The fireball streaked across the tent, warping the air around it. It was hot enough that Clive was certain it would burn this Miracle to ashes. But she didn’t even flinch, and displayed no acknowledgement of the fireball.

  "Fire." Her voice cut through the crackling heat. "A gift from the gods. Your ancestors prayed to it. Worshipped those who could touch it without burning. They called it a miracle."

  [Miracle Number 33: Fire Eater]

  She leaned forward and bit into the fireball like it was an apple.

  The flames disappeared into her mouth. She chewed, casually, as if tasting something interesting. Then she swallowed.

  Miracles ran her tongue over her teeth, collecting residual embers. "Heavy on the sulfur. You might want to tone it down next time." She tilted her head. "Thank you for the offering."

  A Tier 2 fireball… And she ate it like it was dessert.

  Clive's hand fell to his side. His chest was on fire now, the kind made of torn flesh and broken ribs. Not the magical kind that goddesses ate for breakfast.

  "What do you want from me?" His voice came out hoarse as he clutched his chest.

  "Want?" Miracles raised one hand. The space around them warped into blackness. "I thought I’ve already told you. I want nothing."

  A tea set materialized between them. Porcelain pot. Two cups. Butter cookies arranged in a careful spiral.

  "But manners persist." She pushed a cup toward him. "Even after wanting dies."

  She gestured. Two figures flickered into existence beside the pot. They had the shape of women but with cat ears sprouted from their heads. They wore Black dresses with white aprons, lace at the collar and cuffs. Tails curved behind them, swaying in synchronization.

  They moved as one, pouring out the tea. "Master Weston." Their voices overlapped. "Are you okay with camomile?"

  Clive wondered what would have happened if he had said no. There was only one pot after all. But before he could answer, they shuffled backward and knelt in identical posture.

  “Camomile it is,” Miracles said. “You’ll find it calming.”

  "I'm not drinking that." Something told Clive that accepting magical tea from a potentially rival goddess wasn’t a good idea.

  "It won't kill you." Miracles picked up her own cup and took a sip. "Well. Not immediately."

  Clive looked down. Fresh blood darkened the bandages around his chest, spreading outward. The exertion from the spell—the movement, and the panic—had torn something open.

  "You're leaking," Miracles observed.

  "I noticed."

  "Casting in your state." She set down her cup. "Unwise. But then, you wouldn't be Certainty's champion if you made wise choices. She has a history of choosing champions who will certainly end up dead."

  That caught Clive’s attention. He realized he didn’t really know much about his own patron goddess, other than the fact that she was annoying. He tried to reach out to her.

  Certainty… you there?

  Nothing.

  Certainty?

  Still nothing.

  “She can’t hear you. Not while I’m here.” Miracles smiled at him knowingly. "So. Shall we talk? Or would you like to throw more fire at me first? I have time."

  Clive's fingers curled into fist. "Jill mentioned you. What did you do to her?"

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  "Jill." Miracles pondered on the name. "The Moon Mother. Yes. I granted her what her heart desired."

  "She stabbed me through the chest."

  "I'm aware. I can smell the blood from here." She took another sip of her tea. "Might I suggest counseling? Marital disputes are common among mortals."

  Something snapped in Clive's chest. He surged upward, reaching across the tea set. His fist aimed for that blank, perfect face. “This isn’t a joke!”

  [Miracle Number 24: Poltergeist]

  Pain exploded through his torso. His knuckles connected with nothing, his hand passed through her cheek like smoke.

  He collapsed back onto the bedroll, gasping. The bandages were soaked through now. Red spread across the white linen in branching patterns.

  Miracles hadn't moved. The tea in her cup hadn't even rippled.

  "That was stupid," she observed.

  Clive couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe properly. Each inhale felt like knives stabbing his ribs.

  "But passionate." Miracles set down her cup. "I remember passion. Vaguely. It seems uncomfortable."

  She made a motion with one finger.

  The catgirls rose and moved to either side of Clive. One reached for his chest. She peeled back the blood-soaked bandages without hesitation, without wincing at the mess beneath. The other produced supplies from nowhere. Clean linen appeared in her hands, along with a silver needle.

