Chapter 4 Red Thread
(Adelaide)
The bell tolled again in the distance, as if to agree. The Devil’s sigil, at the village’s only well. Marking the water. Marking them. Adelaide’s skin crawled, but she pushed the feeling down, wrapping it in anger instead.
“Then let him look,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Let him look at someone else.”
Her mother’s gaze cut to her, fierce, terrified. “You do not tempt him.”
“I’m not tempting anyone,” Adelaide shot back. Her heart hammered against her ribs, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “I’m just tired of acting like we’re already dead.”
Lyra flinched at the word. Mother’s shoulders sagged for just a moment, the fight draining out of her like water from a cracked jug.
“You are not dead,” she said finally, voice quiet. “You are my daughters. You are here. You are warm. That is what I will hold, until they ring that cursed bell tomorrow.”
She lifted her chin. “Now. We bake. We eat. We breathe. We live this day, do you understand? We will not let him steal that, too.”
Her defiance, small as it was, lit something in Adelaide’s chest. A spark. A thin, stubborn flame that refused to be snuffed out by bells or bargains or carved stone.
“All right,” Adelaide said.
She moved to the table, dusted her hands with flour, and plunged them into the cool, sticky dough beside her mother’s. The familiar motion soothed the restless coil of energy in her limbs, just a little. The dough yielded beneath her palms, soft and elastic, clinging to her skin; she pressed harder, imagining fear and helplessness folding under her hands the same way.
Outside, the village hummed with whispers and the distant clatter of preparations for tomorrow’s ceremony. The sky sank a shade darker, clouds thickening. Somewhere beyond the grey, the sun crawled toward its winter bed, dragging them all closer to the edge of the decade.
The Devil, wherever he was, had already marked his path.
Adelaide pressed her palms into the dough and imagined, with fierce stubbornness, every step her sister would not take into that forest. If someone had to be dragged into a nightmare, it would not be Lyra. She would see to that. Even if the Devil himself stood in her way.
⸸
Morning broke pale and reluctant, as if even the sun hesitated to rise on Selection Day. Thin light bled over the rooftops, turning the frost on the thatch to a dull, colourless sheen. The world looked washed-out, like an old painting left too long in smoke.
Adelaide barely slept. Her dreams had been snarled shadows and running feet—trees swallowing her whole, hands reaching from the dark, Lyra’s voice calling her name from somewhere she could never reach. Sometimes the voice had not been Lyra’s at all, but something deeper, older, wrapping around her name like a promise or a threat. When she finally opened her eyes, grey dawn leaked through the gaps in the shutters, cold as breath on glass.
Her mother was already awake. She always was.
The smell of porridge simmering over the fire tugged Adelaide from her straw mattress. The house felt smaller today, like the walls had inched closer during the night. Quiet, too quiet—aside from the faint clatter of spoons and hushed footsteps from the neighbouring homes, as if the entire village was sleepwalking. Every sound seemed muffled, as though thick cloth had been wrapped around the world.
Lyra sat at the table, shoulders hunched, red thread already tied around her wrist.
Adelaide’s stomach lurched. She hated the sight of it—that thin strip of braided wool, bright as fresh blood against pale skin. A mark of eligibility. A mark of prey. It seemed to glow in the dim light, an accusation more than a ribbon.
“Why is that already on you?” Adelaide demanded.
Lyra startled, nearly dropping her spoon. “Mama said we should be prepared.”
Prepared. Right. Prepared to be paraded. Prepared to be measured by a myth. Prepared to run. The words clanged around in Adelaide’s skull like pots knocked together—too loud, too hollow.
Adelaide crossed the room in three strides. “Take it off.”
Lyra’s eyes widened. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Adelaide snapped, and reached for the thread.
Their mother’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Stop.”
Adelaide froze.
Mother stood near the stove, ladle in hand, her expression carved from stone. “It stays.”
Adelaide’s jaw clenched. “She’s not going.”
“No one chooses who goes,” her mother said. “Not us. Not the Elders.”
“That’s not true,” Adelaide said bitterly. “Everyone chooses. Every pointed glance. Every whispered word. They’ve already picked their list in their heads.”
Lyra shrank into her seat, shoulders curling inward, trying to take up less space. It twisted something deep in Adelaide’s chest.
She softened her voice. “Lyra… You don’t have to make it easy for them.”
Lyra swallowed hard. “Please don’t fight today. Not today.”
Mother set the ladle down. “She is right, Adelaide. We need peace this morning. Just for a few hours.”
Peace. How was peace possible when the air itself felt stretched thin, vibrating with dread? Her own nerves hummed like plucked wire, ready to snap with the slightest touch.
Adelaide sat, the chair scraping the floor louder than intended. Lyra flinched. Mother’s lips tightened. Adelaide forced herself still.
Lyra pushed the porridge toward her. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?” Adelaide muttered. “Watching the Elders read names?”
Lyra’s eyes flicked down. “For whatever comes.”
Adelaide hated the way that sounded. As if Lyra already knew the shape of the day: the bell, the names, the forest swallowing someone whole.
Silence settled, broken only by the occasional scrape of a spoon. Outside, the village was stirring—the grind of a wagon wheel, the bark of a tied-up dog, voices murmuring low, solemn. An entire community bracing for something ancient and terrible.
When the church bell tolled, deep and echoing, Mother stood abruptly. “It’s time.”
Lyra’s hand trembled as she rose. Adelaide’s heart hammered against her ribs. Not yet, she told herself. Not until they read her name. Not until she stepped forward. Not until the ink of this moment dried on whatever ledger the Devil kept.