Gretchya finally released Iseult’s wrist, snatched up a nearby stool, and set it before the hearth. “Sit while I’ll spoon out borgsha. The meat is goat today—I hope that is still to your taste. Scruffs! Come! Scruffs!”

Iseult’s breath hitched. Scruffs. Her old dog.

A thump-thump-thump sounded on the stairs into the house, and then there he was—old and saggy and with a listing canter.

Iseult slid off the stool. Her knees hit the rug, happy heat chuckling through her. She opened her arms, and the ancient red hound galloped toward her … until he was there, wagging his tail and nosing his grayed muzzle into Iseult’s hair.

Scruffs, Iseult thought, afraid to speak his name. Afraid the stammer would be there from this unexpected surge of emotions. Contradictory emotions that she didn’t want to wade through or interpret. If Safi were here, she’d know what it was that Iseult felt.

Iseult scratched at Scruffs’s long ears. The tips were crusted with flecks of what looked like parsley. “Have you b-been eating borgsha?” Iseult backed onto the stool, still rubbing Scruff’s face and trying to ignore how foggy his eyes were. How much gray had taken over his snout.

A melodic voice broke out. “Oh. You are home!”

Iseult’s fingers froze on Scruffs’s neck. Her vision throbbed inward, smearing the room and the dog’s face. Perhaps if she pretended not to notice Alma, the other girl would simply fade into the Void.

No such luck. Alma skipped from the door to Iseult. Like Gretchya, she wore the traditional Threadwitch black dress that fit tightly through the chest but was loose over the arms, waist, and legs. “Moon Mother save me, Iseult!” Alma gaped down, her long-lashed green eyes shuttering with surprise. “You look just like Gretchya now!”

Iseult didn’t answer. Her throat was hard with … with something. Anger, she supposed. She didn’t want to look like Gretchya—a true Threadwitch like Iseult could never be. Plus, Iseult hated that Scruffs wagged his tail. Butted his head on Alma’s knee. Turned to Alma and away from Iseult.

“You are a woman now,” Alma added, plopping onto a stool.

Iseult gave a curt nod, skimming a quick eye over the other Threadwitch. Alma was a woman now too. A beautiful one—no surprise. Her chin-length coal-black hair was thick, glossy … perfect. Her waist was small, her hips curved, and her shape all that was feminine and … perfect.

Alma was, as she’d always been, the perfect Threadwitch. The perfect Nomatsi woman. Except when Iseult’s gaze settled on Alma’s hands, she saw thick calluses.

Iseult flipped up Alma’s palm. “You’ve trained with a sword.”

Alma flung a furtive glance at Gretchya, who nodded slowly. “A cutlass,” Alma admitted. “I’ve been practicing with one for the past few years.”

Iseult dropped Alma’s wrist. Of course Alma had learned to fight. Of course she would be perfect at that too. There could never be anything that Iseult performed better—it was as if the Moon Mother made sure that any skill Iseult tried to hone, Alma acquired it too … and perfected it.

When it had become clear that Iseult would never be able to make Threadstones or keep her emotions distant enough, Alma had moved from being an extra Threadwitch in a passing Nomatsi tribe to being the Threadwitch apprentice of the Midenzi settlement. When Gretchya became too old to guide the tribe, Alma would take over.

In Nomatsi caravans, it was the job of the Threadwitch to unite Thread-families, to arrange marriages and friendships, and to unsnarl the looms of people’s lives. One day, just as Gretchya did now, Alma would use her magic to lead the Midenzis.

“Your hand,” Alma said. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s fine,” Iseult lied, hiding her palm in her skirt. “It stopped bleeding.”

“Clean it anyway,” Gretchya said, tone unreadable.

Iseult’s nose twitched. Here were two women whose Threads she couldn’t see. Yet before Iseult could request a moment alone to sort through everything—coming home, the Bloodwitch hunting her, Alma’s perfection—a man poked his black-haired head through the door. “Welcome home, Iseult.”

Spiders walked down Iseult’s spine. Alma’s fingers squeezed on Scruffs’s neck—and Gretchya blanched.

“Corlant,” she began, but the man cut her off, sliding the rest of his long body inside.

Corlant det Midenzi had changed almost none since Iseult had last seen him. His hair was perhaps thinner, and gray swept the sides, but the creases above his eyebrows were as deep as Iseult remembered—parallel trenches from a tendency to always look mildly shocked.

He looked mildly shocked now, brows high and eyes glittering as they scrutinized Iseult’s face. He approached her, and Gretchya made no move to stop him. Instead, Alma shot to her feet and hissed at Iseult, “Stand.”

Iseult stood—though she didn’t see why she had to. Gretchya was the leader of the tribe, not this syrup-tongued Purist who had sowed discord throughout Iseult’s childhood. Corlant ought to be the one sitting.

He stopped before her, his Threads shimmering with a green curiosity and tan suspicion. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” Iseult said, folding her hands in her skirts and tipping her head back to meet his gaze. Unlike the rest of the tribe, he was just as tall as she remembered, and he even wore the same murky brown robe and the same smudged gold chain around his neck.