The years do not march; they drift. Time folds itself into the sound of thread pulling through cloth, into Mira’s laughter echoing through the rooms that once belonged to my father. The stitchery bears his name still—Durden’s Hand—painted above the door in faded gold. Customers come for mending, for gossip, for a reminder that something steady still exists in a changing world.
I live quietly. I earn enough to keep bread on the table, wood in the stove, and ribbons in Mira’s hair. It is not much, but it is ours.
Mira grows quickly, as though eager to outpace the grief she never met. Her hair is dark, thick, and smooth—nothing like mine. When the sun strikes it, it gleams like polished obsidian. And her eyes—green, alive, impossible—mirror another pair I have tried for years not to imagine.
Sometimes, when she plays by the window, I catch my breath. It is as though the night of the carnival has returned, wearing the face of a child.
***
The morning is bright and forgiving. The kind of day that tricks one into believing sorrow was only a dream. I hold Mira’s small hand as we walk toward the market, her excitement bursting ahead of her steps.
“Slowly,” I say, laughing as she skips over a puddle.
“But look, Mama! Frogs!” she cries, pointing as a green one leaps through the mud.
“Hush, little one,” I whisper, though I smile despite myself. People already glance our way—some kind, some not. Still, the warmth of the sun softens even the sharpest eyes.
We stop at the stall where old Marthis sells greens bundled in twine. “Stay close,” I tell her, crouching to choose a bunch of thyme. “No wandering.”
“I promise,” she chirps, though promises mean little to a child so curious.
While I weigh the herbs in my palm, the air shifts. A murmur ripples through the crowd. Then the sound of heels—measured, deliberate—strikes the stones. People draw aside as though the wind itself commands them. Even Marthis stiffens, bowing his head.
I glance up.
A woman walks down the center of the market road, every movement stitched with authority. Her gown glimmers black-blue like oil on water, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed ahead. Her dark hair is wound into a high knot so intricate that it seems forged rather than braided. Around her throat gleams a chain of silver serpents.
“Lady Seraphine,” someone breathes beside me. The name slithers through the crowd.
I bow my head instinctively, pressing Mira gently behind me. The villagers bend low; no one dares breathe too loud. Her perfume drifts past—jasmine and something colder, metallic, like rain on iron.
Her heel splashes through the puddle we’d leapt over moments ago. Mud fans outward, staining my dress. I flinch, but do not lift my gaze. One apology could cost a life.
Yet my daughter is still learning the rules of fear.
She wriggles free and marches forward, chin high, tiny hands clutching the hem of the lady’s gown. “You splashed my mother,” she says, her voice small but clear.
The market gasps as one.
I freeze. “Mira—”
Lady Seraphine stops. Slowly, she looks down. A smile curls across her lips—too sharp to be kind. “And what will you do, little thread?”
Her voice hums with something wrong, something ancient. Before I can move, the air around her shivers. Scales bloom across her skin like dark glass; her pupils narrow to slits. The smile widens into a snarl.
“Mira!” I scream, lunging forward.
The serpent strikes.
I see only a flash of fangs, hear the snap of jaws, the cry that tears from my child’s throat. Blood beads bright against her arm. The world tilts.
When I reach her, Lady Seraphine is already gone, dissolving into shadow and perfume, leaving only silence and a ring of bowed, terrified heads.
***
By nightfall, Mira burns. Her skin glows fever-bright; her breath rasps. No poultice eases it. I wrap her in a blanket and run through the storm, the rain soaking us both to the bone.
Ysabet’s cottage rises from the dark like a lantern. I slam the door open. “Help her!”
The healer whirls, eyes wide. “Lay her here.”
I place Mira on the wooden table. Her little body trembles; her eyes flutter half-closed. Ysabet presses her ear to the child’s chest, listens, then moves her hand above the wound. The air hums.
“Not venom,” she mutters. “A binding.”
My stomach drops. “Can it be broken?”
“Yes.” Her voice is careful. “By the father. Love spoken in daylight, name given without shame.”
I shake my head, rain dripping from my hair onto the floorboards. “I don’t know his name.”
Ysabet’s eyes meet mine, full of pity and something like fury. “Then you must find him, Lara.”
My knees give out. I fall beside the table, gripping Mira’s small hand. “How? How do I find a ghost?”
The healer does not answer. She moves quietly, mixing tinctures, laying damp cloths on Mira’s brow. The child whimpers once, then drifts into uneasy sleep.
***
Hours pass. The storm lessens. Ysabet insists I rest, but I cannot. I sit by the candle, sewing patches onto a cloak left behind by some traveler. The needle shakes in my hand, but still I work.
“You’ll work yourself hollow,” she says at last, watching from the doorway.
“Better hollow than helpless,” I reply. The words sound like my father’s.
She sighs and leaves me to my madness.
Each stitch feels like a prayer—silent, desperate. I whisper to the cloth, to the walls, to the rain beyond them. “I will not lose her. I will not.”
When I reach for another thread, my fingers brush something cold. The old sewing box. I lift the lid. Metal gleams faintly within.
“The ring,” I breathe.
Ysabet turns back, eyebrows raised. “You kept it?”
“Or it kept me,” I murmur. I take it out, the gold dulled with years, the sigil still precise as a promise. My hands tremble as I hold it to the candlelight.
The symbol catches the flame, scattering it into shards of green and gold—the same shades as his eyes.
“If this belongs to him,” I whisper, “it will lead me back.”
Ysabet steps closer, her face unreadable. “Do you believe that?”
“I must.”
I slip the ring onto a cord and tie it around my neck, feeling its weight settle against my skin. It is heavier than I remember—heavier than hope itself.
Outside, thunder rolls once more, low and distant, like a voice answering.
I look down at Mira, pale and still, her tiny chest rising with effort. “Hold on, my love,” I whisper. “I will find him. Whatever name he wears, whatever door he hides behind—I will find him.”