He grins and kisses me.
“How do we get across the coals? All the shoes I found were ruined.”
“Do we need the satchels anymore? Maybe I could wear them on my feet somehow and carry you across.”
“Possibly, but they’re likely to burn up before we get to the other side,” I say, fanning myself from the intense heat in this hallway.
It’s like being in a massive oven. I think about poor Mitzi and can hear her screams clear as day. I pace back and forth while Brahm checks the stone walls.
“They’re too slick to climb. Do you have any other ideas, Freckles?”
I rummage through my bag, looking for an idea. The bone and key fall out, singing a little tune.
“Shiver and quiver, little tree,
Silver and gold throw down over me.”
“That’s from Cinderella,” I think aloud, picking up the bone. “Thora’s favorite tale.”
A dark pigeon swoops through the chimney-like-hole in the ceiling, dropping a pair of golden slippers and a silver sheet. The bird leaves as quickly as it arrived. I step into the metallic shoes, but they are far too big for me, so I hand them to Brahm. He slips them on his feet, and they fit just right. Brahm wraps his hands with the silver foil and hovers them over the embers.
“The blanket helps with the heat.” Brahm stands and wraps it around me. It is cool to the touch. “Here, in case you fall. Now climb onto my shoulders.”
“Alright.”
I take both our satchels and, as Brahm squats low, I wrap my arms around his neck and legs around his waist.
“Hmm, yep.” Brahm turns his head with a little smirk. “I definitely like when your legs are wrapped around me.”
I nip at his ear. “Go.”
Brahm takes his first step as the golden shoes clink against the coals. The flames grow larger along the edges of the long hallway. Heat sears from below, making my legs burn. Brahm’s steps are a bit wobbly with the odd metal shoes on top of the coals, but he hurries down the hall. We pass the bones of the past Offerings; a charred skull smiles up at us as we cross the coals.
Sweat drips down Brahm’s neck, making it difficult for me to hang on. Same with my legs—they’re wet with sweat and slip from Brahm’s grasp a few times. The flames burst high again, and the sweltering heat stings my eyes.
Brahm coughs and stumbles, dropping my left leg. My foot hits an ember, burning the flesh of my big toe. I jerk my leg back up, wrapping it around Brahm’s waist as tightly as I can.
“Are you alright, Freckles?” Brahm coughs and scoops his hand under my leg. “I’m so sorry. Did you get burned?”
“No, it was nothing,” I say, trying not to cry and make him worry. “Let’s just keep going.”
Brahm makes quick strides and groans when we are nearly halfway there.
“What is it?” I ask.
“They’re melting,” he says and picks up the pace.
The flames flare high, forming a tunnel of heat. We’re both covered in sooty sweat. Brahm winces and groans with every step. I adjust myself and look down as the gold shoes melt off his feet. Guilt and panic rise inside me. Why’d I let him do this? The molten gold bubbles on the coals.
“Brahm!” I shriek. “Your feet!”
“I’ll be fine,” he says through his gritted teeth. “Fuck!”
After a few more feet, Brahm is completely barefoot on the hot coals. Terror mounts with every step. He grunts and shouts, running toward the door. Within reach of the end, Brahm takes a large leap. We fall headlong through the exit and crash into a dim room filled with spinning wheels and piles of flax.
The Jar of Blood
I PUSH MYSELF UP FROM THE stone floor and help Brahm sit. He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes. The bottoms of his feet are covered in blisters and deep, fleshy burns. My toe hurts from one second on the coals; I can’t imagine the pain he must feel. I wipe the sweat-stuck soot from Brahm’s face to reveal pale, ashen skin underneath. I hold his hand as he heaves his breaths.
“The snake-leaves!” I shout at the revelation and dig them and my canteen out of my satchel. “How could I forget? They didn’t work on your neck, but that was a mortal wound. I hope they haven’t lost their magic.”
Brahm nods as I hand him the canteen. I place a snake-leaf on the bottom of each of his feet as he chugs the water. Brahm’s feet glow as the blisters and wounds close up, turning into smooth, pinkish-brown skin.
“Oh, good!” I slap my chest and exhale. “How does that feel?”
“Much better, thank you.” Brahm leans over to peck my lips and offers me the canteen. “The pain is gone.”
I take a drink and decide to use a snake-leaf on my toe as well. It glows and heals, feeling as though it had never been burnt.
“You said it was nothing. I didn’t know you were burnt, too.”
“I didn’t want to alarm you, and I knew you were in more danger than me.”
Brahm looks around the room. “What do you suppose we’ll have to do next?”
“I don’t know. Spin flax into gold, maybe?”
I wipe some black soot from my face and take a drink of water. Removing my crown, I notice the flowers haven’t wilted at all from the intense heat of the hallway. I return it to my head and help Brahm stand.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“Yep. My feet feel fine.”
Brahm takes my hand, and we head toward a black door on the other side of the room. As soon as we reach the first row of spinning wheels, the wall sconces ignite with flames, and draped figures appear like ghosts beside the machines.
The creatures are dressed like Hexegot with white wrappings. Most are either spinning flax into thread or dying thread in barrels along the edges of the room. Although they’re dressed like Hexegot, they don’t appear human underneath the veils. Some have two heads, others are oddly bent with crooked necks, and a few are much too tall and thin.
“Let’s just keep moving,” Brahm whispers.
We take a step, but a two-headed spinner grabs my wrist.
“You must pay your way,” the harmonizing voices screech.
“Pay with what?” I ask.
“Blood.” They hand me an empty glass jar. “There are one hundred spinning wheels in this room. You must each prick your skin on fifty needles and fill the jar. The door must be painted red with your blood to open.”
The shrouded ladies return to spinning and dying flax. As a test, I take another step forward. The double-headed spinner grabs my wrist and growls.
“We have the snake-leaves,” I whisper to Brahm. “We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll go first.”
“Alright.” I rub his back.
Brahm takes a deep breath and pricks his finger on the first spindle. Giving his fingertip a squeeze, Brahm drips blood into the jar. I take the next needle and do the same. After we each take half of the first row, our jar is less than a quarter of the way full. For the next row, we must repeat fingers.
The needles create a sharp pain followed by an achiness on my bloody and raw fingertips. Brahm winces a bit when re-pricking his left hand because, calloused over from years of lute-playing, he must press the needle deep into the skin to produce blood. The spinners continue their work, completely ignoring us.