The Threadmender Chronicles - House of Blight E-Book

Maxym Martineau

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Threadmender Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 575

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A dark and spicy enemies-to-lovers fantasy romance about a beautiful healer mage forced out of hiding and into service of a charismatic but aloof fae lord after her brothers contract a deadly plague. Perfect for readers of Jennifer Armentrout, Suzanne Wright and C. S. Pacat. Edira Brillwyn is a threadmender. She holds a rare, lifesaving power that can cure disease and heal injuries in the blink of an eye. But magic always comes with a cost, and saving anyone sacrifices a sliver of her own life. She's always kept her abilities hidden…until the powerful Fernglove family discovers her secret. The Ferngloves are charming and beautiful, possess powerful magic, and don't take no for an answer—especially Orin, the head of these ruling elites. When Edira's brothers unexpectedly contract blight—an incurable virus killing people throughout the town, and an illness too strong for her to heal them both—Orin offers to help. Together at his estate they'll research a cure while Orin slows their sickness and Edira hones her magic. His kindness and honesty surprises Edira, as does her undeniable attraction to him. But the other Ferngloves are suspicious of her power and may be more dangerous than the ever-present disease. The longer Edira stays within the confines of the Manor, the more the family's pristine exterior begins to crack—until Edira discovers a terrifying secret and must choose who she can save and at what cost…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgments

About the author

PRAISE FOR HOUSE OF BLIGHT

“A gorgeous fae gothic, a portal to an enchanting and treacherous world filled with beautiful beings and twisted magic, where nobody can be trusted and nothing is what it seems. Maxym M. Martineau is a captivating storyteller and I’m excited to see what she will do next.”

ILONA ANDREWS

“Wrenching, thrilling, and wildly imaginative, House of Blight will surely hit the spot for all lovers of dark fantasy and sensual, complicated romance … This is the kind of story that you just can’t put down.”

THEA GUANZON

“House of Blight is one of those books I had trouble putting down. I loved the totally unique magic system and the eerie but cozy setting … A must-read for any romantasy lover!”

NISHA J. TULI

“Reading—nay, devouring—Houseof Blight was a feast for the senses. Martineau uses stunning imagery and vivid details to paint an alluring, Gothic-tinged portrait of beauty, intrigue, passion, and dangerous magic.’

CLAIRE LEGRAND

“Romantic fantasy at its finest … The perfect mixture of magic, romance, and darkness, this is the romantasy every reader needs on their shelves.”

ALEXA MARTIN

“A beautiful, lyrically written tale of romance mixed with dark stakes that bite. House of Blight has all the ingredients to captivate romantasy readers from the very first page and keep them under her spell til the very last!”

LYSSA MIA SMITH

“Martineau weaves a tale so rich in detail, you can feel cool soil between your fingertips and smell the fresh scent of moss as you live Edira’s story with her. A sumptuous blend of fantasy and intrigue, grim realities and glowing magic.”

PIPER J. DRAKE

PRAISE FORMAXYM M. MARTINEAU

“A lush and sweeping swords-and-sorcery romance.”

The New York Times

“Martineau’s writing bursts with humor, heart,and an exquisite burst of magic.”

Entertainment Weekly

“A irresistible blend of adventure, magic, andromance … Prepare to be charmed!”

AMANDA BOUCHET

“A powerful new voice in fantasy romance … a stunningstory full of razor-sharp intrigue, delicious characters,and a love story you never want to end.”

DARYNDA JONES

“Fantasy romance at its finest.”

C.L. WILSON

“A fantastic tale of magic, romance, andadventure — I can’t wait to read more.”

L. PENELOPE

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House of Blight

Print edition ISBN: 9781835413234

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835413241

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: April 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Maxym M. Martineau 2025.

Maxym M. Martineau asserts the moral rightto be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, [email protected], [phone]

Typeset in Agmena Pro.

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

For those who constantly sacrifice in the name of others,it’s okay to save yourself first

HOUSEOF BLIGHT

PROLOGUE

When the stars were young and the sun was new, a woman of great power and strong mind met Death at a four-way crossing. Cloaked in shadow despite the high noon hour, he welcomed those who found their way to him, and he always afforded them the same opportunity: a path of their choosing.

“Successfully choose the correct path forward, and I will allow you to pass, turning my back to you and your kin. Choose incorrectly and walk with me now to your end,” he said.

The woman studied Death with keen eyes. She was not afraid, but she knew there was magic in words. Her choice was not one to be taken lightly.

“What do the paths represent?” she asked.

With bony fingers, Death gestured to her left: “A fork in the road you missed in your youth.” Then, directly before her: “The unchanged path, as most predict.” To her right: “A future, wild and unseen.” Death looked beyond her to the path she’d been walking: “And a past you cannot escape.”

The woman pondered her options. She knew she was not the first to meet Death on this road and surmised all paths had been chosen before. She glanced to her left. To right a wrong or avoid a regret and startanew … She narrowed her eyes. Only to meet Death sooner.

She stared past Death at the path ahead. The unchanged path that led me to Death; the only prediction guaranteed to come true.

She shook her head and gazed to the right. Wild and unseen. Tragic and swift. Grimacing, she regarded the path behind her, and she knew that if she turned back now, her feet would only carry her here again—the path she could not escape.

“Every path leads me to you,” she said.

Death smiled. “Yes.”

“I see. Then I’ll return tomorrow.” And with that, the woman left down the path she’d came, leaving a perplexed Death behind. When the sun rose, the woman returned. She asked Death the same question, received the same answer, and once again departed down the path she’d come.

This continued for a decade until Death’s patience grew thin. “Your time is up.” From the folds of his cloak, he drew a blade devoid of life and color, darker than the depths of night. The woman studied the weapon without moving, but there was a strange glint to her hardened stare that even Death could not miss. He gripped the weapon tighter and said, “Death comes for us all.”

“Including you?” she asked, finally rounding her gaze to Death.

She was not the first person to ask such a thing, and she wouldn’t be the last. Death once again hid his blade in his cloak. “There is death for me yet, but you are not it. You do not possess the power or the weapon. It is your fate to meet me here, and you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

She nodded. “I understand. Grant me one final chance to say my farewells, and I’ll part from the life I’ve always known.”

