Except during the winter solstice.
For a few weeks in the middle of winter, villagers claimed that smoke came from the chimneys and lights glittered on the mountain. Whoever stayed at Ciasa Fatima didn’t come down into the village.
This did not surprise Max.
There was no one better at hiding than Renata.
Max crested the last hill and stopped to breathe, making a note that high-altitude training was an area of his fitness that could be improved. He’d become accustomed to the lazy heat and balmy sea air of Istanbul.
Perhaps there was a spell he could conjure for increased lung capacity. Maxim of Riga was an Irin scribe, and though most of his duties consisted of gathering strategic information for his watcher and other allies across the globe, he was still an accomplished practitioner of magic. All scribes had to be in order to wield the power granted to them by their angelic forefathers. Male Irin harnessed their magic by writing. Female Irina used their voices.
For scribes, the most permanent spells—those for increased strength, stamina, eyesight, speed, and long life—were tattooed on their skin in intricate talesm unique to each warrior. Max had tattooed more than most, caught for years in a friendly rivalry with his cousin Leo. Both of them were young for their race at a little over two hundred years old, but they were massive men with intense focus who had spent the majority of their lives surrounded only by warriors. With a single brush of his thumb, Max could activate a dense web of magic on his skin, giving him a coat of living armor.
But none of that armor helped when it came to tracking down one elusive Irina.
The hike had taken twice as long as he’d anticipated, and darkness had already descended on the mountain. It didn’t interrupt the grandeur of the view.
The house beyond the snow-covered meadow was just as the old man had described. A typical Ladin house, almost a perfect square of solid architecture that could withstand the fiercest storm. It was backed up to the mountain slope, possibly built into it. The bottom story was stone and plaster, the top was weather-aged wood. It was in good repair from the steep-sloped roof to the large porch that wrapped around the second story. Two outbuildings stood to the side—a low stone cottage and a larger barn that looked like it had once been a dairy.
Max started toward the house, breaking a path through two feet of solid snow. He could see lights in the distance; it was dark, and he was freezing cold. The chimney smoked, promising warmth if he could just make the last frozen yards.
A storm was coming in, and Max couldn’t stop his smile. He couldn’t have timed it better if he’d tried.
He beat on the door, but no one answered. “Renata!”
Nothing but silence, though he could hear someone inside.
“I know you’re in there, and it’s freezing out here. If you want me to keep the ass you seem so fond of, then you’d better let me in.”
Still nothing.
This isn’t like her.
Renata never ran from confrontation. Instincts on alert, Max turned the heavy brass knob.
The door swung open on silent hinges, and Max walked into a kitchen out of a Tyrolean postcard. It was nothing like he’d expect of Renata. An old stove glowed in the corner, and a round cake dotted with fruit cooled next to it. Cinnamon and sugar drifted on air filled with the sounds of soft accordion music from an old record player. A kerosene lamp was centered on the rustic wooden table, and stacks of cut wood lay piled along the far wall. Dozens of pine boughs hung from dark wooden rafters, and intricately cut paper stars decorated them.
Someone had decorated for Midwinter.
Max stepped into the room, immediately removing his snow-covered boots and heavy backpack. “Renata?”
“Max.”
He followed the sound of her voice through the kitchen and into the large open area dominated by a central hearth. More pine boughs hung from the rafters. More stars. Cut crystal lamps with glowing beeswax candles lit the room. Snow had started to fall beyond the frost-covered windows.
Renata was sitting on the floor in front of the crackling fire, hair long and loose around her, dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown. She looked surprisingly young and more than a little vulnerable.
Max was struck dumb at the sight. If there was anyone more jaded and cynical than him, it was Renata. But here she was, sitting in the middle of a snow-covered dream, her brown eyes locked on him as he slowly approached. She’d been crying. In her hands she clutched an old silver candelabra, the seven-branched kind the Irin people used to celebrate Midwinter, the longest night of the year, and the coming of new light and life.
What is this place?
Renata did not look happy to see him. Then again, he hadn’t expected her to.
She asked, “How did you find this place?”
He knew she was angry, but he couldn’t stop his smile. “It’s only taken me eighteen years.”
She stood, set the candelabra down, and reached for a robe on the chair beside her. She wrapped it around herself and stood tall. She was nearly as tall as Max. He loved that about her figure. Then again, he loved everything about her figure.
“I climbed the mountain to find you,” Max said. “The snow—”
“You should go,” she said. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
He caught her arm before she could walk away. “I’m not going anywhere.”
With a whispered spell, she forced his hand away. Max backed up without thinking, his body obeying her magic even as his mind fought against it.
“We’ve already had this conversation,” she said. “I’m not interested in repeating it.”
“I wouldn’t call that a conversation. You had your say. Now it’s my turn.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
His temper spiked. “I tracked you down to the middle of nowhere. I hiked a mountain in two feet of fresh snow. I damn near froze my toes off to get here. You’re going to hear me out.”
Renata glanced out the window. “There’s a storm coming.”
“I know.”
“Did you plan that?”
“Despite your obvious admiration for my magical prowess, I don’t control the weather.”
She refused to look at him. She walked to the kitchen and he followed her.
“Renata—”
“You can stay the night.” She bent down to one of the cupboards in the kitchen and took out another lamp. “You’ll leave in the morning.”
“I don’t agree to that.”
She continued, “There’s only one bedroom prepared, so—”
“That’s fine. It certainly won’t be the first time we’ve shared a bed.”