It’s no small thing to call for a harvestman.
Acari’s crops are long since brought in, but when her sister falls down the stairs the fourth time she finds herself back out in the field. She draws one hand along her sharpest scythe and whispers
Take my bleedin’
For the witchin’
and the little ruby drops soak into the rich earth and he’s there, then, so tall and thin.
“Her husband,” trembles Acari. “Bring him his harvest.”
Daddy Longlegs nods.
“Do I owe you?” she asks.
“No,” he says kindly. “But someday you’ll reap this too.”