Sensing a shift in her demeanor, Death allowed her this courtesy. When she returned the next morning, Death once again gestured to the roads. “Choose.”

Without hesitation, the woman strode forward and unsheathed a dagger, a twin to Death’s own weapon, and plunged it deep into his gut. “I know you, Death. I came into the world cloaked in your shadow when you stole my mother’s life as I left her womb. You think I’m powerless? Far from it. I’ve been watching you for years, biding my time until it made sense for me to strike. You will not take me, too. The path I choose is yours.”

Stunned by her revelation and grievously wounded, Death had no option but to concede. “Spare my life, and I’ll spare yours,” he said. She waited, her hand gripped tightly around the hilt of her blade. “Walk whichever path you please. You shall be … ever living.” Slowly, so as not to draw the woman’s blade farther into his own flesh, Death reached into the folds of his cloak and extracted a smooth stone of pure moonlight. “I cannot walk where there are no shadows. Stay within its glow, and you will never see me again.”

“And for my kin?” She took the proffered gem while twisting her knife deeper. Instead of ruby blood, obsidian rivulets oozed down the blade.

Death hissed. “Split it. Search for more. All jewels of this nature are now bound by this promise, I swear to you.”

“Good.” She removed her blade and continued onward, down a path Death did not see, while pocketing the stone with a smile. And while Death lay crumpled in the crossroads, feeling bitter and cheated, he decided he’d allow the woman and her kin to feel safe for a time—long enough for all to forget the power of her bargain and everything she left out.

ONE

I’d always found cemeteries a bit odd—they housed the dead, but the dead didn’t need them. The dead didn’t need anything. The very existence of graves, of coffins, felt like a living riddle. What was made for the deceased but comforted the living? A silk-lined box. It sounded like something one of the Evers would say, and while I had no desire to get involved with them, it was hard not to respect the power behind their words.

Or maybe I was drawn to the quiet graves because of the abundance of mugwort. That seemed far more likely.

Crouching before the nearest crumbling headstone, I drove my fingers into the soft dirt and uprooted the sage-green plant, minding the tiny white hairs covering the leaves. I tucked it into the overflowing burlap sack hanging from my hip and stood, brushing my hands along the fabric of my fitted pants. Most ladies of marriageable age favored satin skirts and low necklines, sumptuous frills and elegant lace trimmings. Perhaps if my station had been different, I would have, too. I had nothing against the artful construction of whalebone and ribbon, but when one rummaged through the dirt as often as I did, it was tiresome to change skirts frequently enough to remain presentable.

Plus, those ladies had families and coin that afforded them lazy afternoons sipping tea over gossip, whereas I did not. I would likely be plowing through earth right up to my final days, and I’d probably dig that grave, too. And even yet, that fate seemed preferrable to the alternative: spending time with Willowfell’s elite for the chance of a marriage that would “save” me from my work.

I’d rather work for myself than work to be someone else’s version of “suitable.”

River birch trees clambered against the moss-covered stone wall rimming the graveyard, and I lingered in their shade a moment longer before navigating the path toward the flower-studded meadow. The spring air was thick with the scent of fresh linens, as the townsfolk strung up damp sheets and garments to take advantage of the cloud-free sky. I cut a glance toward the midafternoon sun. There were only a few hours left until my brothers returned from the nearby mines, and I was eager to brew a few tonics for tomorrow’s market before they commandeered the kitchen.

Taking the right fork around a small hill, I came across the first crop of houses marking the edge of Willowfell. The quaint homes rimming the outskirts of town looked largely the same—the pearlcolored bricks were fashioned from stone found at the base of our closest mountain, and the hipped roofs were a dark shade of ivy to match the surrounding canopy of leaves. But perhaps the most unique custom of Willowfell was the construction of its doors. It was tradition for families to decorate them however they deemed fit. The Shatterlends’ door was a mosaic masterpiece depicting a romantic embrace. Lazlo and his husband opted for a circular entrance with half-moon windows burrowed into the rich wood. The Hafters’ was covered in iron handles.

Our door, though, was my favorite. The facade itself was simple, but the surrounding frame was something else entirely. Even now, as I passed by our neighbors’ homes and found myself standing before my father’s handiwork, I couldn’t help but marvel at the intricate details. He’d taken a fallen branch from a nearby ash tree and carved an arch of interconnected roses and vines. He’d studied the flowers for weeks in order to capture even the most minor features. The thin veining in the leaves. The uneven crinkles in the petals. Buds blooming. Buds closed. Thorns of various sizes but precisely sharp. He’d polished it all to perfection, but he’d refused to stain it. For him, there was nothing more beautiful than the story told by the nuances in the grains of wood.

My heart twisted as I lightly fingered a petal by the bronze handle—my way of greeting him each time I returned home. My mother I kept with me at all times. Instinctively, my hand dropped to the front pocket of my pants, where I could feel the outline of an embroidered scrap of leather. She’d been excellent with a needle, often stitching designs into our clothes and crafting small toys for us with leftover fabric.

Years had passed since their deaths, and still I missed them so much I ached.

Once in the kitchen, I deposited my bag on the knobby, worn wood table and fished a heavy pot from the lower cabinet. After filling it with water, I lit the cast-iron stove. Heat bloomed outward in a drowsy bubble, cooking the space in a matter of minutes, and I tied my raven-black hair in a bun atop my head to keep the strands from sticking to my neck.

With deft fingers, I opened my bag and began sorting through herbs when my hand stilled. Something gold flashed between the muted greens and browns. At first I thought I’d picked up a coin in my foraging, but it was smaller than our currency and even more brilliant in its metallic sheen. Frowning, I drew myself closer, and the object— the insect— moved.

Beetle. My lips quirked up as it skittered across my knuckles. The edges of its outer shell were transparent, and two soft antennae twitched as it regarded me. Careful not to jostle the creature, I moved to the open window and let it crawl onto the sill. It stretched its wings as if preparing to fly, then stopped.

