2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

And I was stuck.
Stuck, as the Weaver hissed from within her house, “What little mouse is climbing
about in my chimney?”
I had just enough room to look down as the Weaver’s rotted face appeared below.
She put that milk-white hand on the ledge, and I realized how little room there was
between us.
My head emptied out.
I pushed against the grip of the chimney, but couldn’t budge.
I was going to die here. I was going to be dragged down by those beautiful hands and
ripped apart and eaten. Maybe while I was still alive, she’d set that hideous mouth on my
flesh and gnaw and tear and bite and—
Black panic crushed in, and I was again trapped under a nearby mountain, in a muddy
trench, the Middengard Wyrm barreling for me. I’d barely escaped, barely—
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe—
The Weaver’s nails scratched against the brick as she took a step up.
No, no, no, no, no—
I kicked and kicked against the bricks.
“Did you think you could steal and flee, thief?”
I would have preferred the Middengard Wyrm. Would have preferred those massive,
sharp teeth to her jagged stumps—
Stop.
The word came out of the darkness of my mind.
And the voice was my own.
Stop, it said—I said.
Breathe.
Think.
The Weaver came closer, brick crumbling under her hands. She’d climb up like a spider
—like I was a fly in her web—
Stop.
And that word quieted everything.
I mouthed it.
Stop, stop, stop.
Think.