At the centre of the lair, receiving and collating intelligence about the war, sat Greta. In my fancy, she was one of the Moirae, the Greek Fates, spinning the destiny of the world.
I confessed this once. She laughed and asked, “There were three: which Fate am I, the Spinner, the Allotter, or the Cutter?”
To me, she seemed implacable, the one who chose. But I didn’t tell her she was Atropos, the Cutter. Instead, I lied and chose Clotho the Spinner, and that seemed to please her. Perhaps she would choose me.
This story is an excerpt from the novel, Boundarising, that I’m currently working on