Nels remembered how his mother had said the same thing, but about Jilia.
“They each grew into men with a broadened interest in women. Two such maidens caught their affections: Lady Carin, a bright, lively girl whose family owned the most successful shipping enterprise in Harvestport; and Katharina, your mother.”
That name — Bosh had said it on their way to the festival.
“Carin’s family cared for your mother after an illness took your grandparents.”
Nels lowered his head. Mother had never spoken of her parents.
“Rasmus once fancied your mother, but so did your father. She chose the latter. Not only did Ulrich win your mother’s heart, but he won the confidence of Prince Lennart, as well.” Ickabosh sighed. “Rasmus was troubled on the day your parents married. By then, he had fully mastered the fundamentals of Fabrication — he had picked up threading particularly easily”
The tailor straightened his posture and explained: “Threading is like an illusion: You weave the fabric of reality around you to temporarily change your surroundings. It is the same trick I used to make you think you had finished your chores so you would escort me to the festival.”
Bosh paused and looked contemplative, then continued his story. “As Rasmus’s obsession grew, he was no longer content with his status among the nobility. He wanted more. He wanted to rule the kingdom through Lennart — who was not eager, anyway, to take on the responsibility that would be required once his father left him the crown.”
“When the day came that Yalva died, Rasmus planned to become his friend’s mouthpiece and rule the kingdom for him. But your father stepped in and encouraged Lennart to enthusiastically accept his birthright as Avërand’s future king. Lennart married, as did your father, and when Rasmus learned of Ulrich and Lennart’s intent to betroth their children, it sent him over the hem. Hoping to thwart this alliance, he set out to find the Needle of Gailner.”
“The needle that can save me?” Nels asked. “Why would Rasmus want that?”
“I never should have told him of it. Rasmus wanted to use it to alter his fate and regain Lennart’s loyalty, which he thought your father had taken from him. Fortunately, he never found the Needle, but it was clear that something in him had changed in the search. When he returned, he was convinced that your father would cause the end of our world — the rendt, as we fabricators call it. Rasmus vowed that he would not be satisfied until Ulrich — and his newborn son — were dead. Yalva heeded Ulrich’s counsel and had Rasmus banished, which forfeited Rasmus’s title and fortunes. I expected Rasmus to seek vengeance — and obviously, he did.”
Nels stared at the limestone floor. “He murdered my father for revenge?”
“Fearing Rasmus’s continued threat to you, your mother renounced her title, altered your names, and fled with you into the woods.”
Nels swallowed. “That’s why you called me Lief,” he whispered.
Bosh crossed his arms and pressed his elbows on the table. “I sometimes visited your mother in secret to supply her with a special thread that would allow her to sew a slip stitch into your clothing. But with that traced ax, Rasmus was able to follow you and wait for an opportune moment to kill.” The weary tailor cleared his throat and prepared to stand. “The merchant at the festival was Rasmus, threaded in a clever disguise. I felt something amiss in the crowd, but I could not trace him.” Bosh stifled a cough. “There is only one reason for his return: He believes he has finally grown more powerful than I am … and I fear he may be right.”
“I don’t even know this man. Why would Rasmus want to kill me?”
Bosh stopped speaking. Waiting in the silence, Nels’s thoughts returned to the weapon’s merchant. Rasmus had killed him; that explained Avërand’s other recent murder.
Standing up, Bosh moved to a stack of fabric. “Forgive me if I am confusing you with strange words; Fabrication is full of them. Every aspect of sewing and weaving has a part in the magic. A stitch, you see, is another way of saying spell.” Bosh grunted as he hauled a roll of green satin onto the table. He reached for a drawer, grabbed a pair of sheers, and began to cut. “What you and I call reality is nothing more than the never-ending fibers that make up the fabric of our world. Fabrication allows us to mend the fabric so it can weave on without obstruction.”
Nels watched the tailor work. In no time at all, Bosh had cut a few pieces of fabric: a front, a back, interfacing, and some sleeves and extensions. By the cuts, it seemed that he was making a dress. Bosh laid the pieces on the table and began to embroider them with a golden thread.
