Winter had come to Harmony, and the work crews were hard at work, seeing to it that neither ice nor snow from the branches above the city would cause any unfortunate accidents.

  A world tree covered with snow. Its branches hid the moon and obscured the stars, especially in the quarters close to the trunk of the tree. Those were the quarters Socia was visiting now on personal business.

  But before her private affairs could be attended to, she would have to return the documents Mr. Stone had left in her office.

  Forgotten. How unlike her rock.

  A knock on the very sturdy door.

  Footsteps. The door opened a crack.

  “Mr. Stone, you shouldn’t forget your things,” Socia said.

  Wide eyes. Open mouth. Knees fell to the ground. Head met floor.

  It was Mrs. Stone.

  “Oh, Beloved Socia, you honor us, with this visit,” she said.

  Socia’s mouth was open, stayed open, and then she put the mask on.

  The one her Lady was a master at wearing.

  Think, Socia. Think.

  On an open kitchen shelf, visible over the matriarch’s shoulder, there was a tin, clearly marked: tea.

  That would do.

  “Rise most devoted servant,” Socia said.

  And she did. Yet her neck remained bent, her gaze to the floor.

  “Your most devoted husband has talked so much about your skill in tea brewing,” Socia said.

  She lifted her chin with her finger.

  “A cup will do,” Socia said.

  She had a cup in the living room, the finest room, with icons on the shelves.

  The Primeval at the top, and Our Most Merciful Lady next to her, the Ambition one shelf lower, his absence would have been heresy, but there at the lowest levels…

  There she was.

  Our Beloved Socia. It was a small icon, but she looked rather modern in it, and the silver theme combined with the rays of light from the mark made her look rather divine.

  She wasn’t only a fashion icon nowadays.

  Should she sue the makers?

  She finished her tea.

  Decided not to sue.

  And left Mr. Stone’s files in Mrs. Stone’s devoted hands, thanked her, even blessed her, and left the premises.

  Her work was now over for the day, her private business awaited.

  A meeting with the Aspect of the Crone.

  One she requested herself.

  Soon she would be the…

  Supplicant.

  Deep into the trunk she went first, past guards that bent the knee, for she could enter, after all she was family. There was no guide, only her senses, her ability to feel It.

  She was on a journey, on a hunt, for knowledge and answers.

  She was Socia and it felt good to climb the tree, and simple cloth covered her, not Harmony Cool, and despite how lightly dressed she was the cold didn’t bother her. She had endured the endless white, swam in water covered by ice.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Fingers as hard as stone grabbed onto wood, pulled her ever higher. Her feet were bare and they brought her forward step after step on the snow-covered bark of the tree, as she leaped from branch to branch, the city far below her.

  She followed the cord she had formed with the Primeval, or rather one of the three, the one belonging to the Crone, the one she was yet to meet.

  It was flimsier, lifeless, but parts of it were sturdy.

  Interest but no care.

  In the end she tracked her down, high up in the world tree, in a branch that had curled around itself in the most unusual way, forming what one could only describe as an audience chamber.

  A ragged bony thing, strips of black and grey hung from it, one could question if it was only a covering and not clothing.

  A cold crept over Socia, a heaviness she had wished to forget, a stone that once turned to dust in her hand.

  Her feet brought her closer.

  Soles on rotting bark.

  Dying.

  “Come now, child, I’m not the Desolation,” the Crone said.

  A finger more bone than flesh, directed her to come closer.

  “I’m the end which brings renewal. Winter before spring. Parents dying so their children can become the eldest of their line,” the Crone said.

  “Not a bore like her,” she said, and cackled.

  Socia sought an appropriate spot and kneeled.

  Fingers of bone draped with skin touched her shoulders, three digits in all.

  “Now child, we are family, you should not kneel, even to me, not in private,” the Crone said.

  She rose, and the Crone remained behind her, and more digits touched her shoulders.

  Would she braid her hair now?

  Slowly bony fingers began to work, gathered her hair, and made a three-strand braid, before Socia had taken in what was happening.

