She walked back, carefully examining each room with the clinical eye of an investigator. By the time she reached the end, she was certain someone had been in the caves. There was little dust and the air wasn’t stale.
She turned to the last door on the left and hesitated. Images of empty clothes and abandoned shoes filled her mind. Gold dust in the air and blood spattering the walls.
With a scream trapped in her heart, she walked in. She kept her eyes from the corner opposite the door and swept her flashlight along the far wall. It was empty. No clothes. No shoes. No blood. Mala had been the one to clear this room. Renata hadn’t had the courage.
Her flashlight stopped on the table. Paper and colored pencils. Mala was an artist, but these didn’t look like her work. These drawings could only have been made by a child.
Renata walked closer and slid them across the table. Most were animals. A cow with a bright bell around its neck. A lion. A well-rendered stag and a flock of sheep on a mountainside. The last one was a bright red fox with his head lifted in a howl, the artist dropping the brown colored pencil in the middle of a stroke, as if she had been interrupted.
What was this?
There had been nothing left like this after the Rending. The colored pencils were new. Modern. She’d seen that brand in the shops in the village.
She lifted her flashlight and turned it around the room. When her flashlight illuminated the mural, she froze.
Mala had cleaned the room, but she’d done something more. The painting filled a wall that had been covered in blood and little handprints. The wall was warped by Renata’s scream when she’d discovered it. The surface had buckled with her magic, like a body absorbing the force of a blow. What once had been smooth had become rippled and jagged.
But Mala had transformed that wall. She’d smoothed the cracks into gentle ripples and covered the blood with bright paint. She’d turned the room of horrors into a place of peace by capturing the beauty of the mountains around them. She’d filled it with creation instead of death. The children and animals sprang to life in the dark cave, so vibrant they’d inspired a small artist to copy small pieces of them with childish hands.
Renata’s emotions ricocheted between anger and wonder.
Who had invaded this place?
The mural was so beautiful. So peaceful.
Was it a child? How had a child gotten into the caves?
She needed to thank Mala, but thanks wasn’t enough.
Did one of the renters—
“We really do make the best team,” Max said quietly from the door.
Renata lifted her eyes to him and he blocked the glare of her flashlight. He was wearing a pair of linen pants and nothing else. She dropped the beam to his feet and ignored the instant surge of lust his exposed body provoked. Her emotions were running high.
“Did you see this earlier?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s what I wanted to show you.”
“You should have insisted.”
“I would have, but you were in full avoidance mode. I thought it would be better to wait.”
She left it alone because he was right and she didn’t want to admit it.
“Bread,” Renata said. “It smelled like bread in the corridor.”
“I noticed it too.” Max stepped into the room and set a lamp on the table. The low light illuminated the room, bringing harsh shadows to soft light. “Did Mala paint this?”
“She must have.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Renata didn’t look at the mural again. If she looked at it, her heart would break open and she didn’t—couldn’t—do that again. Her grief would bury her. Bury them. “Do you think one of the renters might have broken in?”
“Possibly.” Max looked around. “These tunnels are too well ventilated not to have some network of side passages.”
“They do. There’s an extensive network of caverns, but I thought we’d blocked the entrances.”
“Perhaps a child could still fit through.”
“And the scent of bread?”
Max shrugged. “Renata, you know as much as I do. It’s the middle of the night and it’s snowing again. If anyone is in these caverns tonight, they must desperately need shelter. Why don’t we go to bed and we’ll look more in the morning?”
“I won’t be able to sleep.”
Max held out his hand. “Come with me.”
She didn’t want to leave, but she knew staying in the mural room would only break her open. And that did not need to happen. Especially not with Max around. She took his hand, and Max picked up the lamp, guiding them out of the corridor and through the library. He secured the iron lock when they made it back to the house, then handed her the lamp.
“Hold this.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer, just walked into the music room without her. He returned carrying an old guitar.
“Do you play?” Renata was shocked. She hadn’t known that about him.
“A little. I only know a few songs. You can’t sleep? I’ll see if my bad playing can make you drift off from boredom.”
She doubted that. Renata loved music, but she didn’t like to admit it. The thought of Maxim playing…
“You’re thoughtful,” she said. “That should bore me in no time.”
“I aim to please.”
He played, but it wasn’t boring or amateurish. It was beautiful.
“You’ve played a long time.”
“No. Yes.” He shook his head. “I played a long time ago. My grandfather taught me. It was the only thing he taught me other than how to throw an ax.”
“He raised you.”
“He fed us. Protected us. But… he was quite shattered by his daughters’ deaths. My mother and Leo’s were twin sisters and his only children. He thought we’d all died for a long time.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We were only babies during the Rending. Both of us were born the same summer. When our village was attacked, everyone died. Or so the scribe house in Riga thought. We were gone for two years after the Rending, and then… we weren’t. Someone left us at the scribe house, and my grandfather was notified. Leo’s father returned from Russia a few years later—we’d all thought he died too—but he never really spoke again. He taught us to fight. He was… frightening. As frightening as Leo is gentle. But my grandfather stayed with us. Sometimes I think he was afraid of what my uncle would do if he wasn’t there.”
“There were no Irina?”
Max shook his head and began plucking the strings in a delicate tune.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A Russian folk song.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The ghost of a smile on his face. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Your mother and your aunt? You don’t remember anything? Where were you for two years? Who took care of you?”
“I remember someone playing guitar.” He smiled. “But after the Rending? I remember a little. Or I think I do. I’m not certain.”
“What do you remember?”
“Fear.” He stopped playing. “Screaming. Then silence. A lot of silence. Leo and I were in a dark place. I think someone must have hidden us somewhere. I remember the cold. It was cold at night, even in the summer. I dream about a boy with silver hair and gold eyes. I don’t know if they’re memories or dreams. Or visions. Wolves in the snow and a boy with gold eyes sitting by a fire, feeding us milk.”