In the morning, Atropos explained that more information was necessary to proceed, and so she had sent for an old friend in order to gather some information as discreetly as possible. However, discreet collection did

The days flew by. Atropos had decided it was too dangerous for them to go outside without further intelligence. As a result, they had spent the past while in Atropos’ house, Lachesis and Clotho having returned to their realms, similarly instructed not to leave under any circumstances. That was alright, work needed to be caught up on between all of them.

Martha had taken to dutifully spending time with Atropos in her studio, watching the master cutter manually cut threads, perform maintenance on the machine (after many curses when it did stop working from time to time). Tim, meanwhile, had been given the whole wealth of human literature, eagerly taking in all that had been written.

Martha had asked Atropos once why the gods did no such writing, and Atropos explained that when you were perfect at a task, and that was your one job, eventually art lost its luster, for your life and being became dedicated to the art of the task itself, with the exception of the muses, of course, for whom writing was often their art.

Martha wasn’t sure she liked that answer, but nevertheless accepted it and continued her work. Atropos continued to mentor her and teach her all the things she needed to know. Eventually, few words were exchanged between the two, only little corrections and insights. Soon, Martha even found herself, on occasion, correcting Atropos’ small errors.

And yet, the training period did have to come to an end, and the information Atropos had sent for did, one day, arrive. Mail was not common, but for sensitive items, it still worked best, as was the case with most analogue systems. Atropos opened and inspected it, but seemingly found no flaws or danger in it, and so began to read.

“Dearest Atropos,

We have indeed found a person who may be able to help locate what you are looking for. You will find us in the teahouse whose location is disclosed within the signet herein. It is recommended that you burn this message.

-P.”

“Our lead has gotten back to us,” Atropos explained to Tim and Martha, “it’s time to again make haste towards our goal.”

“Why the haste?” Martha asked.

“I’ll explain later, there’s no time for now,” Atropos replied, a glint of fear in her eyes, “we’ve got to get going.”

And with that, the three appeared suddenly in a teahouse. Wherever it was, it was long past dark, the stars shining brightly in the sky, though no moon was visible. The lobby they found themselves in was unoccupied, save for a barista wiping down the counters dutifully.

She glanced at Atropos and asked, somewhat tired, “Have you seen the bluebirds recently? They look lovely against the sky.”

“Yes,” Atropos replied, “but the Raven is the most colorful bird of all, if you know what to look for.”

The barista’s eyes widened slightly and she nodded, walking briskly into the back. Martha and Tim both figured this was part of some secret code, but neither dared to question it. Eventually, the barista returned with a frail old woman, her hair scraggly, and a very familiar face to Martha.

“Cass!” Martha said, smiling as she ran up to hug her.

“Martha, it’s so good to see you!” Cass replied, returning the embrace, “it feels like we haven’t talked in forever. I’d suggest getting tea, but well, looks like we’re already here!”

Martha grinned, before looking down and noticing, embarrassingly, that she was still in her pajamas. She magic’d into something more suitable, a plain dress, and then stepped out of the hug. Behind her, Atropos made a coughing sound, being sat at a table with everyone else, seemingly ready to begin. Martha mouthed ‘sorry’ to her and then sat down, Cass joining her.

“So,” the old woman said, “you may know me as Persimmon, if you must. Few know my name, barring, of course, Atropos.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Martha replied, Tim nodding in agreement.

“The predicament you find yourselves in has a solution indeed,” Persimmon said, “and I have found Cass here as someone who has a lead in regards to it.”

She gestured to Cass, who then smiled and said, “If only I had known that I was helping my dearly beloved and her mentor, I would have come more quickly, but affairs at home required some diligence. Nevertheless, I do indeed have a lead that the heavens themselves may not yet know about.”

“And what is that?” Atropos asked, rapping her fingers impatiently on the table, though maintaining her polite demeanor.

“It appears,” Cass replied, “that one of my sisters is the woman you seek.”

“How do you figure?” Atropos asked.

“Merely that we all felt the waves on the shores of the Ocean of Blood rise and then crash over, the souls lost in them screaming into our ears. We are daughters of Poseidon, after all,” she casually replied.

Atropos raised her eyebrow but sighed, “there are as many of you as there are brooks and streams in the world. We have far too little time.”

“Then it’s a good thing it’s not just any stream at all,” Cass replied, “it is one of the four ancient rivers.”

“How dare you accuse them of such a thing?” Persimmon screamed, “they have guarded the most sacred lands in the world since the fall of Ouranos.”

“But I have proof,” she replied, holding up something inscrutable in the dark starlight.

Atropos cast an illumination spell and gazed at it, her eyes gazing deep within its depths. Within the blood-crimson of the vial, Martha swore she saw the same sparkling she saw in the threads she had grown so used to.

Atropos finally said, “she speaks the truth, it is the water from the Fountain of Youth.”

“You alone would know, cutter of threads,” Persimmon replied, turning to Cass and saying, “apologies, daughter of Poseidon, for my insolence.”

“It’s alright,” Cass assured, “for only the water from near the fountain itself, the source of the four streams, could produce water imbued with the soul-nature of life itself.”

Atropos explained to the two bewildered youth next to her, “The Fountain of Youth is imbued with the essence of life, that which is carried also in the threads we cut, and measure, and spin. It flows into four rivers. Two of them, you know as the Tigris and Euphrates, and one flows below ground, down into the depths of the Earth, to who knows where, while one flows up to the highest heavens. The Naiads of these rivers each control a portion of the water flowing directly out of the fountain, and imbue life into the heavens, the earth, and the depths, using it.”

“You mean that…” Martha said, starting to piece it together.

“The water used in the Ocean of Blood came from the Fountain, at least in part. This could not happen unless one of those four permitted it, or had been incapacitated and the water taken without their knowledge. For any of them, that would be a death sentence, had they not been already killed in the process of stealing the water, for it is their sole and solemn duty.”

“And I can assure you,” Cass replied, “my sisters are very much alive, for the water still flows in all four rivers.”

“We must travel,” Atropos said, her voice shaking, “to all four rivers, before time runs out.”

“What do you mean?” Martha asked.

“I can feel my very being unraveling, already here I can see shadows flitting in the light of the stars,” Atropos said, “I have so very little time and yet there is much to do. We must be off.”

And with that, the trio vanished into thin air, their cups clattering to the floor, breaking.

“How rude!” Persimmon shouted, “they couldn’t have set the cups down first? Those were my mother’s!”

As she looked around, she noticed that Cass had vanished too. She sighed as she leaned down and delicately picked the shards off the floor. She’d have to send Atropos an invoice for the repairs. She hardly noticed as the knife slid into her heart, scarcely making a sound as it slid out and she slumped to the floor.