Chapter 168 Miss Spindle's Loom

The dagger sliced through the silver knot above the Collector’s head, yet nothing in the shop reacted at all. Every Pin kept dancing on its thread, the lullaby of the wall rolling on exactly like a music box.

“That knot was only for show, little Hunter, I tie a hundred of them before breakfast,” Miss Spindle said, winding her spool.

He dropped from the wall and swapped to Clangor mid-fall, plate crashing around him as his feet struck the floor. Spindle flicked a finger, a thousand threads springing from her spool to weave the whole aisle shut right behind him.

“Young man, that woman fights with housework, I find it frankly alarming.”

“Then I will cut the other ninety-nine before lunch,” he said, raising the greatsword.

“Do try, dear, I always enjoy a little company at my loom.”

The thread closed into a cage around the three of them, each strand singing a low note like a harp. Calla slipped a vial between two strands, the glass dissolving the silver into smoke before the cage could finish closing.

Calla shoved Zinnia toward the gap, “There is a hole, use it.”

“Remind me to open a notebook column for useful holes, Violet, you are a marvel.”

Zinnia slid through the gap in one bright motion, the strands knitting shut behind her like a closing eyelid. A corridor of silvered thread rose around the two women, every strand carrying a sliver of light like glass.

“Zinnia, answer me!” he shouted, hacking at the cage with the greatsword.

“I am perfectly well, I am merely busy being outnumbered by one very polite woman.”

Calla melted into the gloom between two hooks, a violet scarf the last thing to leave the aisle. The Collector watched her go, stirring his tea with the courtesy of a host who expects every guest.

“Your friend in violet is welcome to the tea, dear boy, though I suspect she prefers my back,” the Collector said, tapping the rim of his cup.

A violet blur dropped from the rafters onto the Collector’s shoulders, a poisoned needle flashing toward his stitched throat. He never turned, lifting one finger so the needle froze an inch from his skin like an embroidered stitch.

“Next time I will aim for the teacup,” Calla murmured, vanishing back into the rafters.

His greatsword bit deep into the cage, each cut strand springing back thicker than before with a loud hiss. Spindle’s lullaby drifted through the strands, every note tightening the weave around his shoulders and ribs by another inch.

Jingles wailed from the bandolier, “It will not cut, it will not bend… this is the most relentless, grandmotherly yarn I have ever seen.”

The cage shuddered as something enormous pulled on its far end, the weave sliding toward the center of the shop. Bruno’s bellow rattled through the walls again, but the door stayed shut, politely refusing to be hurried by anyone outside.

“Open this door at once,” the voice outside bellowed, “a Steelhorn does not knock twice—” the last word lost in a crash of shattering lanterns.

The Diva’s feathered tailcoat flared around him as the tuning fork spear rang against the cage, shaking every strand. He sang his line through gritted teeth, the rhyme forced out by Cadenza’s price before the note could leave.

“Strand by strand, let the harp break, for this cage was a mistake,” he sang, hating every syllable.

[ SKILL USED ]

[Sonic Burst: a shockwave of sound in a forward cone]

The shockwave cracked the nearest strands, but Spindle’s lullaby swallowed the echo, mending every break within a heartbeat. Cadenza clicked her tongue inside his head, offended that someone else owned the best song in the room.

“Darling, that woman hums flat, she dares to hum it at me,” the Diva hissed.

Cold Read closed over him as the cage tightened, his jokes falling away like coins from a torn pocket. He counted the strands, the seconds, the distance to the table, every number shrinking as the silver drew in.

‘She is keeping Zinnia busy so I cannot help, the tailor is keeping me close.’

Spindle’s lullaby climbed a note higher each time, the Pins swaying on their threads like wheat in a slow wind. Through the gaps he glimpsed Zinnia and Spindle circling each other, their reflections multiplying in every strand of the corridor.

Gold flashed between the strands as the two women traded cuts, each blow rattling the corridor like a struck bell.

Spindle’s needle darted at a mirrored Zinnia, hooking the reflection by its sleeve and yanking Zinnia clean off her feet. The jerk slammed her against the corridor wall, her rapier skittering away across the polished boards toward the waiting Pins.

“Every Fox is stitched to her own reflection, dear, pull one end and the other follows,” Spindle sang.

“Then you should have checked which end I was holding…”

“Oh, I checked, dear, you are holding the end that frays,” Spindle replied sweetly.

Gold light flared through the corridor as Reynard’s mask burned brighter, every reflection of Zinnia turning to face the weaver. The tugged thread snapped taut the wrong way, whipping back along its own length to slice cleanly across Spindle’s shoulder.

“Reflection Reversal, a cut reflection cuts back, I shall write that down later.”

“Tch, clever girl, but cut threads mend,” Spindle laughed, “I have been mended more often than you have been kissed.”

“That is none of your business!” Zinnia shouted, her cheeks going pink behind the gold glare.

Silver thread closed the wound in her shoulder stitch by stitch, the gash sealing as neatly as a sleeve. Zinnia’s rapier leapt back into her palm, gold light dripping slowly from the long blade like melted candle wax.

“Young man, the lady has taught that weaver a lesson in geometry,” Clangor said approvingly.

A tug at his ankles dragged the whole cage across the floor, Cadenza’s heels screeching along the boards. The Pins parted like a crowd at a parade, bowing as he slid past toward the long table.

“Do come along, Mister Nilo, the other guests are rather busy and I so dislike an unfinished fitting,” the Collector said.

Back in the Knight’s plate, he swung the greatsword at nothing, “I am not a coat, I do not need a fitting.”

A yellow cloth tape slithered from the Collector’s sleeve, whipping across the room faster than any thread could follow. It wrapped twice around Nilo’s chest, cinching until the plate creaked against his ribs while the Collector watched politely.

“Splendid, you wear your Seat so tightly that I could measure it with my eyes closed, dear boy.”

Tears slid down his cheeks onto the tape, each drop darkening the yellow cloth as it pulled him upright. The Collector frowned at the stains, flicking a drop from his sleeve as though it were a sharp remark.

“Weeping on a measuring tape is terribly bad manners, but I shall forgive it, tears shrink wool.”

“Then you are going to hate what I do to your tea set,” he said through his teeth, “and your teapot is next.”

From the far side of the cage, a gold flash lit the corridor and died again in the dark.

Jingles whimpered from the bandolier, “That tape knows my measurements, I can feel it knowing them.”

“Hold still, dear boy, a Seat is only as honest as its measurements,” the Collector said.