The scream had barely finished echoing down the east corridor before Sabine started to laugh.
Of course it was Genevieve. Sabine had warned her back on day ten: keep dabbling the way she was, and she'd lose more than her temper. That woman never listened. She wanted prophecy, power, prestige—but couldn't handle the truths Sabine pulled from thread and bone.
Once, Genevieve had paid well for readings. But when she started getting addicted to the outcomes—demanding reruns, second versions, alternate fates—Sabine stopped. She'd seen that look before. The gleam in the eye of a woman who thought fortune-tellers could rewrite destiny instead of just reading it. And sure, people could pay for that illusion—but no one wanted to face the ones who really knew, like the Twelve Sisters and their mother. Folks crossed the street to avoid them. Too much truth in one room made liars uncomfortable. And don't get Sabine started on their father. He was Cthulhu—no, literally Cthulhu. Which made family reunions complicated and theological.
And Sabine had watched enough seers fall into that trap. Gifted women taken in by their clients' obsessions. They got caught up in court politics, noble fantasies, magical debts. And more than once, Sabine had seen their cards scattered beside their blood. The world loved to admire fortune-tellers—right until it needed someone to blame.
So Sabine had cut Genevieve off. And now? That scream was the sound of consequences.
The abandoned guesthouse still bore scars—deep, deliberate, and furious. Genevieve had once stormed through it like a hurricane in silk. Curtains ripped from their rods. Gowns clawed to ribbons. Glass in every corner like glittering teeth. Books reduced to ash, their words eaten alive by flame. Even the portraits had been sliced—faces torn away like they'd witnessed too much.
It had taken Sabine weeks, threading memory and magic through every nail and frame, to bring it back from ruin. Not perfectly. Not out of nostalgia. But to reclaim what had been lost. To stitch her own meaning into the walls, so even the echoes would speak her name. Lucky for her, she hadn't stored any of her good stuff here—no heirloom weavings, no bone-thread archives, no jars of whisper moths. Genevieve may have raged like a spoiled tempest, but Sabine knew better than to keep treasures in a place fools could reach.
Now, the storm had passed. And what remained was hers.
Tonight, it smelled of honey-roasted locusts glazed in lavender sugar, toasted cicada fritters dusted with saffron, and caramelized mealworm croquettes resting on a bed of wild greens. For her father, there were delicate quenelles de brochet, buttery gougères, and a rich cassoulet steaming in its ceramic dish. A bottle of elderflower wine chilled near the edge of the table, beside a jar of fermented spider-milk cheese that only Sabine and her mother dared enjoy. A dinner ward had been lit beneath the threshold, a quiet spell of warmth and memory. No one could enter unless they belonged.
Sabine set the table alone, humming low. One plate, then another. Always in threes. Always in ritual. Lucky she had six arms—something that always made this easier. Someone once told her those six arms were finally good for something other than bed. She'd nearly tied them into a knot for that comment—but they weren't wrong. Tonight, they moved with grace and speed, setting the table like a dancer preparing for worship.
Her mother arrived first—through the mirror.
But it wasn't frightening. It was dazzling. Like a scene pulled from an enchanted fairy tale. The mirror shimmered like moonlit water, then parted with a soft chiming hum. A flurry of golden spiders—shimmering like sugar glass and spun gold—danced across the surface, clicking musically as they spun threads of magic in midair.
They wove her form gently, strand by strand, until her silhouette emerged—regal, smiling, and warm. Her hair floated behind her like a silver veil kissed by starlight. Her gown glittered with woven constellations and cobweb lace, sparkling as if stitched by singing crickets and kissed by dawn dew. Her mouth curled into a knowing, amused smile that only a mother could wear.
She looked like a queen born from bedtime stories, the kind with fangs and lullabies.
"You let her scream too loud again," her mother said, not unkindly.
"I figured she needed the release," Sabine replied, adjusting a spoon. "Why do you think I told you and Papa to ban her from getting reads from us in the first place? I even warned anyone else who tried to help her. We don't need the Great Fortune Teller Hunts starting again."