“It’s all right,” I murmured. “Take your time.”

Just then, a hesitant knock sounded from the front door. “Ms. Brillwyn? Are you home?”

Ms.? I bit back a chuckle. One of the children, then, hoping a touch of respect would gain my favor. I was only twenty-five, and I’d never really cared for titles. That was something only the elders—or those hoping to become pinnacles of our quiet society—cared for. Ridiculous. I dusted my hands together and crossed the kitchen to the small foyer, sidestepping the worn stairs winding upward toward the bedrooms. When I opened the door, a boy with bleary, red-rimmed eyes looked up at me. He breathed heavily through his parted, chapped lips, careful not to inhale sharply as one hand precariously shielded his nose.

Sighing, I opened the door wider and leaned against the frame. “Toman, why am I not surprised?” I’d never met anyone in all of Glaes who injured themselves as much as him, and our country was rather large.

“Hi, Ms. Brillwyn.” His congested voice trembled with the low whimper of a child hoping to avoid a scolding.

“It’s just Edira. You know that.” I tilted my head, trying to catch a glimpse of the injury he was hiding. “What happened?”

“Elbow to the face,” he mumbled. I glanced over the top of his head to spy a discarded, filthy ball waiting for him at the edge of my garden. No doubt he’d been playing rough with his brothers and ended up here instead of risking an earful from his mother.

Stepping to the side, I gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on, then.”

“Thanks,” he said as he easily found his way to my table and sunk into one of the sturdy chairs. At this point, he could’ve claimed it as his own. I’d helped him and his siblings more times than I could count—all free of charge. Which was probably the real reason they kept finding themselves here. Mrs. Marlow was nothing if not shrewd. I really should’ve refused her sons altogether, but I loathed the idea of holding her children accountable for her snobbery. At least not until they showed signs of it themselves, and then I’d ignore their pretentious comments, too.

Dragging one of the opposite chairs across the creaking floorboards, I seated myself directly before Toman. “Let me see.”

He hesitated, his caramel-colored eyes full of pain, and then slowly removed his hand to reveal a misshapen nose with dried blood caked around the nostrils. My brows arched toward my hairline.

“Does your mother know?”

His face blanched. “Are you going to tell her?”

“She’s going to find out one way or another.” With light fingers, I gripped either side of his grubby face and inspected the injury. The awkward angle, fresh, heavy bruising, and congested breathing were indicators enough. Broken. A prickling sensation spread outward from my chest and trickled toward my fingers, and I clenched my jaw to steel myself against the hidden surge of magic now flooding my veins.

And suddenly I was thrust into a memory of when I’d held Nohr’s crushed leg in my hands just a few years ago. He’d come back from the mines with his femur split after loose rubble pinned him to the earth until Noam wrenched him free. Nohr was already unconscious when Noam dragged him back to our home and screamed for me in the foyer.

Threadmending hadn’t even been a question then. Nohr never would’ve been able to work again if I hadn’t healed him. He could’ve died. I’d tapped into my power as seamlessly as breathing and watched as his life threads unfurled, searching until I found the mangled fibers tied to the devastating injury that was his leg.

And then I’d poured everything I had into stitching them back together.

Of course, there had been a cost. There was always a cost when it came to my magic. For every ailment that I healed, every life thread I put back together, I’d sacrifice a few strands of my own and diminish my lifespan. As well as, to a somewhat lesser degree, suffer the physical consequences of the injury or illness.

Nohr’s splintering pain had immediately become my own, and fires had ruptured from the bone in my left leg as tears stung the backs of my eyes. Heat flushed through my skin and left me raw. Every breath was a jagged, sharp exhale that stung, and I was a trembling mess coated in a thin sheen of sweat, until I finally finished my work and then collapsed beside my brother, letting the magic fade as I, too, succumbed to unconsciousness.

There was no way to know exactly how much of my life I’d sacrificed to save Nohr’s leg. Threadmenders couldn’t see their own threads. Why, I didn’t know. My aunt, a threadmender like me, didn’t either. But she speculated that the cost was scaled. Minor illnesses and trivial breaks? Possibly a few weeks. Major fractures like Nohr’s leg? Several months at least.

I never dared to ask her how much of her life she thought she’d sacrificed to cure my mother of a winter illness that lingered far too long in her lungs. An illness that caused the townsfolk to avoid my family at all costs, barely offering condolences if they saw one of us in passing. I’d been young when it happened, but I still remembered how they refused to look directly at us. As if averting their eyes would somehow absolve them of acknowledging our pain.

But for Toman’s nose … I forced myself back to the present, to the mild ailment at hand. I would not threadmend him. It wasn’t worth it. Still, my power recognized Toman’s need, and it flourished just the same, filling me to the brim with a near-unbearable tingling warmth. Fortunately, Toman had no idea I possessed such magic. And I had to keep it that way.

“Can you fix it?” he mumbled.

“I’m half tempted to leave it as is and teach you a lesson.” I let my hands fall away and instead toyed with a sprig of lavender, giving myself a chance to squash the nagging pull of my magic. “Not to mention you’d acquire some of that roguish charm I hear is very attractive.”

“Edira,” he whined, dragging out my name. He searched my face for a moment, his gaze lingering on my hair before shifting elsewhere. My breath caught in my chest, and I resisted the urge to finger the black strand framing my cheek. I’d only just dyed it a week ago. A current of anxiety wove through me, but I refused to acknowledge it. I was safe. No one in town knew.

“Yes, I can fix it.”

“Will it hurt?” An ache of fear gnawed at his vocal cords. That tiny mewling sound was like a royal doctrine I was obligated to follow, and I sighed. My lack of self-control would be the death of my pockets if I kept offering my services for free.

Of course, that was better than putting one foot in the grave by resorting to threadmending. I flexed my hand, fighting with the still lingering prickling in my fingertips. It didn’t fully subside—and it wouldn’t until Toman’s injury was resolved or he removed himself from my presence—but it’d dulled enough for me to focus.

