Bander Folds the Mountain

The hum of the mist chokes the cold stone walls of the workshop. A rhythmic, mechanical drone—*Whirrrrrr*—echoes through the rafters. Blake stands rigid before the towering loom. The vertical threads stretch upward like the strings of a massive harp, waiting for a hanged man to play them. «Why do I feel like these threads are watching me?» *Thwack.* The wooden shuttle slams into the frame with excessive force. Blake’s hand tremors. Veins bridge the back of his hand under the guttering candlelight. «The weight is wrong. The angle is wrong. It’s all coming apart.» *Creek.* The ancient floorboards announce a presence. A long shadow stretches across the corner, bleeding into piles of dyed wool. The sharp scent of saffron, cut with the metallic tang of rain, hits the back of his neck. Clara is there. Her dark hair is knotted haphazardly with a frayed scrap of cloth. Her eyes are colder than the mountain peak, drilling holes through his spine. — Move. Her voice is a whisper, sharp as a straight razor. — You’re ruining the stitch. You’re killing the carpet with your ignorance. Blake doesn't move. He doesn't even blink. He feels the heat of her breath near his neck, a v…