a way to take hold of it. It took me many years, but finally I did it. I learned to control the threads of life. To weave
life.
”

“
Texo Vita,
” whispered Tessa.

“Yes.”

“How did you learn how to do it?” asked Tessa. “In the book you said you found something. A key.”

Gray Lily smiled crookedly. “Girl. I’m not about to share my secrets with the likes of you.” She leaned forward. “I took only what I needed to be free. Now I have control of my life. My own world. Instead of them. Do you understand?”

Tessa stared at her. “No one can control everything about their life.”

“Ah, but
I
can.” Gray Lily looked at Tessa intently. “Do you know what it was to be a woman five hundred years ago? Servitude. Filth. Disease. Spawning children whether or not your body could bear it. Whether or not you could feed them. The Norn made life where none should be. And cut down other young lives like blades of winter grass.” Her hands were flexing and fisting rhythmically as she spoke. Her huge silver ring with its yellow stone glinted. “Those hags controlled everything. They still do.”