  "This will hurt," they said in unison.

  The needle pierced his flesh. Clive bit down hard. The catgirl on his right worked the thread through torn muscle. The one on his left cleaned the wound as her companion sewed. The cloth in her hand came away dark with blood, but fresh fabric kept appearing to replace it. She worked in perfect rhythm with the other's stitching. Wipe, pause, wipe, pause. Their movements synchronized like they were two parts of the same machine.

  Clive's fingers dug into the bedroll.

  "Breathe," the catgirls said together.

  He tried. The movement pulled against fresh stitches. The stitching continued. Twelve pulls. Twelve knots. Clive counted them to keep from passing out.

  When they finished, they wrapped fresh bandages around his chest. Around, under, around again.

  Then, they sat back on their heels again. "Done."

  Clive lay there, chest burning with new pain. But the bleeding had stopped.

  Miracles picked up her tea again. "Better?"

  He didn't answer. His hand was still clenched in a fist from the punch that had connected with nothing.

  "You asked what I did to her.” Miracles continued. “I told you. I granted her desire. She wanted to go home. She wanted you to come with her. She wanted the world to stop changing so everything could go back to how it was. So I gave her the power to make that happen."

  "I don't believe you." Clive's jaw tightened. "She tried to kill me. The Jill I knew would never do that."

  "Then maybe you don't know her as well as you thought. Might I suggest counselling again?”

  This conversation was going nowhere. These goddesses were all the same. Speaking in riddles, saying lots of words that meant nothing. It was like talking to a wall that responded with cryptic philosophy.

  "If that's all you have to say, we're done here." He pressed his palms against the ground, trying to push himself up. His arms shook with the effort of supporting his weight. He made it halfway before he collapsed back to the ground.

  "Send me back," he managed to grunt through laboured breath.

  Miracles watched him with those empty eyes. She didn’t offer any help, letting the silence stretch between them. Her next words shook Clive’s world.

  "Jill wishes to see you again."

  Clive went still. His hand was pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer against his chest. Its intensity was tearing his wound open again, but the pain became a distant secondary.

  "What?"

  "She asked me to deliver a message." Miracles set down her cup with a soft clink. "She wants to meet. One more time.”

  “You’re lying.”

  "I don't lie." Miracles' expression didn't change. "I have no reason to. Lies require caring about the outcome."

  This had to be a trap. But hope drove him beyond reason.

  "Where? When? Tell me—"

  “On the night of the full moon. Come to the peak of the Humbert Mountains. She will find you there.”

  “I will be there. No matter what, I will be there.”

  “Yes. You will,” she smirked. “That’s what makes you predictable.” She pushed the tea closer to him. “Now drink. Before it gets cold.”

  Clive looked down at the cup. The liquid inside had stopped steaming. His [Apothecary's Nose] told him it was a normal cup of tea, or at least normal enough that he couldn’t identify anything wrong with it.

  "What happens if I don't?"

  "Nothing." Miracles folded her hands. "You'll simply miss the experience of drinking tea with a goddess. A rare opportunity. Most mortals don't get a second chance."

  Clive reached for the cup. It was warm, but not hot. He lifted it to his lips. Drank.

  It tasted like camomile. Nothing magical, nothing poisonous. Simple tea. Jill’s favourite tea.

  But then, the darkness around them began to swirl. Clive's vision blurred at the edges. His fingers went numb around the empty cup.

  Miracles' face was the last thing visible through the encroaching black.

  "Don't be late," she said.

  Then the darkness took everything.

  When Clive opened his eyes, he was sitting on the bedroll. The tent was unchanged—same canvas, same lantern, same moth circling overhead. No tea set. No catgirls. No goddess.

  Just him and fresh stitches and the phantom taste of camomile on his tongue.

  [Certainty: Clive? CLIVE. Are you there? I lost contact with you. What happened?]

  Clive stared up at the tent's peak. His hand was still raised, fingers curved around nothing.

  I just met your friend, he thought back.

  [Certainty: Friend? What friend? Who was in that tent?]

  Miracles.

  The cruelest gods are those who claim to want nothing—for they have already taken everything they need from you before the conversation begins.

  —Goddess of Stories and Theatergoing