Lanie Bross: Fates

And yet, it wasn’t just the beauty, the mystery, the power of the Messengers and the marbles that fascinated her now. She did think about the humans—about the lives impacted, and ended, and begun—which worried her as much as the blood on her temple.

Something was changing.

She was changing.

She had to talk to Miranda about it. Her Guardian had the answers to everything.

At the northwest pillar, she paused and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Carved into one of the columns was a faint rectangle, barely discernible. She pushed her fingers against it firmly and heard the familiar click. A narrow door, disguised as part of the ornate panel, swung open, and she quickly stepped inside.

Within the large column, it was almost completely dark. She made her way down the narrow stairway, tracing her fingers along the stone walls as she counted thirteen steps under her breath. She knew every cool, jagged edge of the walls.

Corinthe often wondered about the other Executors. What were their homes like? Were they hidden away like her own? And did they live together, the way humans did? She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind; Miranda always said she was too preoccupied with things she couldn’t know.

The temperature dipped; she shivered. At the bottom of the stairs, the hall opened up into a series of cavelike rooms. Corinthe turned right, into the first room, lifted an arm gracefully, found the string on her first try, and tugged. Two bare lightbulbs hung from the low ceiling, illuminating the space.

Years ago, the rooms had been used to store the Exploratorium exhibits, but no one except Corinthe and Miranda had been down here in over a decade. Corinthe moved across the packed earth floor to the battered deacon’s bench, which took up most of one wall. Quickly, she lit an assortment of votives and pillar candles. A dancing pattern of light and shadow flickered over the walls, and she felt a warm rush of happiness.

Home. A small word for such an immense thing—just like the marbles, so small, but vast enough to enclose a whole life. This was her home for now. Miranda had done her best to find the things they needed, like the hot plate that balanced on a rickety old stand, next to a tiny sink, to heat water for tea. Or the dented wooden cupboard they managed to nail into a crack in the wall, which held a mismatched collection of jars and bottles and teacups.

A month after Miranda brought her here, Corinthe had complained that the dirt floor was too cold. Miranda found them a large, threadbare Oriental rug that took up most of the room. It wasn’t much to look at, the colors so faded they were all the same dull wash of brown, but Corinthe loved being able to take off her shoes and knead her toes along its surface. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could even pretend that she was walking across a carpet of soft moss that blanketed the surface of Pyralis.

One corner of the room was dominated by a huge chipped claw-foot tub. Neither Miranda nor Corinthe knew why someone would install a bathtub in an underground storage room, but the water ran hot, and it didn’t take long for them to appreciate the small luxury of a bath.

Her gaze drifted to the painting hanging on the far wall: the only decoration in the room, it had either been forgotten or deliberately left behind. In the painting, a small boy and girl probably no more than six years old had their backs turned to the observer. They were on a cobblestone pathway that wound through a manicured garden of colorful flowers. Their small hands were clasped together as they gazed out toward the horizon, which blurred into a pale blue sky.

Were they contemplating leaving the garden? Or did they find comfort in its limits? The painting’s beauty wasn’t in its composition but in that question. Corinthe used to spend hours lying on the worn rug, staring up at it, wondering.

It was the only piece of sky she could see from her new home.

Corinthe turned away and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the small cracked mirror that hung over the copper basin sink. She stepped closer and studied her reflection, gingerly touched the dried blood on her temple. Her fingers shook.

The patron saint of lost causes. Sylvia’s words suddenly popped back into her mind. Humans and their strange beliefs.

Behind Corinthe, the tap on the tub squeaked and water began to run thunderously into the tub. Within seconds, steam filled the small room. In the mirror, Corinthe watched an outline shimmer through the steam, a graceful shape that resolved slowly into a hazy body.

Then, gradually, features appeared. It was like watching a rainbow form on the horizon, and Corinthe held her breath. No matter how many times she saw it happen, it was still magical.

A long, flowing white dress materialized first; then jet-black hair, a face with sharp cheekbones. Then, finally, the eyes. Those night-black eyes.

Miranda.

The water in the tub rose higher, until Miranda, fully formed from the steam, stepped out onto the floor, her white dress pooling around her and drying as the steam dissipated. Abruptly, the water stopped running, and the excess began to spiral down the drain.

Corinthe caught Miranda’s eyes in the reflection. “Where have you been?”

Miranda reached out and wiped away the blood on Corinthe’s forehead with her thumb. Her touch was soft, but her eyes were as dark and unreadable as stones.

She ignored Corinthe’s question. “Is the task complete?”

“Yes, just like the marble showed. But … I bled. …” Corinthe’s voice trembled and she turned away before Miranda could see the fear in her eyes. Fear was a weakness. It was a feeling. And feelings were for humans. “What’s happening to me? I’m—I’m becoming like them, aren’t I?” she blurted out. She realized the question had been raging inside her since the accident. Maybe for even longer than that.

“Shhh,” Miranda said. “You aren’t like them. You’re an Executor. This is just a small scrape, nothing to get upset about.”

“I’ve never bled before,” Corinthe argued.

“Don’t fret,” Miranda said. “You’re so close to going home. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

Corinthe bit her lip. She ached to return to Pyralis, to the twilight and the scent of flowers layered through the air, to the vast horizon of stars and the trees that whispered songs to her in the half darkness, and to her sisters, singing to the sky, running through the forests. “Of course it is.”

“Then leave it be and focus.” Miranda reached out and cupped Corinthe’s chin. “This day has been long for both of us. But trust me, it means little in the greater picture. Remember—there is a pattern to everything. This will all be a distant memory very soon, I promise.”

Corinthe nodded. Pattern. That word always made her feel a little happier, a little more secure. There was a meaning and a reason for everything in life—as a Fate, she knew that inherently.

“First, we fix you up.” Miranda moved to the row of shelves roughly constructed of cinder blocks and planks. The shelves were packed with a variety of dusty bottles and mason jars. She eyed the collection carefully and finally selected two small jars, then brought them back to the sink. Taking a cotton ball, Miranda dipped it into the clear bottle. The cotton soaked up the translucent liquid quickly, and Corinthe flinched when Miranda smeared it across her wound. “To clean off the blood … I’m sorry it hurts. I should’ve warned you it would sting.”

Corinthe shook her head, bearing the pain in silence. Miranda smiled encouragingly as she cleaned the wound. As Corinthe watched Miranda’s careful hands work, she felt relieved and grateful to have a Guardian who was this thoughtful, this diligent. Without Miranda, she could not possibly have survived her exile.