Clotho spins, Lachesis weaves, Atropos cuts. It's what they do; it's who they are. Clotho spins all beginnings; she loves all her threads equally, the red and the black, the green and the purple, even the grisly pink. Lachesis weaves them into each other, creating patterns and surprises, turning them over and over on her shuttle. But in the end, Atropos is the one who gets them all.

When Atropos' shears close around the butter-yellow thread, Lachesis' shuttle drops and Clotho's spindle stills in her hands.

"Is this the third time, or the fourth?" Clotho asks softly.

Atropos shakes her head. She doesn't know, and it angers her. That little upstart Zeus has been messing with time; not even the Fates are immune to that. And he's doing no favors to his son, either. It's time both of them learned that mortals die, and that one broken thread is no reason to unravel the entire tapestry.

Her shears snap shut; the thread falls.

A heartbeat's silence, then they are at their work again. But from the corner of her eye, Atropos sees Clotho pick up a small hank of yellow wool and hide it in her sleeve.