“Only a little. Promise.” At that, I stood and made my way to one of the open shelves lining the walls of my kitchen. Jars and vials marked with my own handwriting clinked a quiet hello as my fingers maneuvered through them. After a minute of searching, I secured a small container with a corked lid and a vial with milky-white liquid: healing balm and numbing serum.

Before Toman could shy away, I’d tilted his head back and used a dropper to add the serum to his nostrils. The numbing agent worked quickly, and his face slackened as pain fled from his expression. A relieved smile tugged at his lips.

“Now to set it.” I sank back onto my chair. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Toman said, pulling my focus back to him.

“All right. Close your eyes.”

Steadying myself with a deep breath, I cast away all thoughts of the day: the sounds, the smells, the sticky sensation of heat from the cast-iron range cooking away at my back. I stared only at Toman’s misshapen nose. Again, my power called to me. Begged me to study the threads of his life, to find the frayed edges that needed repairing and stitch them together, but I pushed the impulse away and instead focused on the practical art of medicine.

I brought my hands to his face, pressing my thumbs on either side of his nose and pushing into the break. Toman gave a pained grunt—nowhere near as bad as it would’ve been had I not used the serum—as I realigned the bone, and then it was done.

“There.”

With careful fingers, Toman tested his newly re-formed nose. “How does it look?”

I cracked a warm smile. “While I’m partial to suitors my age, I think you look rather dashing.”

Boyish charm flooded his face. “Thanks, Edira. You’re the best.”

“I know. Here.” I handed him the healing balm and watched as he opened the lid to inspect the heavy cream mixture. “Apply nightly to speed up the healing process and eliminate lingering pain. You’ll be fine in a few days, but take it easy in the meantime. Understood?”

“Will do!” His grin was wide as he bounded toward the door. He was already down the walk before he turned to wave goodbye, and I sighed as I returned the gesture. He hadn’t even bothered to clean the blood from his face.

To be that carefree. I shook my head, and my hair dusted along my cheek. A familiar swell of unease trickled through my stomach, and this time, I allowed myself to finger the loose strand. Still black. I rubbed the lock between my forefinger and thumb, only to frown at the dark film that began to smear across my skin. I needed to make another batch of dye to hide my telltale moonlit hair. If even a rumor of my power somehow spread throughout the town, the Evers would be at my door, and I’d disappear just like my aunt had, whisked away by the Ferngloves to cure gods only knew what until she likely passed from wasting so many threads of her own.

Swallowing thickly, I moved to the kitchen and set to work, splitting my focus between my remedies and the concoction for the dye. The afternoon quickly slid into evening as I tore at leaves, ground stalks, and brewed tinctures over the roiling heat of our stove. At some point, I paused to light one of the oil lamps clinging to the wall, and burnt-orange light bounced off the sludge-like surface of the cooling charcoal dye. I changed in my room into a thin nightgown splattered with ink-black stains and returned to the kitchen.

Careful not to spill, I angled my head over the massive pot and drowned my hair in the viscous liquid. I was fortunate to still have enough of a base coloring in my hair that the dye would likely set within the hour. Better than waiting for it to fully fade and having to sequester for the day so the townsfolk wouldn’t catch me in the act. It was an exercise my aunt had done herself and taught me early to help keep my power hidden. Not everyone in my family was born with the power to threadmend, but enough had been blessed— cursed, really—that a handful of best practices had been passed down through the years.

A horrendous annoyance, to say the least, but a necessary precaution. Better to have charcoal-coated locks than be dead. Thank the gods I wasn’t as vain as some of my tittering neighbors.

Satisfied with the thick layer of sludge now clinging to my hair, I twisted my locks into a tight bun. The dye hardened quickly, forming the worst kind of cakey, uncomfortable bonnet, and I returned to my remedies. As I counted vials and allocated herbs, I let out an annoyed groan. If I wanted to purchase enough flour and fresh meat for the week, I’d need to produce and sell at least a dozen more tinctures. Otherwise, we would have to dip into our reserves of dried venison to make it through. Before I could begin brewing another tincture, a heavy bell toll rang through the quiet evening air. The miners’ shift was at an end.

Looking up from the ever-increasing number of pots piling high around me, I glanced through the open window. The golden beetle I’d freed was nowhere to be found, and the first smattering of stars winked back at me. Soon, Noam and Nohr would be home, and they’d want the kitchen to prepare supper. They’d willingly taken up cooking to grant me time away from the stove.

My fingers tapped against the wood-plank counter as I stared out the window, checking to see if they were already loping up the path to our home. Nothing yet. I sighed and began clearing what dishes I could. Willowfell had two mines nestled against the mountain—one for sapphires and one for garnets. Those without hefty inheritances or education were forced to toil away in their cool depths, which meant my brothers never had a chance to become something else. They’d been working since the moment their bodies could carry the weight of a pickaxe just to help us survive. The job wasn’t easy. Or safe.

Of course, if they were lucky enough to unearth an everjewel, all that would change.

There was a loud grunt, followed by the door wildly swinging open and crashing against the wall. I rolled my eyes. Our father must have had the gift of foresight to create an ornate archway instead of a door.

“Any everjewels today?” I called without looking in their direction. It was the same greeting I offered every time Noam and Nohr returned from work—one that was always met with silence or groans of frustration.

The stones were rare and coveted by Evers. In my life, two workers were fortunate enough to find an everjewel. Both times, one of the Ferngloves, Evers living on the fringe of our town and owners of the mines, had left their manor to handsomely reward the laborer in person. Every prominent city or town stretching across Glaes had at least one Ever family to preside over the land. The Ferngloves came into Willowfell sparingly, but when they did, everyone always rushed to grovel before their immortal feet.

Except for me. I couldn’t risk being discovered. Not by the very people who I’d long suspected were responsible for the disappearance of my aunt. She wasn’t the only threadmender who’d vanished in recent years. Rumors had begun to spread throughout Glaes, thanks to traveling merchants who moved about our country and traded wares as well as gossip. Most townsfolk passed it off as an oddity and nothing more, but I saw what they refused to acknowledge: threadmenders went missing only in places where Evers ruled.