Her mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Don't remind me."
Her mother pulled a small mirror from the folds of her sleeve—opal-framed, humming with quiet glamour—and kissed its top gently. As soon as her lips met the glass, it shimmered and stretched. She set it down with grace, and it unfolded like a blooming silver lily, expanding until it stood as a full-length mirror against the wall.
Then came the knock.
Three soft raps in a triangle pattern—one, two, three.
Then three more. Backward. A mirrored reply.
The full-length mirror shimmered again, humming like a tuning fork tuned to blood and memory. A ripple passed through its surface like light through water.
And then he stepped through.
Her papa.
He emerged not like a man, but like an old spell returning home. As if the mirror had always been waiting to give him back. The scent of old parchment and warm cologne followed him, familiar and grounding. Tall, silver at the temples, skin like pressed bronze, and eyes still soft for only one woman in the world. He smiled at the mirror, adjusted its angle with a practiced hand, and then kissed Sabine on the forehead then crossed the room to kiss her mother on the lips.
"Ma jolie araignée!" he declared, loud and proud, voice warm like summer wine.
Her mother smiled slyly, tracing a finger down the side of his cheek. "Miroir chéri," she purred in soft Creole, before leaning in and kissing him deeply, the kind of kiss that made mirrors blush.
Sabine turned her head with a groan. "Ugh, can we eat now?" she muttered, grabbing a fritter before anyone could comment.
They all sat, finally.
Plates filled. Wine poured. Stories unspooled like thread.
Sabine leaned back with a soft smile. For a while, they just existed—three shadows who never quite belonged in the light, sharing a meal the world wouldn't understand. Still, she found herself glancing between them, wondering if now might be the time to ask. Maybe she should finally ask her parents how it all started—how they made something so secret, so magical, actually work. Their romance had been stitched from whispers and hidden glances, not... whatever mess Ayoka and Viktor were spiraling through. At least her folks had made secrecy feel like devotion—not desperation.
Her mother gave a low hum, her fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on her wineglass. "Of course. He looked like a scholar and talked like a flirt. Told me he didn't care if I was spider-born."
Though Sabine knew her mother meant more than that.
Back then, being spider-born meant more than silk and shimmer. When the supernatural tried to walk in human skin—or something close to it—they didn't just carry their own magic. They carried every prejudice of both worlds. Human racism. Monster racism. Creatures judging each other for the blood in their veins, for how many limbs they had, for what god they whispered to in the dark. Some still whispered about 'purity' behind cloaks and crowns, as if it meant anything in a world already blurred at the edges.
Sabine had felt it growing up. Always too much or not enough. Too human to be safe, too monstrous to be accepted. She was lucky, in a way, to be born a girl—her mother's weaving cloaked her in charms and silk, gave her softness and protection. But she'd heard the stories. Mixed boys taken by collectors, chained into contracts, vanished into rituals no one spoke about out loud. She knew what could've happened if the wind had shifted even slightly. If she had been born different. Or somewhere else.
She was alive because her parents had fought for each other—and for her. And that weight never left her chest. That's why she hated when Viktor had the nerve to suggest she could pass. So what if she could? Passing didn't erase the worry, didn't dissolve the shame, didn't cure the world's cruelty. She could still hear herself thinking it—grit-toothed, tired, and loud in her own head: "I might be lucky to be born a mixed girl who could pass, but if it ain't my blood getting me chased, it's my tits."
And in that blur, cruelty had become creative.
Her parents' love hadn't just been daring. It had been defiant.
"Did you believe him?" Sabine asked, propping her chin on one hand, the flick of her lower arms scooping another fritter to her plate.
"No," her mother said with a laugh, flicking her napkin toward Papa. "He was thinking with his penis."
Papa laughed, then gently reached across the table and took her mother's hand in both of his. His thumbs brushed the backs of her knuckles, soft and reverent. For a moment, the world stilled as they looked into each other's eyes—decades folded into a glance.
