Free The Robe of Skulls by Vivian French Page B

low, heavily beamed ceiling. It was very warm but very dark; a roaring fire was the only source of light, and as the flames danced and flickered, long dark shadows leaped up and down the walls. Two huge looms dominated the room, and beside each sat an old, old woman; one was tall and skinny with a wig of wild red curls, and the other short and squat with coal-black hair. The tall one was weaving something so fine as to be almost invisible; spidery silver threads hung in the air, and only the steady
clack! clack!
of the shuttles passing to and fro convinced Gracie that there was anything there at all. On the other loom was a spectacular length of the blackest velvet. In the center, between the looms, was a massive armchair that at first glance looked as if it were covered in fur, but as Gracie’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw a third, even older woman almost entirely covered in cats. She appeared to be asleep, for the one eye in the center of her forehead was firmly closed, and every so often a long echoing snore floated across the room.
    The two weavers froze as they saw Gracie.
    The silence seemed endless.
    Even the snoring stopped.
    There was an ominous rumbling, and a silver thread snapped with a sharp
ping!
    “The loom, sister, the loom!” shrieked the red-haired crone, and as the
clack! clack!
began once more, she waved a skinny arm in the air and let out a long banshee wail. “Ayoooooo . . . Here she comes . . . the one for whom we wait!”
    “Ayoooooo . . . Gracie Gillypot . . . the one for whom we wait!” droned the other.
    “Waiting for you to release us from our labors!” chanted the first. “You will take your place at the loom, so once more we may go back into the world . . .”
    “You will take your place at the loom . . .” echoed the other.
    Gracie stared at the two old women, trying to fight a tide of rising panic. What did they mean,
take your place at the loom?
“Excuse me,” she faltered, “but I think there must be some mistake . . .”
    “No, no, no, no!” the red-haired woman intoned. “We are the Ancient Crones, and our task is to spin the web of power . . .”
    “The web of power . . .” echoed the other.
    “And we may not leave this place until another comes willingly through the door . . .”
    “Willingly through the door . . .”
    “To weave the web forever and hereafter . . .”
    “Ever and hereafter . . .”

Gracie swallowed hard. She was hearing a horrid little voice in her head. Marlon’s voice. “Never been too certain of the state of the old heart. Dodgy deals are my business. . . .”
    Had Marlon brought her here to turn her into what was, in fact, a slave? Weaving the web forever and hereafter didn’t sound much like a nine-to-five job. And what else had he said? Oh, yes. “Change of employment. New line.
Different boss
 . . .” Gracie pulled at her pigtails. He had also said that she should trust him . . . but trust him to do what, exactly?
    Gracie sighed and, being a practical sort of girl, decided to deal with her most immediate problem. “I don’t suppose I could have a drink, could I?” she asked. “The purple pen told me I could have a cup of tea if I came into room seventeen, and this
is
room seventeen, isn’t it? I’m quite happy to make it myself, if you show me where the kettle is. Perhaps you’d all like a cup too?”
    The effect of Gracie’s suggestion was electrifying. The oldest crone sat bolt upright, opened a brilliant blue eye, and shooed the cats away. “Scat!” she said sharply. “Scat!” She turned to Gracie. “Pull the curtains, child, and let’s have a proper look at you. There’s a cord beside you. And you, Elsie”— she waved an arm at the red-haired woman —“go out and put the kettle on. And bring some cake. The child’s probably hungry as well as thirsty!”
    Gracie found the cord and pulled. Black velvet curtains flew back from tall windows all around