The thread hung in front of my chest and waited for me.
All around it, her will pressed in. Gravity came from the wrong directions. The air had gone stiff as wet plaster. Somewhere behind me Lucifer sounded like a man who had just carried a piano up four flights of stairs, and to my left Ren was on his feet and holding still because I had asked him to, which I suspect cost him more than the whole morning.
I looked at the thread, and I could see what she meant by it. Not with my eyes. With the part of me that had learned, in the tower, to listen to what a thing was for. In its dull red shine I could see the end of the story she had written for me. Me, quieter. Me, kneeling. Me, emptied out and refilled with whatever she liked, and standing at her shoulder smiling a smile I hadn't chosen.
