Free The Drowned Vault by N. D. Wilson Page A

unfurling scroll, embroidered with a Latin motto.
    Sic Semper Draconis
    Cyrus traced the old thread with his fingertip.
    “Cy …,” Antigone said.
    “I know,” said Cyrus.
“Thus to all dragons.”
    Antigone sighed. “Close enough.”

five
LOCKDOWN
    C YRUS OPENED HIS EYES , yawned, and tried to stretch—something his hammock wouldn’t allow. Frustrated, he kicked his one thin blanket onto the floor, swung over the side, and dropped onto his sleep-tender bare feet. Straining his arms toward the ceiling, muscles quivering back to life, he stared at his bedroom window.
    The solid sheet of spider silk was backlit by the morning sun, and the whole room glowed silver. The weave was tight, complicated, and perfect. Cyrus stepped forward, squinting. There was a design in the center, the ghost of an image, embroidered with silk on silk—the shield and boxing monkey of the Polygoners.
    Cyrus smiled. “Tigs, you see this?” He looked at the other hammock. Antigone was gone.
    Once he was in the living room, Cyrus heard the rush and rattle of water through pipes in the floor. On the other side of the wall, he heard the shower bleat and hum. A muffled yelp told him that his sister was braving the water too soon.
    Cyrus dropped into the armchair and looked at the windows and the fireplace. The weave of the silk was a little different on each one. And the embroidered image changed. In the first window, the monkey had shaken off his boxing gloves. Over the fireplace, he had stepped outside of his shield. In the next window, he was swinging away.
    “Good morning,” Arachne said.
    Cyrus jolted in his chair. Arachne was stepping out from the Book Dump. She was in the same black clothes she’d worn the day before, but her hair was pulled into a tight braid. Her eyes were alive and bright.
    “Did you sleep in there?” Cyrus asked.
    Arachne nodded. “I did. Up at the top of the piles, near the ceiling.”
    Cyrus looked all around. Behind him, another sheet of silk covered the front door. He couldn’t see if there were any extra images.
    Arachne sat in the wooden dining chair across from him.
    “Where are the spiders?” Cyrus asked.
    “Eating,” Arachne said. “Sleeping. Resting. They had a long night, but they’re close if I need them.”
    Cyrus studied the girl’s pale face. “How do you get them to do what you want?”
    “Practice,” Arachne said. “It used to be harder.”
    “When?”
    Arachne smiled. “Centuries ago.” She drummed thin fingers on her knees.
    Cyrus closed his eyes and dragged his hands down his face. “Do you know how long we’re going to be stuck in here?”
    “That depends on the presence and behavior of my fellow transmortals,” said Arachne. Cyrus didn’t like how cheerful she sounded. “At least a week. And getting off on the right foot is important. We’re going to divide our energies. Part of the time, we will overhaul and clean these rooms. Part of the time, we will study. And part of the time, we will train.”
    Cyrus looked at her. She was talking like she was a lot more
in charge
than he’d thought. In the other room, the shower turned off.
    “Train?” he asked. “At what? There’s not a lot of room in here.”
    “Rupert has given me a list.” Arachne’s eyes sparkled. He felt rude staring at them—into them—but he couldn’t really help it. “I enjoy lists,” she said. “There are very specific things he wants me to work on over the next few days.”
    Cyrus scratched at his head. His scalp was oily. He needed his own shower.
    “A list?” he muttered. “Can I see it?”
    Arachne shook her head. “The list is for me. Goals from my perspective. How would you like to begin? Cleaning, studying, or training?”
    Cyrus slumped deeper into his chair. “Eating.”
    The bathroom door opened and Antigone stepped out, cinching her wet hair back with a toothed headband. She was in shorts and an old short-sleeved safari shirt. Her bare feet left damp tracks on the wood