“Edira!” Nohr shouted, pulling my focus. I turned to find my brothers stumbling through the entryway, a limp body strung haphazardly between them like a loose clothing line. With gentle motions, they laid a young man on our weathered sofa.

“What happened?” I sped toward them, wiping my hands along my nightgown to rid them of lingering residue from my work.

Noam and Nohr exchanged a silent look. Their teakwood gazes mirrored each other down to the smallest of nuances. They shared the same slender build of boys on the cusp of becoming men, their labor in the mines threatening to usher them into adulthood all too quickly. Seventeen and they’d already endured so much.

“Is that Alec?”

Nohr ran his hand back to front through his cropped brown hair. A poof of dust clouded the space above his head. “Yes.”

“He just collapsed,” Noam muttered.

I peered closer. Beneath the caked-on dirt and soot, Alec was barely recognizable. A sweaty sheen had broken out along his hairline, turning the grime on his skin into a damp sludge. With a strangled moan, he shifted restlessly on the couch. My brows drew together as I scoured his trembling frame. Something was wrong, and the pull of my magic immediately flared to life. Warmth rippled outward through my limbs, and yet I saw nothing. No visible injuries, no broken bones or bleeding wounds. I rushed to the pot in the kitchen and dampened a cloth with leftover water, returning quickly to wipe away the layer of filth clinging to his face.

The moment I finally caught a glimpse of his skin, I dropped the rag.

“You brought him here? What were you thinking?” I couldn’t take my eyes off Alec’s sallow cheeks. Sprawling blisters climbed from his jaw to his forehead, and several had already ruptured to expose a sickening display of black mold and bubbling yellow froth. The edges of each lesion were rotted and brown like leaves withering in the presence of winter. My stomach clenched tight. The revolting odor of decomposing flesh and sour mulch bloomed from his skin, and I swallowed thickly to force down a gag.

Nohr’s face went pale. “We didn’t … I didn’t …”

Tearing away from the couch, I yanked my brothers together and dissected every inch of their stock-still forms. The durable fabric of their work trousers was still intact, carefully tucked into leather boots. Their long-sleeved shirts were more grime than cotton, but thankfully they were free of rips. Pulling their hands upward, I inspected their gloves. Worn and in need of another round of weatherproofing, but again, securely intact. The rising concern in my chest slowed.

Diseased land had started to encroach on the areas surrounding the mines, but it wasn’t an airborne affliction. My gaze drifted back to Alec, and I spied a small nick marring the space where his throat and jaw met. The risk of shaving was rarely the blade. A whisper of blight straight to the blood was all it took.

“We didn’t know it was blight. We just thought he’d hurt himself somehow,” Noam finally managed. Heavy tears cut pathways through the dirt on his face, and I looked away.

“I can’t help him,” I murmured softly, but Noam flinched as if I’d shouted loud enough to rupture his eardrums.

“You can try.”

I pinched my nose. “There’s nothing I can do. There is no medicine that can cure this affliction.”

“Not medicine, but maybe something else.” Noam refused to look at me. A cold chill swept down my spine, a direct contrast to the blooming heat radiating through my fingertips.

“No.” My gaze flew to the open windows. A peal of laughter from kids playing in the fields outside carried in on a breeze. Townsfolk were still out. If they saw me …

Nohr followed my tight stare and sprang into action, quickly latching the windows shut and drawing the curtains tight. As if eliminating the possibility of someone witnessing my power was the only problem. Sure, I didn’t want to be discovered, because that meant some brownnosing neighbor—likely an elder hoping to gain even more favor with the Evers—would alert the Ferngloves to my existence.

A sliver of anger wound through me. My brothers knew the cost to my magic. And still, they wanted me to try. To sacrifice a few years of my life for someone who wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.

“It’s not just about being seen. You know this,” I hissed.

Suddenly, Alec bolted upright on the couch, his gaze locked on something far away. And then he laughed. Not a normal laugh—not the pleasant, rumbling sound of warmth from deep within his chest. But a maniacal laugh that bubbled from the depths of a clouded mind. One steeped in sickness. His eyes rolled to the heavens, showing white to the world, and his teeth gnashed together. The soft squirt of his canine puncturing his tongue sent gooseflesh rippling over my skin.

“Edira,” Nohr said over Noam’s sharp inhale, “please. He’s our friend.”

“And I am your sister.” My throat bobbed as I stared at Alec. “I’d only be risking harm to myself.”

My brothers’ gazes dropped in unison. Before I could take another breath, Alec let out a pained cry as his body began shaking uncontrollably. His hands went to his arms, his fingers raking against the rough fabric of his shirt.

“Alec, we’re here.” Noam knelt beside him, mindful not to touch him but hovering close just the same.

Alec turned to Noam, unfocused eyes searching for something to anchor him to our world. He kept twisting his neck back and forth, craning it in impossible directions, until he spied me. He stilled as a glee-stricken smile pulled at his lips. “I see her. I can really see her. She’s standing over there, and she’s got the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. Annabelle.”

“His sister. She died last year.” Nohr grimaced.

“He doesn’t have any other family,” Noam added, voice terribly soft.

Alec wouldn’t survive this. Again, I glanced at the drawn curtains. We were hidden from the outside world, and since Alec had no remaining relatives, there was no one to miss him or question his absence, save my brothers. I forced out a heavy breath. Slowly, I came around the sofa. Alec’s gaze never faltered. He tracked every step of mine until I crouched beside Noam.

“Hello, Alec.”

“You’ve got fire shooting from your fingertips. How’d you manage that? You don’t look like you’re burning. Can you come closer?” His voice climbed higher, words cracking as his grip on reality disappeared entirely. “I’m stuck inside this glacier and the heat would help.”

I brushed my hands along his forehead for a moment, wiping away the film of sweat and dirt. He groaned as I nudged him to the side and edged onto the sofa, my hip bone flush with his. Unlike my brothers, I didn’t have to worry about contracting Alec’s illness. The only thing that could kill me was myself.

“Edira?” Noam’s soft plea was a weapon straight to my heart, and my resolve wavered. No threadmender had ever been able to cure blight. Myself included. I wouldn’t risk drastically shortening my lifespan by fully inviting Alec’s affliction into my veins—not when there was nothing to be gained.

