With the next row, we get creative and begin pricking our arms. I raise my forearm to the spindle and let the needle pierce the fleshy underside. Pinching the skin, I’m able to give more blood than all my fingers combined. Brahm does this with his arms, as well, and our jar is full well before we’re halfway through the spinning wheels.
Although I’m a little lightheaded and in pain, I smile at Brahm. We head toward the door with the jar of our blood. The spinners grab our arms and growl.
“Each of you must prick your skin on fifty needles,” they whisper.
“We have a full jar!” I argue.
“Fifty,” they repeat and turn back to their work.
Brahm pats my back and says, “It’s alright. Let’s just lightly prick our fingers on each one then.”
We do so. Running down the aisles, we touch the tips of each needle enough to pierce our skin.
When we reach the last row, there are only two spinning wheels sitting side-by-side. The spindles are coated with something shiny and black. Brahm reaches to prick his finger, but I grab his hand.
“No, they have something on the tips. It could be poisoned like in the tale of Briar Rose.”
“Fifty,” the shrouded creatures whisper in unison as they stand.
“Then you’re the one getting through that door,” Brahm says and then kisses me. “I love you.”
Before I can register what he means, Brahm raises his arms and touches the two needles simultaneously. He collapses to the stone floor with a thud. I crumple to my knees, nearly dropping the jar of our blood and shriek.
“Brahm!” I set the jar to the side and cradle his head. “No, come back!”
As I lift his head, Brahm looks so peaceful in his state of poison-induced sleep. I kiss his full and soft lips, but nothing. I pour water on him and, again, nothing. There’s no way I’m leaving Brahm behind. I drag him toward the black door.
The veiled creatures take notice and shuffle forward, growling. “He cheated! You must prick your skin on fifty needles to exit the room. You have but forty-nine, and there are none left.”
I take shallow breaths as my head bounces back and forth from the door, to Brahm, and to the spinners. My mind races as they approach. Every needle. Fifty needles. Forty-nine. Every needle.
I grab the sewing kit from my satchel and open the velvet-lined box. I hold out the needle I used to stitch Mitzi’s leg and prick my finger on it. The veiled creatures roar as I tap the droplet of blood into the jar and stand.
“That’s cheating!” the spinners say with a growl and shuffle forward.
Rising on my tiptoes, I lift the jar to the top of the black door and pour the blood from side-to-side. I swipe my hand up and down to cover the entire door with our blood. After I finger-paint the last little bit around the glass doorknob, the hinges creak open to reveal a dark room.
The spinners reach for Brahm and grab his legs. A tall, bent-neck spinner clasps her long fingers around my arm. White-hot anger sears through my skull. I shove the spinner, causing her to fall into a barrel of red dye. I point to the other spinners, who all fly back and hit the back wall as if by magic.
I drag Brahm over the threshold and slam the door behind us.
The Tapestry Room
FLAMES IGNITE ON THE WALL SCONCES around the room, illuminating a horrifying sight. Skeletons of past Offerings hang in the air with thread twisted around their necks and limbs. The strands crisscross the expanse of the room in a thick cobweb of death. Unlike the last room, this one has extremely high ceilings. A large wooden loom, like the one from the ancient ruins, sits near a red door while tapestries hang down from the walls.
I prop Brahm against the wall and check his pulse. He’s alive but still asleep.
“Brahm, please wake up,” I whisper and pat my hand against his chest. “I need you.”
He remains ever so peaceful in a deep, deathlike sleep. Sobs tear from my throat as I think of everything Brahm has sacrificed. He never once blamed me, but I still feel like it’s all my fault he’s here. I might not deserve to live through this, but Brahm certainly does. I need to get him out of this wicked place.
I use the snake-leaves to heal all of our puncture wounds from the spindles. After I peel the last one from his forearm, I brush my lips against Brahm’s once more. No, a kiss won’t wake him this time.
What will I have to do to get through this room? I stand and get a closer look at the tapestries. They resemble the ones from both the Sanctuary, the ancient ruins, and the ballroom, but these glisten with golden threads.
I duck my head under a taut thread and stand before a tapestry of Snow White. It captures the moment when Prince Charming has just opened the glass coffin and is about to kiss the sleep-cursed Snow. Everyone knows the tale: he kisses her, she awakes, and they live happily ever after.
I’m about to step away when golden threads glow, and the picture moves, warping and weaving its own story. When I was young, I thought the images moved on the tapestries at the Sanctuary; it frightened me, and I would blink my eyes to make it stop. Now, no amount of blinking stops this tapestry from weaving its tale before my eyes.
A witch wanders into the forest scene, followed by seven dwarfs with black eyes. The handsome prince draws his sword, ready to fight for his beloved. With the flick of her wrist, the witch summons vines to entangle the prince and hold him to the ground.
The witch retrieves a large needle from her pocket and stitches the prince’s mouth shut. The stitch-lipped prince? A shiver runs down my spine. The witch flicks her wrist again, awakening Snow White then disappears into a cloud of white fog.
The seven dwarfs hold the coffin shut while the maiden flails about inside. The helpless prince struggles against his binds and watches Snow White suffocate. The dwarfs leave when the two lovers die. They rot in place, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. The witch then returns to devour their flesh and carry their bones away.
I take another step over some threads to view the next tapestry. My right arm grazes one of the strings. It snaps and coils around my wrist, drawing me high into the air. As I swing from the ceiling, my shoulder stretches, and I grit my teeth. I spin to face a skeleton dangling from all four of her limbs like a marionette.
Gathering the skirt of my dress, I fumble with my free hand for the dagger. My left hand doesn’t quite grip the hilt as naturally as my right, but I slash at the thread above my wrist. The string is tough and thick, making it difficult to slice. I swing my left arm back up to swipe at it again. Running the blade over the thread, I can cut only a tiny fiber at a time. The thread slowly hinders the circulation to my right hand and digs into my flesh.
The dagger snags against the thread. I lose my weak grip on the hilt, which slips from my fingers. The dagger falls to the ground near Brahm with a clink. Fuck. I tug at the thick weaving thread with my hand, slowly wearing myself out. The skin around my wrist breaks as the string cuts deeper, and blood drips down my arm.
The pain in my wrist and shoulder is almost too much, and my head grows light and woozy. As I take a rest and allow my body to go limp, another tapestry begins moving its golden fibers before my eyes. I blink rapidly as my stomach clenches. I don’t want to watch another one of these.
Rapunzel sits at the top of the stone tower and waits as a handsome prince climbs her extremely long hair. The fibers begin to glimmer and weave into a new story. After the prince ascends the tower, he transforms into a hideous witch. She plaits the young maiden’s hair, wraps the braid around her neck, and shoves her from the window. I gasp as Rapunzel’s neck snaps, and she swings from the tower.