Page 90 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
She quickly lowered her hand. “You had a loom built for me.”
He shrugged. “The trials can drag out. I figured if you are going to be stuck here, you should have something to do.”
“Something that I enjoy?”
He made no reply to her question. “Last time, we spun out of necessity. But now, you’re here by invitation and that means you must be aware of the rules.” He paused, then added, “The expectations in my private sanctuary are simple: no talking while I’m spinning. Always knock before entering. And don’t ask ridiculous questions.”
“How do I know what’s a ridiculous question?”
His eyes narrowed at her, and he produced a low growl.
“I suppose that response is enough,” she muttered.
He reached past her and pulled a distaff covered in woolen flax off the shelf, then rotated on his heel and marched over to his spinning wheel. After a moment of getting everything in place, he began to spin, his concentration set on his task.
Aryana paused to watch him as the wheel spun, how meticulous he was in his attention and movements as he pulled and twisted toget the thread just right. How his hands glided with precision and his gaze glowed a soft brilliance in the low lighting.
Inspiration struck, and she turned toward the shelves, pulling down several colors. She moved over to the large loom and started working, adjusting and aligning the threads.
They worked in silence. Aryana became lost in her preparations, in getting all the pieces threaded and aligned and measured the exact length for her creation. She didn’t notice when Zarathos stopped spinning and he again came up behind her, until she felt his darkness wash over her.
“What is this one going to be?”
“You’ll see,” she said. She finally had everything ready and lifted the wooden shuttle with the ebony dyed weft attached to it. “Hold the shuttle for me when it comes through?”
He nodded, and she threaded the weft through several times, pausing after each pass to batten it down before he spoke again.
“What did your tapestry of hands and hearts mean?”
She thought of the artwork that he’d seen in her bedchamber as she placed the weft through once more and he grasped the shuttle, holding it until she was ready. “To remind myself to be more like humans. To be brave,” she said. “To not hesitate when it matters and to put others first. To not be selfish.” Like Joy. Like Terrance.
“You don’t have to be a human to do those things.”
She took the shuttle and ran it through again. “I’ve yet to meet a selfless demon.”
“I’ve yet to meet a completely selfless human.” He took up the shuttle in his hands.
She paused, pressing her thumb into the upside down crown painted onto her wrist. “There’s nothing you can say. You won’t convince me I’m wrong.”
He huffed in annoyance. “You act as if humans have a monopoly on love.”
“Love makes humans selfless and compassionate and good.”
“Love also makes them violent, deadly and tribal.”
“There are human monsters out there, I admit, but they don’t compare to our worst.”
“And what about our best? Do they match up to anything?”
“Their worst.”
“I don’t think that’s fair.”
It wasn’t fair, but it was how things were and Aryana couldn’t change anything. Anything but herself. And even if she failed in that, she refused to stop trying.
“What about your father, Aryana?” Zarathos asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Was he as bad as you paint demons to be?”
“My father.” Emotions ran through her and she squeezed the shuttle, her fingers curled around the wood. “He was one of the better demons, but he was so preoccupied with ruling that I…” Was she really telling this to Zarathos? Somehow, being up here, working on the tapestry in this intimate space, had made her feel safe to a degree unknown to her previously. Still, she bit her lip, unsure how to continue.
