Page 44 of North Is the Night
The goddess slow-turns to glare at me. “How easy it is for you to forget that I’m blind.”
I wince. “I’m sorry, goddess. The clothes appeared in my room as if by magic—”
“Itwasmagic, you fool. You are in Tuonela.”
“This dress is like spun gold,” I explain. “I’ve never seen its like. It’s beautiful beyond words. Did you weave it?”
“No,” comes her soft reply.
“Will you teach me how to work the loom to weave cloth like gold?”
She huffs. “Prove you have any skill first. Then we’ll discuss plans for your improvement.”
I throw in a few more rows of stitches, working the needles like my mother taught me. The question I’ve wondered about every hour of my waking sits on the tip of my tongue. Finally, I ask it. “Why am I here?”
“You’re here to weave, foolish girl,” Loviatar replies.
“No, why am Ihere?” I repeat. “Why was I brought to Tuonela? I know we’re not the first group of girls brought down here. There have been many. At first, we thought the girls were going missing, or simply running away from home. But you took them... didn’t you?”
“I did nothing,” she hisses. “I take no part in any of this madness.”
I lean forward on my stool. “What does Tuonetar want with us?”
Slowly, Loviatar faces me, her milky white eyes unblinking. “My mother wants you to die. She only ever wants mortals to die.”
“Why?” I whisper, fighting to keep my voice from breaking.
“Because she is death.”
I think of the great hall last night. I picture the larger of the two skull chairs, empty and forlorn. The arms of the chair were dusted with cobwebs. “And Lord Tuoni?” I ask. “The King of Death? Where is he? Does she not share power with him? Does he want us all dead too?”
Loviatar scowls, her rune-marked hands unmoving on her loom. “Do not speak of my father, little mouse. Not in this place. Not if you value your miserable life.”
I glance around. “I cannot speak of him in his own home?”
“This is not his home anymore.”
My knitting needles go still, silence filling the space between us. “Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Meaning Tuonetar rules alone,” I murmur. “She is wholly unchecked by his influence. Is that why the magic of this place feels so... off?”
She says nothing.
“We feel it in life, too, you know. Her chaos spreads like a plague. Why has Lord Tuoni abandoned his realm to the whims of a madwoman?”
“You speak too much, silly girl,” Loviatar hisses. “You want to stay alive? Keep your mind on your work and your mouth shut. Do not draw the attention of my mother and sisters. Do not draw my attention either. You are a mouse now, little mouse. You are neither seen nor heard.Thatis how you survive.”
“I understand.”
She narrows her eyes at me. Then she huffs, turning away. “You understand nothing. How could you?” Her hands go back to her weft.
We work in silence for several hours, and I ask no more questions. I have them, to be sure. My mind is full of nothing but questions, but I worry about pressing my luck too far. A good forager knows when to harvest, but she must also know when to wait, leaving treasures to ripen and grow. By the time my guide returns, I’ve knitted a pair or thick woolen socks.
“Here,” I say, reaching forward to set them on Loviatar’s knee.
The goddess stops her work to feel the socks. “What is this?”
