“What about Mom and Dad’s apartment?” asked Beryl. “I completely forgot about it.”
“Those rooms were thoroughly searched when I was first assigned to this case,” Kostya said. “Though in light of yesterday’s developments, I think the three of you should go through the second floor even though there’s not much there by way of furnishings. Clementine, you might be able to see something relevant.”
I pulled warmth from the tall paper cup into my palms and fingers. “If I’m going to drag up more of those kinds of story threads, then I hope one of you came armed with chocolate.” The three of them paused, cups in hands. “What? No one stashed a chocolate bar? Then I guess we should get going.”
Kostya hefted the satchel with the boxes and ledgers onto his shoulder. We all waited on the landing while Alderose unlocked the door to the cellar and propped it open. Beryl waved her wand and activated a series of wall sconces to light the gloomy stairwell leading below ground. Cool, dank air nudged the back of my body as we fell into formation and mounted the stairs to the third floor.
“I’ve got my phone on me,” Alderose said once the door to the workroom was opened and we’d ascertained no one had been inside overnight. She jogged back down to the ground floor as Beryl marched toward Mom’s desk.
“Kostya, you’re the official investigator. Shouldn’t you be dusting for fingerprints?” I asked, popping my butt onto a table and running my gaze across the back wall. I sipped at the strong brew and waited for the caffeine to kick in. Soon, I would be weaving an invisible lifeline that would anchor me to a semblance of normalcy before I began to open my sight to the story threads.
“Given the array of clients that have come through here, including my mother,” he said, sidling up beside me, “I think we’re more apt to find clues using magical means.” He sipped at his drink, then asked, “Are you ready?”
“I need a few more minutes.”
“How do you want to do this?”
“Give me space to move. Last night brought up a lot of emotions but I’m more prepared now than if I was going in cold.” I finished my coffee and stood, then asked Kostya to remove the long piece of canvas he’d placed over the broken window. While he saw to that, I went to the hat-making area and found a large piece of netting flecked at regular intervals with tiny tufts of black chenille.
Once Kostya finished his task, I began mine. I took a corner of the weightless material in my hand and swept it over my head, slow and deliberate.
Something wasn’t right.
We’d left the door to the stairwell open in order to listen for Alderose—or for anyone coming up from the cellar—but I needed the wall sealed off. Story threads had a habit of drifting away. Or escaping. In the past, I’d run across threads with their own agenda. I called those the Unravelers, and there was at least one in every bunch.
I again cast the netting, picturing myself as a seiner perched on a flat-bottomed boat. Once, twice, three times I circled my arm overhead before releasing the net. It floated to the floor.
Empty.
The fourth time I tossed the netting the air shimmered and stirred, and the fifth time was the charm.
“They’re here,” I said to Kostya. I dropped into the trance-like state that accompanied a good reading of the threads.
Long tendrils of hair I would curl around my fingers and pretend were precious rings.
Velvet ribbons.
Flax, hemp, and lanolin from carding wool.
Textures and smells I associated with my mother. I could picture the way she held her wavy hair away from her face with stray bits of ribbons and yarns, or twisted it into a bun and held in place with a knitting needle.
I drew in a sharp breath, surprise tingling through my arms and chest. These threads were different. This time, I could see my mother as she stepped into the workroom, her back to the stairwell. She had a drop spindle in her hand and a muslin bag of raw wool hanging off her shoulder. Mom spun yarn and paced when she wanted to think. Or to calm herself.
My mother startled when the door to the workroom didn’t close behind her. A customer followed her up the stairs. The spindle clattered as it hit the floorboards and rolled under the nearest table.
I turned my head and searched the floor, following the short trail of yarn to the spindle wedged between the underside of the shelf and the table leg.
Okay. Next.
My mother and the customer argued. The single intruder became three. I couldn’t see where the other two materialized from, only that suddenly there were three beings, standing side by side, a phalanx exuding evil intent.
Mom began to chant. She grabbed at the scissors hanging from a heavy cord around her neck and cut at her dress, cutting and cutting until she had called forth a huge bird with black feathers glossed with evergreen and midnight blue. A raven. Mom circled the raven’s neck with her arms and the bird rose.
The workroom was too small to accommodate its wingspan. The bottom half of my mother’s dress was in tatters. One-Becomes-Three unleashed hidden blades. They crouched, jumped, attempted to catch the bird. Mom bled from cuts on her legs where One-Becomes-Three lashed out.
Broken glass.
Rain.
Blood.
The raven’s claws had punctured her arms, but she was safe. Injured. Bleeding. Safe.
“Kostya, what’s outside that window?”
I rolled my head at the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. The story threads were so fresh and alive in my mind that I thought the story was real. That my mother was being taken from me in front of my eyes and I had to stop One-Becomes-Three.
I screamed. Beryl landed hard on her knees and slapped at my cheeks.
“Sissy,” she said. “Clementine. Let go of the threads. You have to let go