Alec’s gaze locked on mine. “I hear my bones cracking. They’re giant splinters caught in my skin, and I need to get them out.”

My chest heaved. I’d lived through this exact scenario already with my parents, and even though I knew what would happen in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore him. “I’ll ease his passing. That’s all I can do.”

It’d likely cost me a few threads, but I couldn’t stand the look in his eyes. Or the weight of my brothers’ pleas.

Energy hummed through me as I finally—finally— allowed my power to surge to the surface. Soothing warmth rushed over my skin, and while I couldn’t see my eyes, I knew my normally dove-gray irises had been doused in an ivory light as brilliant as the full moon. As the world around me dulled, the threads of his life—invisible to all but me—began to unfurl around him.

They should’ve been a resplendent, glowing green, full of energy and vigor. Instead, hundreds of severed threads limply drifted about in his aura, each one of them dripping with black tar. When the sludge encased a strand in its entirety, it shifted to appear more like a rotted twig and then simply dusted away. All I could feel was pain. Fear. The real Alec was buried somewhere beneath this maelstrom of hysteria and despair, and I was the only one capable of giving him any relief.

Swallowing thickly, I willed my magic to flow outward. Moonlight ensconced my hands, my fingers. And I showered the tar clinging to Alec’s dying threads with my power, but I couldn’t wipe away the residue—or mend the fraying ends. Nonetheless, Alec sighed. My soothing energy flooded his body, calming the tremor racking his limbs.

A soft smile claimed his lips as he stared into my eyes. “Thread-mender.”

Quiet ringing started in my ears. “Yes.”

“I never knew,” he said. He hummed softly as his gaze shifted absently to the ceiling. It didn’t matter that he’d pass in a matter of minutes—the fact that he knew my secret still sent my pulse racing. My eyes tracked the spreading blisters, now steaming as the blight cooked away at his meat and bones. At least he no longer felt any pain. I’d pay for it later, but between my brothers’ pleas and Alec’s trembling form, I couldn’t bring myself to let him pass in agony. With one final surge of power, I thrust as much energy as I could over his body. Brilliant moonlight blanketed his form in earnest, and his eyes slipped closed. After three more shuddering breaths, his threads suddenly stilled and dusted to ash.

Capping my power, I released his grip and stood slowly as the world swayed beneath my feet. The backlash of easing his passing hit hard and fast. I hadn’t even attempted to cure his blight, and yet I’d been close to Alec’s affliction, scratched the surface of the illness and used my power to offer him comfort. And now I would suffer. A brackish substance flooded the back of my tongue, and I stumbled out the front door to vomit in the bed of morning glories. Everything hurt. My bones felt as if they’d splintered several times over, and my eyelids scraped like the tin scrubber I kept in the kitchen. Needles pricked at my skin, and I dug my fingers into the soft earth for purchase. My insides grew impossibly hot, as if someone were stoking a fire in the pit of my belly.

All this for simply helping. If I’d actually attempted to rid him of blight …

At some point, Nohr wrapped his arms around my trembling body, and he carried me inside. He’d already readied my room and peeled back the sheets, and he laid me on the quaint iron bed before tucking me in.

“Nohr,” I managed to croak as black dots bloomed across my vision.

He crouched in front of me, lines of worry creasing his forehead. “We shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

I attempted to shake my head, but it came out as a weak twitch. “Don’t touch him.”

Eyes downcast, he nodded. “Okay, Edira. Just get some rest.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice.

TWO

My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat as I dared to open my eyes. I hadn’t moved an inch in the night, and that only seemed to compound the ache in my muscles. I should’ve coached one of my brothers into drafting a healing tincture before sleeping, but if my brain was muddled now, it was simply liquid before.

The last time I’d threadmended had been Nohr’s leg. The time before, my parents. A chill crept down my spine. They’d both fallen ill at the same time and passed within an hour. I was only thirteen. I tried everything to save them, but I’d never used my powers in earnest, so I could only cradle their heads in my lap as they died. My gut churned, and I pushed that memory away. Reliving that horrific experience helped no one.

Groaning, I shifted in bed and pulled off the sheets. My arms screamed in protest, but I gritted through the pain and stretched toward the ceiling. A stiff crackling rippled across my scalp, and my fingers went to my hair. I’d never removed the dye, and one quick look at my pillow indicated I’d ruined those linens for good. At least the color was set. As soon as I could manage, I’d rinse and dump the staining liquid somewhere unseen. Then after, a bath. I just couldn’t fathom drawing one. My toes grazed the cool floorboards, and I sucked in a breath as I stood up. The room spun only for a moment— long enough for my stomach to knot, but not long enough for me to call off my planned trip to market.

With slow, measured steps, I left my room and padded downstairs into the kitchen to find Noam and Nohr already busy with the stove. My herbs had been gathered, tied, and hung from a series of wooden dowels along the far wall near my collection of remedies. The mess I’d left was gone, replaced by sparkling clean dishes drying before the open window. Eggs cooked in a frying pan, and coffee—fresh coffee—sat in a carafe in the middle of the table.

I’d never loved my brothers more. I was about to say as much when a prickling awareness teased the back of my mind and gooseflesh rippled over my arms. Turning toward the couch, I expected to find a decaying body waiting for me on the cushions.

I found nothing of the sort.

“I told you not to touch him,” I said, my words quiet but sharp.

They both stiffened as they shared one of their signature glances, the kind only they could understand. “We wore our gloves and wrapped him in blankets,” Nohr replied.

“We were careful. We just wanted to give you a break,” Noam added a breath later.

My gaze traveled over their clenched jaws and drawn brows. The ghost of pain, of loss, still lingered in their puffy eyes, and I sighed. They’d gone through enough already. With an undignified plop, I fell onto one of the chairs and reached for the coffee. Nohr was there within seconds, pouring the life-giving sustenance into a ceramic mug.

“We should toss the couch,” I muttered.

Nohr’s eyes fell, his voice strained. “We can’t afford it.”