"That's not fair," he said, grinning. "It was at least partially my heart."
Sabine sipped her wine, watching the two of them. Her smile lingered but her thoughts drifted. "And partially your rebellion," she said, tone teasing—but there was a hint of curiosity she didn't mask fast enough.
Her mother's smile faded into something softer, her voice quieting like the air before a storm. "It wasn't easy, loving a man from a country that burned our islands. The French tried to breed out our magic, our names, our gods. I was a free woman when we met—but freedom doesn't erase memory."
Her father set down his glass. "And I knew my people were wrong. So I chose her. And every year since, I've chosen again."
Sabine rested back slightly, her hands still moving—refilling glasses, slicing fruit with quiet precision. All six moved independently, almost unconsciously. She was listening. Learning. Maybe even dreaming. Because their love, as complicated as it was, felt like a kind of map. One drawn in secret. One Ayoka and Viktor clearly never studied.
A question sat on the tip of her tongue, stubborn and sharp. It wasn't one people liked to ask, let alone answer. But tonight felt sacred—like the kind of hush that demanded honesty.
"Would you still love each other," she finally asked, "if it had been different? Like... if Papa had owned you, or if Maman had bought him?"
The words hung in the air like smoke from a burned prayer.
Her parents exchanged a look—heavy, private, and haunted by history.
"That's complex," her mother admitted, voice quieter.
"The simple answer is yes," Papa said, "but the honest answer is... also no."
Her mother reached for his hand, then turned slightly in her seat, raising two of her fingers into the air. With a flick of her wrist, delicate strands of glowing silk unfurled from her fingertips, forming tiny puppet figures in the air—one a woman in a wide, elegant dress, the other a man in tattered clothes with cuff marks at his wrists.
"We tell you the story of a woman once—ran a house, had a name, wore lace and brocade and smelled like respectability. And she fell for a man they said she could never love. Not legally. Not clean. He was enslaved. But she saw the soul in him and she freed him. They ran off into the hills and made a life. Had babies."
The silk puppets danced above the table, forming a train car, a conductor, and a lady with a straight back and a man in worn shoes sitting alone.
"But out there? She could sit up front in the fine seats. He couldn't. When the conductor walked past, she had to drop her eyes, pretend she didn't even know him. Even when their kids were staring up from his lap."
The puppets collapsed with a tug, curling into a soft ball that she rested on the table.
"Didn't mean she didn't love her man," she said softly. "Didn't mean she didn't love her babies. But keeping them safe? That meant becoming a liar. A hundred times over. Every mile. Every stop. Because if she didn't? You know what the Klan would've done. And if not them, someone else who thinks the world gave them permission."
"Now, dear husband," her mother said, smiling wryly. "Tell the story in reverse."
Papa lifted the mirror. The surface shimmered like rippling water. He didn't speak right away. Instead, he stared into the reflection like it held memories, not glass.
"There was a man once," he began, voice low, steady. "Owned land. Owned people. And there was a woman he owned. Young. Sharp. Eyes like thunderclouds. He didn't just want her body—he wanted her laughter, her stories, the way she touched flowers like they were sacred. Over time, he stopped calling her property. Started calling her 'beloved.' Even freed her. Married her. Built her a house. But it didn't matter. Not to them."
He traced his finger along the edge of the mirror. "One day they took the train—north, clean towns, respectable platforms. She wore gloves. He wore his name like armor. They thought that would be enough. But someone recognized her. Not her face—her history. The papers she'd once been listed on. The slave rolls. The court documents. The bloodline."
His hand trembled slightly. "They didn't call it love. They called it coercion. Called him unclean. Said he'd tainted her. He lost everything—land, title, business. She was cast out. Even their children couldn't inherit anything but whispers."
He finally looked away from the mirror. "If the man is the master, even with love, he's marked. Not because he did wrong, but because the world can't stand the idea of him choosing someone it deemed unworthy. Even if he lifts her up, they'll say he dragged himself down."
He paused. "They wouldn't call it love. They'd call it corruption."