  Three into one.

  How appropriate.

  “I’ve come for counsel,” Socia said and bit her tongue.

  Should she call her the Crone? Goddess most high?

  Why didn’t she seek the counsel of Mr. Stone or her Lady earlier.

  “Goddess most…” Socia said.

  A cackle that rattled her bones interrupted.

  “Come now child, surely you already see It, feel It,” the Crone said.

  “I’m no goddess, I’m the fundament, the ground on which all things rot.”

  A finger stroked her cheek, warm and alive.

  “You can call her eldest, or dullest if she bothers you,” the Maiden said.

  She was dressed quite up to date, with a white dress and black gloves and belt to accentuate.

  “Maiden most high,” Socia said.

  A palm on her lower back gently pushed her until all three now surrounded her. All towered around her.

  “It’s my fault, I should have taught her how to address us properly,” the Mother said.

  Hands, fingers, palms, they were everywhere, staying too long.

  Stroked, prodded, touched.

  “Call us the three-in-one,” they said as one.

  “Ask what you want, creature of the firmament.”

  “Little star.”

  “Our Beloved Socia.”

  Socia didn’t feel loved.

  Bony fingers rubbed her shoulders.

  “What am I?” Socia asked.

  Bony fingertips ceased to circle, the pressure remained.

  “A god. A goddess, to be more precise,” the Crone said.

  “What is a god?” Socia said.

  A warm cheek met her neck from behind.

  “That which we are not,” the Maiden said.

  “Stone. Tide. Wind. Maiden. Mother. Crone,” they said.

  “All these things we are called, and ten thousand things more.”

  Bony fingers left, firm arms replaced, and she was held from the back.

  “In the old times, mortal men, slithering things and so many other creatures offered us homage with blood. Cut the throats of beasts to feed the earth. Bound them and drowned them for the seas to swallow. Left them exposed for the winds to flay. All to gain our favor,” the Mother said.

  Cheek met her braid, a nose sunk into her hair.

  “Fools!” they said.

  “We are the unforgiving wind which takes wife and babe, if your spear has no aim.”

  “We care not for souls, only your mortal forms, and the strength within.”

  Socia slipped away, past them, and beheld them.

  Saw them.

  A tangled web in the air, roots that spread wide and far clinging to and circling everything.

  She stepped back further away from them.

  Threads coiled around her arms and began to pull her back.

  To them.

  She became stone and anchored herself.

  “You are life,” Socia said.

  “Yes,” they said.

  “The source of it,” Socia said.

  “No,” they said.

  “He who is the source strokes me in the morning, so gently. He really knows how to take it slow with a girl,” the Maiden said.

  “He holds me in his embrace and showers me with his lights, makes me fertile and full of life,” the Mother said.

  “Then he tires of me and leaves me alone with his first wife,” the Crone said.

  “We do talk, you know. Though she doesn’t always show her whole face,” they said as one.

  Socia knew. A knee buckled.

  “And the little ones too, those who are family, such a welcome sight, in the night,” they said.

  “Even the big bird, so troublesome, always trying to wane my storms, and offer aid to the unworthy,” the Crone said.

  “Come now, the unworthy one became a god, even took care of our little Socia, and now is in the sky with the bird. He really grew strong,” the Maiden said.

  Socia knew. A mouth opened.

  “Neither are family, you cannot see them in the sky, their lights are not bright enough, nothing like our Socia,” the Mother said.

  In the sky there was a constellation, which all knew, children and elders, even fools.

  Seven sisters in the sky.

  In the stories they were plucked, and brought down, but that was a tale, up there they remained.

  And next to the last in line, there was new star, not as bright, a mere dot of light.

  But Socia could see it, in the sky.

  Herself.

  Her own breath hid herself from her gaze; it chilled into a mist which obscured the star that was her.

  And in the night sky, so dark and deep, she saw the Moon, pure and white, who would not speak.

  To her daughter, her youngest child.

  Her Lady.