“We can’t afford either one of you catching blight.” I stared at the well-worn frame. The piece of furniture had sat in that exact spot for the entirety of my life and likely years before that. We could’ve done with a new couch, but Nohr was right. Money was tight. “I’ll move the cushions outside for the time being and see what I can do about getting the whole thing reupholstered.” I blew steam off my drink and took a heady sip.

Noam slid a plate of eggs in front of me before returning to the stove. “Mrs. Marlow might be willing to trade her services for some of your remedies.”

I speared my breakfast with my fork and chewed slowly, eyeing Nohr as he dragged another large pot full of water and placed it atop the cast-iron stove. “I fixed Toman’s nose yesterday. She owes me.”

After that, Nohr and Noam joined me at the table and ate the rest of the eggs straight out of the frying pan. The quiet scrape of their forks’ tines against the skillet filled our kitchen. None of us spoke. There wasn’t much to be said, not really. Alec was gone. There was nothing more that could be done.

“We heated water for a bath,” Noam said, twirling his fork against the pan. He’d ducked his head low while eating and now peered at me from behind the tops of his lashes. A peace offering for disposing of the body, no doubt. It worked. “I’ll bring the washbasin in if you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” I blew out a breath as I stood. “Can one of you grab water for my hair?”

Nohr was out the front door and in the garden before I could blink. I wound my way through the small footprint of our house to the back door. One furtive peek through the curtains told me it was safe, and I slipped outside. I was thankful our home backed against the nearby woods, offering us a modicum of privacy for moments such as this. Dyeing hair wasn’t exactly taboo, but it raised questions. Questions were the last thing I wanted.

After handing me a small bucket with fresh water, Nohr retreated inside. Gritting my teeth in preparation for the cold, I dunked my head in the liquid and watched as black ink swirled across the once-clear contents. Later, when time permitted, I’d lather on a different mask to bring the luster back to my matte locks.

Hair dripping down my back, I returned to the kitchen to find Noam and Nohr had brought in a tin tub and placed it before the stove. After they transferred the heated water, I sprinkled the basin with salts crafted for relieving aches and a few drops of oil to help soothe my mind. Noam wrapped me in a one-armed hug and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head.

“Be safe,” I murmured.

“I’d say ‘you, too,’ but not sure that applies to market,” Noam said with a half-hearted smile. He was trying. Trying to forget what happened last night. Trying to move forward because we had no other option but to keep going. My heart twisted, and I hugged him tighter. Then I motioned for Nohr to join until I had both of them wrapped in my arms.

I would do anything for my brothers. I’d shoulder their grief and work myself to the bone just to make sure they had a chance at happiness. They were all I had left, and they needed me just as much as I needed them.

“See you tonight,” Nohr said.

I gave them one last squeeze and then released them. They were gone in no time, and I blew out a sigh as I quickly undressed. I slid into the scalding water, not caring that it scorched my skin. I wanted to burn away the memory of the blight against my fingers, the scent of mold and decay from my hair, and the leftover residue of grime beneath my nails. I groaned and sunk deeper into the water. I would’ve soaked in the bath for hours, but I couldn’t afford to miss market. So, when the pulsating ache in my muscles finally dulled to a mild discomfort, I eased out of the tub and returned to my room to dress for the day.

Part of me wished Noam and Nohr could go to town instead of me. Everyone liked them. They were generous and warm, and their laughter was the kind of sound that lingered in the air for what felt like hours. A beautiful, inviting thing. It wasn’t as though people particularly liked or disliked me; I just couldn’t get involved. Wouldn’t. My friendships dwindled when my parents died and I had to step into the role of caretaker for my brothers, and I never bothered to rekindle them. Not when, years earlier, I’d seen the town elders notify the Ferngloves about my aunt’s power. She was stolen from us the very next day. All because a child, one of Noam’s friends, had peeked through our window to see if he was home. Instead, he’d watched as my aunt healed my mother’s perpetual cough.

I didn’t blame the child. He told his parents a curious, exciting thing he’d seen. I blamed the elders who reacted out of greed before even considering what it would do to my family to have our aunt ripped away.

Of course, the townsfolk didn’t think it was “bad” to be employed by an Ever. My aunt was “blessed.”

Grumbling wordlessly to myself, I braided my sable hair away from my face and wove in a few tiny white flowers from the baby’s breath I kept potted in my room. Kohl above my lashes, mauve paint on my lips, a hint of rouge—good enough for market. I quickly slipped on a chemise and cotton stockings, fixing them in place with simple garter ribbons. My mother’s corset thankfully still fit, and I secured the front fasteners before tightening the lace at my back. Then a soft skirt and matching burgundy bodice dotted with pearls and embroidered ebony flowers. The ensemble had been my mother’s before she died. I’d admired it for as long as I could remember, but now that I owned it, the feel of it against my skin was both a comfort and a sadness.

Shaking my head, I slid my leather scrap into one of the skirt’s hidden pockets and laced my ankle boots before heading downstairs. I paused only for a moment to glance at the sofa. I’d take care of the cushions after market, but there was still the impression of Alec’s long body pressed into the fabric, an outline of the person who used to exist. I hadn’t known him well, and I thanked the stars for that small blessing.

Setting my jaw tight, I walked to the kitchen. It didn’t take long for me to pack two leather traveling cases full of remedies. I carried all the standards: sleep aids, serums and balms for topical ailments, tinctures for digestion, oils for stress reduction, and, by far one of my most popular requests, performictum—a tasteless powder added to food or drink that when consumed resulted in … bedroom vigor. I also stored some of the more elusive concoctions in the hidden compartment that slid out of the back of the case, but I rarely ever needed those. Some referred to them as poisons. I referred to them as remedies for vengeance. Benign, but memorable.

After fastening the brass clasps into place, I grabbed the worn handles and made for the door. We lived on the fringe of town, which meant the walk to market was a good twenty minutes, and I had only thirty before the bell struck. The best spots were likely already taken. We weren’t fortunate enough to own a carriage, and because the town itself was somewhat small, not many did. The elders, of course, had gilded wagons lined with plush cushions and attendants to drive the horses. But even they saved such extravagant means of travel for longer excursions to neighboring towns.