“I never meant to put you in harm’s way. I am truly sorry for what happened to you. You are free to blame me, if you like. It was my intention to lure you to the festival so you could hasten your reunion with Tyra.”
Nels scrunched his lips; he still had mixed feelings about that.
“Broken bobbins!” Bosh cursed. “What if that was Rasmus’s intention and I led you to him? Clever rogue. I can only hope that Rasmus is still ignorant of your basted thread.”
The tailor’s way of saying things puzzled Nels. He knew what a basted seam was, of course: a loose stitch for connecting two pieces of fabric prior to sewing them. But what was a basted thread according to Fabrication? Nels figured it out quickly: “If we were betrothed, then Tyra and I are stitched together?!”
“Pardon the phrase,” Bosh said. “It is a complicated piece of magic. I was not the only one to question Rasmus. Your parents wanted protection for you both — more than a thimble could offer. On the night of your betrothal, before King Yalva was murdered, I took you and Tyra in my arms and I basted your threads together. This would allow you both to find each other — even in death.” Bosh rearranged the pieces he cut. “That is why Tyra can see you, but no one else can.”
That was the most logical explanation Nels had heard yet — strange as it still was.
Finishing the collar and sleeves with a hem, Bosh reached for a white thread, much like the thread that he had given Nels for his mother. He picked up another needle and began to assemble the dress. “Your pattern is not mine to design. There is friction between you and the princess, so the Needle of Gailner is your best hope. But in your unwoven state, you cannot retrieve the Needle on your own. You will need mortal help; Tyra is the key to reuniting you with your body. How much longer will the thimble sustain you? By the strength of my thread, I judge you have a week — before the next half-moon wanes, at best. And if Rasmus learns that you are not dead, he will trace you and seek to finish you for good.” With his first seam sewn onto the bodice, Bosh moved to sew another. “Your body will be safe with me, as long as your thread is slip-stitched.”
It was making more sense; if fabricators had the ability to sense people from far away, wearing clothes sewn with the white thread Bosh was using would keep that person hidden. Now the old tailor was making a dress with a similar white thread.
Did Bosh suspect Tyra was in danger, too?
“You may be a ghost, but the world is more tangible than you realize,” Bosh said. “That is the advantage of being unwoven. You can do what no one else can — pass through walls, or spy on others. But I suspect you can do even more than that. So long as your thread is in our world — and you believe that you are still a part of it — you may be unlike any ghost we have ever known.”
Though he wasn’t exactly sure what the tailor meant by that, Nels nodded anyway.
“Before you go, give heed to what I have to say,” Bosh said. “The Mountain Witch is the only one who might be able to lead you to the Needle. You and Tyra must find the witch’s shadowed book and learn everything you can. But be cautious — I do not know if she is alive or dead — or sane.”
“That sounds … splendid,” Nels said, fully aware that the tailor couldn’t hear him.
“I have told King Lennart of Rasmus’s return, so you can expect Tyra to have escorts at all times. It will be necessary for you both to leave them out of this; otherwise, you will draw Ras
mus’s attention.”
“What if I can’t convince Tyra to go?”
“I have said enough,” Bosh finished. “And I have work to do. Tell Her Highness what you have learned and convince her to go on this journey. She must, if you are to live.”
Nels couldn’t help but sigh. His fate depended on a fabled needle and a selfish princess.
“Many have failed to find the Needle,” Bosh said, “but then, none of them had a ghost.”
The tailor walked to a spinning wheel and sat before it. He pressed his foot to the pedal and the wheel spun. Bosh moved his hands as if to spin thread, but Nels didn’t see any — there were no fibers to work from. Was the tailor producing an invisible thread? Quietly, the tailor hummed a soft melody, reminding Nels of his mother.
The wheel spun. The pedal creaked.
The tailor had nothing more to say.
Nels left through the closed door and climbed up the spiral stairwell.
