At the sight of the old woman who sat smoking so casually on their veranda, Clotho immediately stiffened. Baba Yaga. Yes, it would be her. They were neighbours, practically, and Atropos had always favoured the company of the enigmatic Russian witch. The Spinner, for all that she tried to keep an open mind, could not bring herself to say the same. It was not simply that Baba Yaga was a killer; although the awareness of so many carefully-spun, prematurely-severed threads did little to endear the woman to her, Clotho knew that there was a place - however unpleasant - for such demons, in human minds and human realms. What discomforted her the most was the woman's sheer unpredictability. There was a particular cunning in her gaze, a sharpness behind her kindly demeanour; one was never quite sure where she stood. Clotho respected Baba Yaga, but she didn't for a moment trust her.
The Maiden's slip was momentary, though, and she quickly hid her unease behind a gracious smile. She nodded respectfully to the woman, then moved aside for Atropos to get past.
Atropos did not share her sister's wariness, in this case. She made no secret of her distaste for Baba Yaga's bloodier practices, but neither would she think of intervening to curb them. The woman acted only in accordance with her own nature and she, like everybody else, had her part to play in the complex weavings of Fate.
She liked 'Yaga, with all her hidden barbs and cunning. Hey, Atropos herself was hardly the retiring old biddy. They were different, and yet they were the same; each one synonymous in their own pantheon with the oft-misunderstood realm of death, although their roles and the conceptions that had shaped them did not always necessarily intersect. Somewhere amidst all of this, the two crones had found a common understanding.
So as Clotho moved quietly away, Atropos met Baba Yaga's smile with an amused quirk of the mouth. "Beattie Yvette. Lookin' spry today."