They should’ve woken me sooner. Noam and Nohr meant well, but their jobs didn’t bring in the same amount of coin as my cures, and they relied on me to keep us going. The leather squeaked against my palms as I grasped my cases even tighter and set off down the main cobblestone road leading to the epicenter of Willowfell. I walked as quickly as my booted heels and laden cases would allow, passing other townsfolk already strolling toward market at a much more leisurely pace. The closer to the center of town I got, the more densely packed the houses became. They crowded one another, trading open plots and fields for closer proximity to the shops and, perhaps more alluringly, the arch.

The twisted structure was taller than any shop in the square, but only as wide as a double-door entry. Barren tree branches with pale, smooth bark had sprung from the earth and knotted together. Several limbs at the highest point curled outward like antlers, and a variety of fowl often perched there but never nested. It was a gnarled passage for travel that only the Evers could use. Because when you possess magic, why bother arriving by carriage?

When the path opened wide to the circular courtyard where the market was housed, I cut across the center, giving the arch a wide berth, and began the arduous task of securing a spot. I would’ve preferred to spend another day rummaging for herbs than fight off other vendors for a prime location, especially when most of these dealers already owned the shops rimming the square. Tables were situated by the leaders of Willowfell in circles around the arch, rippling outward in perfect rows to press against the buildings.

The best spots, the ones nearest the arch, were already taken. I scowled at Milton’s Apothecary, with its wooden awnings and glass doors, as I begrudgingly took a free table along the back row. Milton himself had already set up a display directly in front of the arch, and he’d made certain to claim a handful of other tables littered throughout the market to further push his half-baked remedies.

I could’ve outearned him in a day if I were willing to sell my threadmending services. I’d also be dead, but that was beside the point.

Still, there were a few folks who swore by my work and didn’t mind the higher rates for better draughts—assuming they were able to venture three rows deep before spending their coin. The only table left was one directly to the right of Lysa’s Confectionary, and I hoped the rich scent of freshly baked delicacies would be enough to lure people to my stall. Sighing, I gently hoisted my cases onto the sunbaked surface of the wooden table and undid the clasps. The doors unfolded with the release of the spring, and rows of balms and extracts jutted out in tiered drawers. The more popular cures I kept up top, ensuring their handwritten labels were easily visible.

As I went to adjust one of the vials, a faint droning met my ears before coming to an abrupt halt. A strand of hair had broken free of my braid and whispered against my cheek, and as I went to tuck it back into place, I paused. A golden beetle was inspecting the baby’s breath wrapped within my dark locks.

“Hello again,” I murmured, gently extending my pointer finger. “Are you the same little one from yesterday?”

It considered my finger as it adjusted its wings.

“Maybe you’ll bring me luck. You’re prettier than a gold coin,” I said.

Then the town bell struck with a rolling gong, and the beetle took flight. It whirred about for a moment, as if the deep resonance disrupted its sense of direction, before settling on the trellis attached to the wall of Lysa’s shop. With an irritated flap of its wings, it scuttled along the climbing ivy to shade itself beneath the leaves.

This first hour of market was a blur. There were the usual buyers who sought my wares out specifically, and we chatted amicably as I pretended to care about the latest town gossip. There were a few not-so-subtle comments about my age and lack of financial security, and how that was possibly why there weren’t suitors lining up to ask for my hand. I gritted my teeth as I let them ramble on about the implications for my future.

And then Mrs. Marlow swung by to thank me for Toman’s nose, agreeing to upholster our sofa free of charge under two conditions: one, I let the cushions and the frame air out for two weeks outdoors given the contact with blight—she’d mustered only a half-hearted frown and a feeble “That’s terrible” when I explained what happened to Alec—and two, the new fabric had to be from last year’s selection and not currently in fashion. I bit my tongue hard at that, hiding my disdain with a well-practiced smile. As the wife of one of the town’s elders, her work as a seamstress, in her own words, was a folly she enjoyed but didn’t need. It was a wonder she didn’t parade around town in her carriage just for show.

By the time Mrs. Marlow swept up her layers of skirts and sashayed on to the next table, it was approaching noon, and my morning rush —possibly my only rush—was done.

“Of course I’m short,” I muttered as I recounted the silver pieces I’d accrued from my transactions. Because why would anything ever go according to plan? Groaning, I rolled my head from side to side. Being an apothecary was a strange occupation. I never wished ill on anyone, but ill people were the ones who paid for the food on my table, and we’d finished the last of our flour days ago, never mind fresh meat from the butcher.

One or two sick people would be fine.

“Edira!” Lysa emerged from her shop carrying a silver tray full of frosted delicacies. Her cherry-stained lips were pulled wide in a genuine smile, and her periwinkle eyes sparkled as she extended the platter of confections toward me. “I noticed you didn’t bring a meal with you today. Have a few.”

A twisted pain grumbled through my stomach at her words. I’d been in such a rush to secure a spot I’d forgotten to pack any food for myself. “Thanks, Lysa. How’s business?”

She beamed as she watched me pop a sugared tart into my mouth. “It’s good. People love sweets.” Or they loved her. Lysa was magnetic. Townsfolk flocked to her like moths to the flame, but instead of burning up their wings when they got too close, she simply kept everybody warm.

Or maybe it wasn’t her at all but the fact that her father was one of the town elders and in good standing with the Ferngloves. No one crossed Lysa’s family.

“How are your parents?” I snagged another treat, and she didn’t object.

“Oh, you know how it goes. No rest for the town elders.” She brushed curled honey hair off her shoulder as she scanned the crowd. “They’d rather me marry than run a shop, though.”

That didn’t stop them from purchasing her charming store for her. All the elders got a cut of the mines’ profits—and it showed. From Lysa’s callus-free hands to her pristine attire, she was ever the picture of perfection and wealth.

“Well, I’m thankful for your gift.” I dusted crumbs off my lips before turning to my wares. My fingers traveled over the corked stoppers as I counted the vials.

“How are the boys? Noam?”