“So, weaving. Or re-weaving, I guess,” I said slowly.
“Aye.”His eyes gleamed.“Chartweavers. They see the pattern in the chart and the threads of what could be, not just what is.”
My stomach dropped. I stared at the empty chair where Greta had sat. “So when I told her to take the chance?—”
“You didn’t hypnotize the woman,”Bracken said firmly.“You didn’t force her hand. You simply strengthened the thread of a choice she already wanted to make. You could see that pathin her chart. You didn’t conjure it out of nowhere, Liora. You listened. You guided.”
“But what if I’m wrong?” I whispered. “What if I encourage someone down a path that ends badly? What if I weave something that tangles?”
“Then you’ll learn,”he said bluntly.“And you’ll be more careful next time. Power without humility is dangerous. Power with your level of overthinking? Likely manageable.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I muttered.
He patted my hand with a tiny paw.“Listen. You already meddled with fate the minute you flung that truth spell at Torin’s face.”
“Wow, thank you for the reminder.”
“You’re welcome. My point is that you’ve always been messing with threads, lass. You just didn’t see them. Now you can. Which means you can be more mindful. More deliberate. That’s a good thing.”
I blew out a breath, mind spinning. “Gran,” I murmured. “She must’ve known something. She had to. She kept saying my chart work was different.”
“You need to spend more time with her books,”Bracken said simply.“And I know just the right one.”
“You do?” I gaped at the squirrel.
“Aye. You only had to ask.”
“Damn it, Bracken. Can you show me the book with the information that I’d dearly like to know so I don’t have a meltdown?”
“Humans are so dramatic.”
“Och, please. I’ve watched you fling yourself at a bird feeder and run away in a huff when you couldn’t reach it.”
“Wasn’t me.”Bracken shook his head.
“Lies.” I laughed at the squirrel as he ran his little paws over a stack of books until he found the one he wanted.
“This one.”
“How do you know?” I asked, looking at where his tiny paws rested on a book in the middle.
“I don’t know. How did you know that you liked shoving your tongue down Torin’s throat?”
“So rude.” I glared at him and hauled the book onto the low table, the spine creaking as I opened it. The pages fell open naturally, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t something more at play here.
I frowned. The top of the page was headed with a word in Gran’s looping script.
Chartweavers.
My pulse thudded.
I bent closer, eyes scanning the text.
“Some magickals read the stars. Some feel the pull of the tides of fate but cannot grasp them. The rarest of all are those who can see the threads and place their fingers upon the loom. Chartweavers are born, not made, though they may sleep for years before their gift awakens. They are keepers of possibility, not dictators of destiny. Their task is not to force a future, but to mend what is torn, strengthen what is weak, and illuminate paths for those who stand at the crossroads.”
My throat tightened as if someone had slipped a hand around it.
“Great care must be taken. Every weave has consequence. A gentle touch is required. The weaver must never forget the sovereignty of the soul before them. Consent, intention, and ethics are their safeguards.”