Her mother added, voice like silk drawn taut, "And they wouldn't call her free. They'd call her ruined. Because the world only forgives rebellion when it ends in tragedy."
Sabine swallowed hard, throat dry. This wasn't a dinner story. This was bone memory.
She didn't speak right away, just nodded—but her mind turned. The tone of their stories stayed with her. Her mother's had been dreamy, almost wistful—like an old folk song sung through spider silk. Her father's? Heavy. Real. The kind that lands in your chest and doesn't budge.
"It's strange," she murmured, half to herself. "The way hers felt like legend and his like a newspaper headline."
Her mother gave a soft nod. "That's the difference, bébé. When a woman runs off with a man she shouldn't, people call it daring. Romantic. Star-crossed. They paint her as brave, even when she's foolish."
Her father finished the thought. "But if a man runs off with a woman they say he shouldn't touch? He's a criminal. No matter how gentle, no matter how real the love is, they say he took something."
"Even when they both in the wrong?" Sabine asked.
Her mother's eyes glinted. "They were consenting adults. They lived through it. The truth is complicated, ma chère. But the world? The world only sees what it wants—through rose-colored glasses or blood-red ones."
Sabine exhaled slowly. "But what about the slave?" she asked, the question surprising even herself. "What about her side?"
Her parents didn't dodge. They didn't weave it into silk or wrap it in myth. This time, they gave it to her plain.
"She didn't choose it," her mother said. "She might've learned to live with him. Might've even learned to love him in time. But she was born with no power. Everything she did—every smile, every 'yes'—was a gamble between survival and defiance."
Her father nodded. "And even when he freed her, she never stopped being watched. Judged. Feared. People thought she bewitched him. Thought she had tricked him into love just to take his land, his name, his bloodline. And maybe she did love him. But maybe she didn't. That's the truth of it."
"You can't know her heart just because she stayed," her mother added. "Sometimes staying is just the only choice you got when every door's locked but one."
Her father shifted, voice firm. "Same goes for the man. The male slave. People forget that. Think if a man got attention from his mistress, he must've wanted it. That he had power, somehow. But he didn't. He couldn't say no. He couldn't run. And even if he did care for her—it was still survival first. Every moment, he was one mistake away from the whip or worse."
Her mother looked straight at Sabine. "And even if she freed him, they'd say he tricked her. That he conned her out of kindness. Called him a charmer, a liar, a stain on her name. It was never just about love. It was about who they let be human."
Sabine sat with that. Let it hurt. Let it hang.
But the angle sure had.
Sabine thought about the story. Thought about Ayoka. And Viktor. And all the mess their love had already dragged behind it.
Her mother saw the flicker in her daughter's eye and didn't wait. She took a sip of her wine, then said, "Love's never easy—not even when freedom's involved. It don't matter if you're born chained or walking free. It's still work." She leaned in slightly, voice low but firm. "Whoever this friend is? Let's hope their love is worth the headache."
Sabine shot her mother a glare. "You already looked, didn't you?"
Her mother just smiled. The spider on her earring seemed to nod.
Sabine leaned back, exhaling through her nose, letting her expression go unreadable. If her mother had peeked into the threads of time, then she'd already known. But this wasn't about the future—it was about the ask.
"Do you think it's still possible? Even now?"
"Love?" her mother asked.
"Running," Sabine clarified. "Or at least... hiding. If I were to bring a friend. Someone important. Would you help us get out of state? Quietly. Safely."
The room quieted.
Her parents looked at each other—then at her.
Her father's brow rose. Her mother tilted her head, a single spider crawling along her earring.
"You've never asked us for help like that," her mother said. "Not since the funeral."
"It's dangerous, even eating together like this as is,but for an stranger we never met?" her father added.
"I know," Sabine whispered. "But so is staying."
Silence stretched, full of meaning.
Then her mother reached across the table and took her hand.
"For you, ma bébé? Always."
Her father nodded. "Tell us when."
Outside, the wind shifted.
Inside, the spell held.
Three plates. Three names. One promise.