Page 63 of Of Skulls Of Shackles

Thirty-two disapprovals

And a weakness

“The princess of change has been digging around the grave,” my mother wheezed to me across the growing circle. My fragile, sunken mother, who was such a woeful contrast to the other vibrant mothers sitting in vigil of my tower.

I finished stitching on the last recent arrival—mother thirty-two. Three had arrived during the day as I slumbered. I had needed to venture to the outskirts for this mother too. She had collapsed there and been unable to complete the journey from the barren beyond to my tower in this world.

I answered Mother, “Is there danger from her digging?”

She did not respond, but Mother would not utter such words for no reason. I would need to place some restrictions on Princess Change. “Could a monster come through the grave?”

“You must complete the circle,” said Cassandra.

Another mother murmured, “No gaps.”

“No entry,” hissed another.

“No exit,” chanted another three.

I considered their words. “Once the circle is closed, there is no way to reach the tower.”

I had assumed this place was safe from all, and in fairness to that assumption, only a very foolhardy monster would leap into this place. Only a monster who had given up hope of all else… which was a definition I could apply to most kings.

Drat.

I had hidden my bridal gifts here, and also the key to King Change’s kingdom. More than that, my mothers were here, stitched in place. They were warning me of the limitations of their ability to protect my tower and all it held while their circle remained incomplete.

“Can you sense the other mothers?” I asked.

“We are not created of stitch,” said Cassandra.

She had a point. I knew exactly which of my thirty-two stitches belonged to the present mothers. So I knew which of my remaining stitches belonged to the eighteen remaining mothers. I touched one, and was driven to my knees, gasping, at her despair. She wandered in the barren land, so very far from here. Too far beyond the outskirts. I stared out at the haze, terror welling within. “She is afraid.”

I am afraid.

“As we all were,” thirty-two mothers whispered in unison.

“Will a queen be content to wait?” Cassandra turned her determined gaze upon me.

I shook my head. “A queen cannot be content to wait. In obsession, in fullness, in any aspect of monsterdom.”

Mothers smiled and closed their eyes, their faces tipped to my grayscale conservatory atop a tower.

I considered the distant haze that I had come to see as the end of the world. That is what I imagined The Real End would be like, an emptiness of color and life. No creature, no plant, no mineral, and no humanity. “I hear what you say, Mother. Once obsession is resolved, I shall return to collect the mothers who have not arrived.”

Thirty-two gazes fell upon me.

Disapproval.

“Fear stays you, Daughter,” wheezed my mother. There was no judgment there, but observation surely. Understanding too. She had chosen to exist in this state for her immortal death, yet I could not summon the courage to venture out into the haze.

“I would enter that place and perhaps never return.”Howcould I return from such emptiness? There was a strong warning in me indeed, a screaming rather.

“Not as you are,” she agreed. “This mother knows that she must allow her daughter to suffer.”

I tore my focus from the barren haze. “She would only do so if her daughter should need to transform.”

And yet.

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