Wystwood

67. The cloak and crest

Spindlewen sat hunched over her loom, fingers pulling thread over thread, hundreds more straining for her touch. She didn't look up when the bandits entered, or cease her quiet humming as she watched her weavings take form.

"Hello," Ada said, hesitant to interrupt her work. "We are looking for clothes for a banquet. Hester told us we should come to you."

"A banquet, indeed," murmured Spindlewen, a constant creaking breaking her high voice. "Where would one find a banquet down here?"

"Not here," explained Ada. "The Hounds' banquet on the night of the Harvest Moon."

Spindlewen's fingers faltered, her loom groaning to rest, and she looked up. "All of you?"

"No, just the two of us." Ada motioned to Lark lingering in the doorway.

Spindlewen stood, and even Armestrong's eyes grew wide to see her unfurl to her full height. Drippings of dye dampened the fae's hair as she shifted her stool into the centre of the room. Keeping her head bowed to avoid the ceiling beams, Spindlewen pointed a long finger at Lark, then at her stool.

Lark cautiously shuffled forward, but as soon as he was on the stool, Spindlewen's hands were upon him. She pinched and poked him, needles glinting between the joints of her fingers and heavy fabrics draped around his shoulders. When Spindlewen was done, Ada handed her cloak to Armestrong and went to take Lark's place. As she walked past Min, the girl touched her hand, and Ada saw she held her tarnished coin. To be safe, Ada let her hair fall around her face, and soon she too had satin tied around her waist, a musty scent steeped within its fibres.

Even in the room's vast store of clothing, Ada saw that each of Spindlewen's garments were faded with age and wear. Dresses that must have once been a winter-bright sapphire were now a dusty blue, and their bonnets' matching ribbon straps trailed limply to the floor. It reminded Ada of the Stone Circle's library; a fragile museum curated from a lost history. Though where in the library there had been thousands of papers crammed with ink, here there were threadbare trimmings tacked onto ancient waistcoats.

In the heart of it all stood the loom, its weft still tense, expectant and waiting. Spindlewen must have noticed her staring because she whispered into Ada's ear, "It can weave secrets in silks."

For the rest of Spindlewen's measuring, Ada kept her eyes lowered. She only took a full breath when the fae unbound the fabrics from around her body, folding them carefully over her thin arm then tying them together with string. Spindlewen set her cloth aside with Lark's, though a hand remained clasped on Ada's shoulder.

"The price for two such pieces of finery will be fair."

Ada flinched at the prick of a rogue pin. She hadn't considered that there would be a cost for their clothing. "We have no gold to deal with you."

"It need not be gold." Spindlewen's fingernails scraped against Ada's nape, bitingly cold in the otherwise warm room. "You may give me a secret to weave with. Or deal some other precious item."

"What item would you want from me?" Ada asked, tensing every muscle to keep from shivering.

Spindlewen's long fingers had crept into Ada's hair, thick strands of it now coiled around her bones and pulled taut like wool against a bobbin.

"Strong and rich in colour," the fae murmured to herself. "Touched recently by sunlight. Would shine sweetly beneath a candle's flame."

Ada gasped as Spindlewen snatched her head to one side and began to roughly loosen the knots in her hair. Across the room was a low table, scattered with bowls of spare needles, and a large pair of silver scissors tucked between the shadows.

"Give me the locks of your hair," said Spindlewen decidedly, letting Ada's head drop. "It would make me fine threading, and lays wasted hanging down your back."

Behind the table hung the tapestry of the dancing men, their woven eyes desperate and unblinking.

"No." Ada stumbled from the stool, knocking it over as she retreated back to the bandits.

Spindlewen's fingers curled together and she hissed, "Then you may not have your costume."

Armestrong hurriedly returned Ada's cloak, already herding Min towards the door. The velvet ran softly between Ada's hands, dark as midnight and smooth as starlight. She slipped her letter and the daggers from its pockets, tucking them into the belt beneath her shirt.

"What about this?" Ada asked, holding her grandmother's cloak out to Spindlewen. "I know it isn't in the best condition, but the mud can be washed off and the stitching is intact. It's been to many places and it's, well"—Ada tried to remember how Rosamund had described it—"faithful."

Ada didn't think she had sold the cloak particularly impressively, but Spindlewen's eyes stayed fixed upon the velvet, considering. Then she reached out and seized it.

"A deal," she said, before turning to Lark. "And you?"

Ada winced, imagining Lark trying to offer Spindlewen a song from his lute. Or worse, a simple smile given by his boyish lips. But Lark was solemn, and said only, "I will deal you a secret."

"Then let me hear it," said Spindlewen, the velvet cloak bunched between her hands.

Lark didn't move from the door, but replied aloud, "On my jacket you must stitch the golden crest of Vulpent. It is the one of a fox face, long with a pointed snout—"

"I know it," interrupted Spindlewen, her small eyes now fastened on Lark, counting each freckle and strand of red hair. They stared at one another silently, before she clicked her teeth and turned back to her loom. "A deal, then. You will have your costumes by nightfall."

The bandits didn't thank the seamstress, each stepping from the humid room to find that the stale air of the passageway was for once a relief. Ada was the last to leave, and as she set the door back in its place, she caught a final sight of Spindlewen. The fae was crouched over her loom, fabrics discarded and stool left fallen. Her entire body seemed strung to the instrument, her fingers moving with an unnatural swiftness as a skin of silk came together beneath them.

Armestrong and Min were waiting in the passage, but Lark was already nearing a corner several paces ahead. Ada caught up with him, grabbing his wrist to try and pause his wide strides. A deep frown contorted his usually carefree face, rosy cheeks now ashen and grey.

"Why give her a secret?" Ada asked. "We could have found gold. Or another way."

"There is no time for another way, as well you know," Lark said. "Besides, I do not think it will remain my secret for much longer."

"I don't understand," she said, squeezing Lark's fingers.

He took a breath and swept his hair behind tapered ears. "Secrets are like stones, they weigh you down and bruise you, a little more each day. Yet still, you are the one choosing to keep them in your pockets. It is a bitter truth, but you can never find true freedom if you are the one holding yourself back from it."

Lark released Ada's hand, then turned and walked on alone.