The Crimson Skew by S. E. Grove Page A

green feet—clearly borrowed from Maxine’s closet.
    â€œI didn’t know the fortune-telling would feel so . . . real.”
    â€œPerhaps a little like the Ausentinian maps,” Goldenrod suggested. “Truthful but confusing at the same time.”
    â€œYes,” Sophia agreed. “Exactly like that.”
    â€œAll attempts to describe the future have such an effect. They have the ring of truth because they seem possible, but they are unclear because nothing of the future is known with precision. What are these?”
    â€œMaxine gave them to me. She says they are objects with meaning for the path I have chosen. But I don’t know what they mean.”
    Goldenrod took them up one at a time, examining them silently before placing them back on the small table. “From a tree and an élan.”
    â€œAn élan? What is that?”
    â€œIt is also known as an elk, or moose. Both these objects hold memories.”
    Sophia started. “Memories? What do you mean?”
    â€œThese rings each correspond to a year of the tree’s growth. The most recent year is here, by the bark. And this,” she said, picking up the brown shape, “is a piece of élan antler. Males drop their antlers each year.”
    â€œMoose antler,” Sophia said wonderingly. “But how can they hold memories?”
    â€œMemory maps, the kind you know, are made by people using other objects as their vehicles. These maps here are less complex, more intuitive. They were made by this tree”—she indicated the circle of wood—“and this moose.”
    Sophia took this in. “And you can read them because you could speak with them while they were living.”
    â€œIt is likely the moose is still living,” Goldenrod corrected her, “since this antler looks quite fresh—it may be from last year or the year before. Yes—just as I would communicate with them in the present, I can read their memories of the past. But it is not entirely beyond you, Sophia. These may be the perfect way to begin.”
    â€œBegin what?”
    â€œBegin to understand the world as an Elodean does.”
    â€œBut I am not Eerie—Elodean. I can’t do what you do.”
    Goldenrod smiled. She put down the antler and reached out, clasping Sophia’s hands in her own green ones. “You will remember what I told you in the Papal States—how the Weatherers read more deeply than we do, heal more expansively than the rest of us.”
    â€œI remember.”
    â€œIt has always struck me that the quality that sets the Weatherers apart is also that which sets you apart. They weather time—this is what gives them their name. It is a different way of describing what you do: to wander, timeless.”
    Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. “Really?”
    â€œYes. It is true that you are not Elodean, but I think our form of knowledge is not restricted to our blood. I think it can be taught—and learned. It might be easier to begin with something inert, like this bark and this bone. For you, it will resemble map reading.”
    Sophia felt a sudden thrill rising in her chest. “If you think it’s possible—of course! Of course I want to learn. How do I begin?”
    Goldenrod squeezed her hands. “We will begin tomorrow. Before then, if you like, spend time with these two sets of memories. Discover everything you can by examining them with all your senses. Then you will tell me what you find.”
    Sophia nodded.
    Goldenrod considered her closely. “Do you feel less anxious about your fortune?”
    â€œYes.” She looked up at the Eerie, her kind face inches from her own. Impulsively, she threw her arms around her friend’s neck. “Thank you.” Goldenrod could not know that apart from relieving her anxiety, she was giving Sophia what she had wanted for so many months: a way to keep learning, a way to keep reading