"Eight dollars," Clotho said automatically, but her thoughts were entirely stuck on the first part, the part about seeking advice on the weaving of stories. It was hardly the first time, or even the thousand-and-first, that somebody had come to the Moirae intent on altering the Weave of Fate, but it was unexpected enough that Clotho gave her a second, scrutinising look.
She did have the shape of a story about her. That wasn't unusual; many immortals did. But looking closer, it struck Clotho that while the tales and motifs hung in the air about her like loose puffs of fibre, the goddess herself was more spinner than thread. Perhaps that accounted for the distant sense of familiarity Clotho felt, for she, too, was a spinner. Her curiosity brightened.
"Living fictional characters like folklore, you mean? Or... fairy tales?" Her eyes strayed thoughtfully to the little Puss-in-Boots cradled in the goddess's hands.