He was still absorbing everything that the tailor had said and showed him. He knew why his mother hid them in a cottage in a clearing in the woods, and why she never spoke of his father: She was trying to save him from Rasmus. And that’s why she’d kept him from becoming a knight — so no one would recognize him as the son of Ulrich.
He knew the truth, even if a few pieces of the riddle were still missing.
Why does Rasmus want me dead? I’ve done nothing to him.
Nels had no idea how Fabrication worked, how it could mask his chores, fell a tree, or paralyze his body — there had to be more to this magic than Bosh had told him. But it didn’t matter. Understanding Fabrication wouldn’t help him regain his life. Finding the Needle would.
His mind was filled with questions, more than anyone could answer, except maybe the Mountain Witch. But getting her shadowed book was only half the problem; the other half was Tyra. He couldn’t visit the witch alone, nor could he pick up the Needle — if he were to find it.
“Surely you can convince Their Majesties that I will keep her safe!”
The moment Nels reached the top of the stairs, Arek’s voice sounded from the antechamber across the hall. He had seen the room earlier, a gallery filled with prominent statues.
“Your request will be made in the morning, Sir Arek,” said the royal scribe.
What are they up to?
Nels watched the knight meander behind the scribe. They both had wide cups in their hands. His curiosity piqued, Nels followed them. They stopped at the base of a grand staircase lined with carpet. At the end of each stone banister was a carved bust. One depicted a king, the other a queen. A large portrait of Lennart, Carin, and Tyra hung high above the landing.
“I consulted the royal physician,” Arek said. “He thought it would be good for her to be distracted from her current stresses. An afternoon picnic should do it.” The knight placed a few silver coins into the scribe’s waiting palm. “I am in no way opposed to the company of an escort.”
“That is for His Highness to decide” — the scribe pocketed the money — “but I will state your proposal — your request — and send word if he agrees to your little excursion. Good evening.”
Excursion? Nels furrowed his brow.
The scribe turned and headed up the stairs. Nels was almost at Arek’s side when the knight hiccupped, leaned on the banister, and stared at the queen’s bust.
“Worry not, my queen. I will wed your daughter’s hand, even if she is madder than a rabid dog.” Arek belched into the statue’s face. “I will manage your kingdom while she seeks sanity — I just have to convince that worthless husband of yours. Stealing and returning his crown should have worked.” He peered into his cup and frowned. “Where did that cask wench go?”
The knight exited the hall, leaving Nels alone with clenched fists.
Arek was more than a cheater; he was a pompous clod of dirt! He only cared about Tyra so he could have the throne. He had even stolen King Lennart’s crown and framed the Vagas for the crime. Nels couldn’t understand how Arek became the favored knight of Avërand — let alone why Tyra liked him. There was nothing noble about Arek, but if she fancied him, she was more than welcome to him. Nels took a deep breath. Her relationships were none of his concern.
I need to persuade her to help me … but how?
Nels ran up the grand stair and stopped at the landing. The painted blue eyes of Tyra’s childhood stared at him, solemn, beseeching, like the loneliest girl in the world.
He had an idea, though there was no guarantee it would work.
A cat meowed on the balcony outside as Nels sat in a beam of moonlight. Still wearing the clothes she wore for archery, Tyra lay asleep on top of her quilts, her head nestled on a tear-stained pillow.
Nels wanted to wake her, but he didn’t have the heart. He even felt sorry for causing her distress that day — although it was terribly fun. If he was going to convince her to help him, he would have to try something more sincere. Pestering her hadn’t worked; perhaps being nice to her would.
Letting her sleep for a few hours was a good way to start.
As she lay in her bed, questions raced through Nels’s head. The segment of the Great Tapestry that he saw in the loom had upset everything he thought he knew about himself; but at the same time, he had gained an even greater understanding of who he was. His father was a knight. His parents used to be nobles. Nels smirked. Would he have enjoyed a life of nobility? He couldn’t see himself raised around Tyra or others like her. He never would have known the good people of Cobblestown as he did if he had lived as a noble.
