She closed her eyes so that if anyone saw her she wouldn’t know. The clop-clop of the horses’ hooves on the frozen street changed to thudding as they neared the creek and started up. The snow was deeper. It would be harder to plod through. Carina felt selfish. She pulled the blanket higher over her shoulder and settled into the rhythmic swaying. If Quillan would have just let her ride . . . But he was resolute.
No matter that her strength had returned, that her back hardly ached. The word of a doctor meant more than her obvious improvement. Yet, part of her appreciated the care. He had gone to great lengths to ensure her comfort.
She watched the sleek black muscles of Jack’s shoulders, then gazed a little higher at the cold blue sky. She was glad for the blankets. The sun was shining, and Quillan and Father Antoine were no doubt warmer walking. But lying still, she would have been chilled. Quillan had thought of everything. What had caused her outburst?
Changeable. The doctor thought her changeable? Had warned Quillan? Beh! She tugged the blanket to her chin. Didn’t she have reason? She caught Father Antoine glancing over Jack’s back. Could he read her thoughts?
He dutifully held Jack’s reins, but she knew it was to Quillan Jack responded, and to Jock, his twin. She remembered too well trying to control Jack separately. And landing in the creek for her trouble. And Quillan trying not to laugh—though not hard enough. Oh! And there again a glance from the priest.
She raised her head from the cocoon of blankets. “èmie said you’ve been busy, Father.”
“Four weddings, one last rites, and one baptism,” he said. “And that was only yesterday.”
She couldn’t accustom herself to his gaunt smile. He needed “feeding up,” as Nonna would say. Carina’s chest tightened. Soon she would see Nonna. And Mamma and Papa, elegant Papa. But most of all old Giuseppe. She pressed her cheek into the woolly mat again. How thoughtful for Quillan to have attached it. She felt like a lamb pressed to a ewe’s belly. She could smell the musky scent of lanolin in the fleece. He was a good man, her husband. She warmed at the thought.
It took an hour and more to reach the circular shelf outside the Rose Legacy mine. The burned-out foundation was buried in snow, nothing more than a vague outline. But the mine gaped as though surprised to see them climbing up through the snow, and roots formed eyes above the tunnel mouth.
Quillan brought his team to a halt, and Carina sat up. The ride had been as smooth and joltless as he’d predicted. He walked around Jock’s rump as she slid toward the edge. Then he gripped her waist and swung her down.
“Thank you.” She smoothed her coat.
He untied the coils of rope from Jock’s side and hung them over his shoulder.
“Did you bring lanterns?” she asked.
“Miners’ candles. In my pack.” He gave her a hand over the snow. It dwindled to a thin coat of powder immediately inside the tunnel.
Carina felt a quiver of excitement. This was the first time she would go down to the cave without Alex. Yet it felt so right with Quillan. He’d saved her from the mineshaft before she even knew there was a cave beneath. The cave had been Alex’s discovery. The painted chamber had been hers.
Quillan emptied a large lumpy bag of fodder and grain onto the ground for the horses. Carina watched them nose it eagerly. They wouldn’t wander far on this steep snowy slope. Quillan unfastened the litter and leaned it inside the tunnel, tossing the blankets at its foot. He wouldn’t leave the horses encumbered. That was the first good thing she’d noticed about him, how he cared for his animals.
Inside the tunnel, Quillan shrugged off his pack. He took out tin candle holders with a flap of metal at one edge to keep a draft away. He affixed one candle and handed it to Carina. The acrid smell of the match caught her breath, then the flame grabbed the wick and stretched upward, its thin light dancing across the low ceiling.
“We’ll just use one until we’re down.” Quillan picked up a coil of rope and started working it into a harness. When he finished the knots and twists, he held it open for her to step into.
Carina handed the candle to Father Antoine. She had not thought to wear the pair of pants that she occasionally wore, and the rope harness caught her skirts up awkwardly. But it was dim and both men discreet in their gaze. She took the few steps to the edge of the shaft and looked down. Before God healed her fear of heights, the sight would have set her head spinning, her stomach surging to her throat. It was intimidating even now.
She clung to the rope as Quillan lowered her, using the spikes he’d attached to the beam as a pulley. Just the way Alex had let her down that first time when she’d sensed the darkness like a hostile force. She felt safe today with Quillan and Father Antoine, however. She reached the ledge, which had been the floor of Wolf ’s shaft, then gathering herself, swung into the hole where he’d broken through the roof of the limestone cave.
This was the worst part of the descent, dangling helplessly in the vast darkness of the first chamber. With no light at all she could hardly sense her downward motion. Maybe she was just hanging there in the void. She smelled the musty bodies of bats. Then her feet hit ground and slid on the pungent, slimy guano. She climbed out of the harness and tugged. She wouldn’t yell and set the bats off in a cloud.
To her immediate left plunged a subterranean well. She knew it was there but could see nothing. Alex had sent her down with a candle in her pocket. Quillan had not thought to. He was not as accustomed to the underground as a mining engineer. Now, though she knew the cave held nothing evil, the darkness preyed on her mind. Her ears fixed on the soft plink-plink of water dripping somewhere. And the mouth of Wolf ’s chamber moaned. She would never forget that sound.
She heard someone, Father Antoine she guessed, directly above her and stepped aside. He landed with a grunt, and called, “I’m down.”
Carina put a hand to his arm at the flutter overhead, but his words must not have been enough to frighten the bats en masse. “Bats,” she said and felt him look up, though they were in pitch darkness. How ingrained their habits. “Step this way, Father. There’s a well to your left. Did you bring a light?”
“Yes.” He fumbled in his pockets, and she wondered if his mind felt muffled, like hers.
The end of the rope brushed the floor with Quillan’s descent. She caught the end and held it firm. Soon she heard him straining and stepped out of his way. The snick of a match sounded loudly in the chamber, and she watched the tiny flame lick the candlewick. It caught easily.
Quillan landed and tugged the handle of a holder from his pocket. “Forgot to give you this.”
She took it and lit the candle from Father Antoine’s. Quillan lit his, as well, then all three held them out at arm’s length and circled slowly. The light glanced over the closest stalactites, stalagmites, and a narrow sheet of tawny flowstone, only hinting at the size of the cavern.
Father Antoine said, “Wolf painted this?”