The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

“Tabarnak! Like pumpkins on Halloween!” Sylvain looked enchanted, as though he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

No, Jacob’s skull was not among them. These skulls were weathered and probably many years old. “Hundreds of years,” the vixen whispered. It was a comfort to still hear her voice. When would she leave if the dress was lost? Who would she be without her voice, her cunning, her daring? Celeste. Just Celeste.

The hut behind the fence looked menacing and beautiful. Fox had heard that birds that were foolish enough to land on its roof in search of insects immediately turned to wood. Judging from the faces in the walls, humans met a similar fate if they came too close. Fox didn’t see Jacob’s face among the carvings, but that didn’t mean anything. She was only looking at the front of the hut, which also meant the Baba Yaga must have noticed them coming.

Chanute signaled to Sylvain. Fox shook her head, but of course Chanute took no notice. The skulls spewed flames from their eyes and mouths as soon as the two men approached the fence. All Witches were sisters of fire. Chanute stumbled back, cursing. He shot the skull next to the gate to pieces. Sylvain smashed another with a branch. The skull set his shirt on fire as it shattered, but Chanute smothered the flames with his jacket and dragged Sylvain back under the cover of the trees.

Fools! Fox cursed them both, though she knew it was only fear for Jacob that had made Chanute act so carelessly. “Well done!” she hissed. “If Jacob’s still alive, then you’ve just given the Baba Yaga a reason to change that. I’m going in alone, and don’t you dare follow me.”

She ignored Chanute’s appalled glance as she handed him her knife and weapons belt. These were useless against a Baba Yaga. All she carried was the embroidered cloth that had saved her.

The skulls speckled her clothes with fiery light, but they didn’t attack her as she walked up to the fence. She reached out, and the gate opened by itself.

Was this good or bad? Don’t get caught in your own thoughts, Fox. They would make her deaf and blind.

The wooden faces stared down at her, and, no, Jacob was not among them. What difference did that make? He could be in the smoke rising from the chimney, or the black earth beneath her boots. Flowers blossomed wherever she stepped. Fox avoided stepping on them. She also avoided the snails dragging their mottled houses through the Witch’s garden, as well as the grubs, the millipedes, and anything else in her path.

“Bring death to the Baba Yagas’s house, and death is what you shall receive,” the birds were singing. The vixen understood them, but human ears wouldn’t have heard the warning. She didn’t want to become that deaf again. She wanted her dress. And Jacob.

The carved flowers on the door closed their blossoms as soon as she knocked. She was tempted to try the handle, but she waited. Finally, the door opened.

A child stood in front of her. It was a girl, maybe eight or nine years old (if her age could be counted in human years). Her dress was as colorful as the cloth in Fox’s arms. Witches could take any form they wanted.

“If you’re looking for my grandmother,” the child said, as if she’d heard Fox’s thoughts, “she’s not here. Oh, she was angry. He tricked her, and that does not happen often.”

The child’s bright laughter was in stark contrast to the gloomy hut.

She reached into the air, and her fingers caught a thread of golden yarn, not as fine as a spider’s silk, but strong, like wool. The child traced it with her fingers until it led her to Fox’s heart.

“I knew it.” The thread vanished as soon as she dropped her hand. “He’s yours.”

She took the rushnyk from Fox and pulled her across the threshold into the hut. The room beyond was dark, but the girl clapped her hands.

“What are you waiting for?” she called. “We have a visitor. Make light!”

A dozen candles flared up, as if lit by invisible hands.

“Bring milk and bread!” the girl called. The invisible servants obeyed. Fox sat on the chair that had been moved toward her.

“Where is Jacob?” her tongue wanted to ask. “What have you done to him?” Instead, she drank the milk and ate the sweet bread that appeared before her. All the while, the girl was watching her through eyes as green as a cat’s. She waited until Fox had drunk the last drop and eaten the last crumb. Then she took her hand again.

She led her to a chamber even darker than the rest of the hut. The wooden chains that fettered Jacob to the wall were wrapped around his arms, his neck, his legs. His face was bloody, and he was unconscious. The wounds on his cheeks and brow were deep.

“She set her ravens on him,” the girl said, “but he didn’t tell where your dress is. He just made it vanish, in front of her eyes!”

The chains tightened as Fox tried to pull them off Jacob, but when the child touched them, they fell to the ground. Fox caught Jacob in her arms. He came to, but he was dazed. She wasn’t sure he recognized her.

“Quick, take him,” the girl urged. “Before my grandmother comes back.”

Fox needed all her strength to support Jacob. She didn’t ask him about the dress. She could see he barely remembered where or who he was.

“Why are you helping us?” she asked the child at the doorway.

The girl held out her hand until the shimmering golden thread again appeared in her fingers.

“Even my grandmother has to heed the Golden Yarn. But she so wanted your dress.”

Jacob leaned his head against Fox’s shoulder. He could barely stand.