His betrothal to the princess, however, was more than he could shake off.
I’d better not tell her about that; she wouldn’t understand.
Tyra rubbed her chin into her pillow, her soft breath like music. Nels faced her decorated vanity, a tall mirror mounted in the center of an iron frame. He couldn’t see his reflection, but he could see Tyra’s. She looked so peaceful in her sleep, like a rosebud waiting for the sun. She breathed quietly — beautifully.
Tyra may have been a pain, but she was much too good for Arek.
I should tell her — will she listen to me?
For now, being frustrated over Arek wasn’t worth the effort. When Bosh had reached for the ax, Nels realized something: He was a ghost — he could do nothing to stop Bosh. If Tyra were in real danger, he was useless to help her. And if Tyra refused to help him, he could do nothing to save himself. He was totally helpless. His frustration mounting, Nels thrust his fist on the vanity, and a hollowed bang thundered through the chamber. Tyra stirred. A high note rose in her throat before she turned to her side.
Nels stared at the vanity. Did I just hit that?
He reached for its surface and watched his hand pass through the polished top.
He had touched it … but how?
No longer worried about disturbing Tyra, Nels tightened his fist and tried to think of everything that made him angry: his mother keeping the past from him, Tyra’s refusal to help him, and the fact that he was a ghost that only Tyra could see. Winding together his mustered frustration, Nels threw his fist at the vanity. He fell through the furniture and landed on the floor. Nope — not that. Nels pondered. How else could he have touched the vanity?
He then remembered something that Bosh had said to him earlier.
The world is more tangible than I realize. What did he mean?
On the edge of the vanity sat a silver candlestick with a layer of hard wax on its shaft. Nels reached for it, wrapped his fingers around the coated handle, and raised his arm.
The candlestick remained on the vanity.
Nels walked to a nearby chair, sat down, and pressed his shoulders into its padding. Just then, as he was leaning his elbows on the armrests, he realized what he was doing.
I’m sitting in this chair!
He fell through the chair immediately. As he stood again, the answer dawned on him. He could walk on this floor. What kept him from sinking through it? All this time, he sat in c
hairs and stood on tables. He could interact with objects!
He was a part of this world. He was alive.
He just had to believe it.
Nels reached for the candlestick, focused, and grabbed it. “I am alive,” he whispered, his grip tightening. “I am alive!” When Nels raised his arm, the candlestick hovered in the mirror.
“You will never leave me alone, will you?”
Startled, Nels saw Tyra staring at him in the mirror, where his reflection should have been. The candlestick fell through his hand and crashed to the floor.
Tyra jumped to the sound. “What was that?”
“Uh … candlestick.” Nels pointed. “It fell.”
She flopped back onto her bed. “What is it now? Are you some kind of draug?”
Nels looked at her with a vacant stare. “I … I don’t even know what that is.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Draugs are tormentors. They like to move things and haunt treasures, and they are said to cast a most terrible smell — you have spared me that, at least.”
“If a draug can move things, can they pick things up too?”
“If it’s not too heavy, like a quill or parchment. But what would I know? Wussen likes that kind of supernatural rubbish. I would rather study history than hear more of his nonsense.”
“Right.” Nels smiled at the candlestick. “Nonsense.”
“You let me sleep,” Tyra said, slightly surprised. “Was it not your plan to make me miserable?”
Nels turned from the princess and leaned his elbow on the vanity. It didn’t seep through until his concentration waned. “What good is haunting you if you won’t help me?”
Tyra tilted her head to the side. “Are you giving up?” She clapped her hands and cheered, and then paused. “If you’re not going to haunt me anymore, why are you still here?”
“You’re the only one who can see me.” Nels expected cold and derisive words from her lips, but there was only silence. Tyra had cast her eyes toward the hem of her matted dress, deep in thought, like she’d been before they kissed. “The magic Bosh is using to keep me alive won’t last much longer,” Nels added. “When the next half-moon wanes, I will go. You will be free of me.”
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