Thread of Frost

Ch. 25: Are We Guests or Prisoners?

"You." Sophie tipped her teacup in Owain's direction. "You look familiar."

Owain studied her. "I don't believe we've met before."

"You said your name is Shambles?"

Sophie said it like a statement. Isaac was beginning to get the sense that she said most things like a statement, that she moved through the world never questioning or second-guessing herself. Owain inclined his head.

"Correct."

Sophie leaned back. "Where are you from?"

"Around here," Owain said.

"How very descriptive."

"Purrfectly descriptive," Isaac said, because he was bored, his hand was bleeding, and he wanted to hit something.

Tristan gave him a pointed look. Isaac dug the fork in deeper.

"You look very young," Sophie said. "You can't be more than twenty-two."

"No."

Sophie's mouth turned up in the ghost of a smile. "I suppose you won't answer that, either."

"Correct," Owain said.

Isaac set down the fork. "Pawsitively forthcoming, this one."

Owain ignored him, although the tips of his ears were red. Tristan shook his head. There was a clear message in the other boy's eyes: stop. Fury and sorrow raged in Isaac's chest, battering at his ribcage. He wanted to throw his teacup. Watch it smash against the wall.

"So," Sophie said. "No name, no location, no discernible age..." She tapped her chin. Isaac got the sense that she was enjoying this, the same way that a mouse enjoyed snatching cheese before the trap sprung shut. "Are you a dayweaver?"

"No," Owain said.

"A nightweaver?"

He took a sip of tea. "No."

"But you can use magic?" Sophie asked.

Owain considered this. "In a sense."

"What sort?"

He lowered the teacup. "I won't say."

"Trust me," Isaac said cheerfully. "You're better off not knowing; it's an abomination of nature." Some sick, smug part of him opened its eyes and smiled. "A natural cat-astrophe, some might say."

Pain exploded in his foot, and Isaac hissed out a breath. Gods above. Had Tristan really just kicked him under the table? The other boy took a sip of tea, his face very innocent.

Sophie rose. She drew a bronze key from somewhere — she'd been so quick that Isaac hadn't caught it — and then unlocked a cabinet. She withdrew an old piece of parchment, carefully rolled up and tied with ribbon.

"Do you know what this is?" Sophie asked.

She smoothed it out on the table. Tristan leaned forward.

"The Map of Nyxos," Tristan said.

Sophie sat down. "Look closer."

Despite himself, Isaac leaned closer. There were dozens of tiny glowing dots, all speckled around Tarhalla; it reminded him of ants swarming a breadcrumb. Sophie took a sip of tea, her eyes on the map.

"We've spent the last few months gathering forces. Every nightweaver in Wynterlynn is somewhere within a five-kilometre radius of this camp. There are roughly two hundred of us." She paused. "Maybe slightly less. There would have been more, if you hadn't done such a thorough job of killing us lately."