Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,112
the center of the room blazing brightly. Around it sit a dozen wooden tables and benches, not so different from those in Drypp’s tavern. In one corner, they’ve set up a row of camp beds and, in another, crates of supplies are stacked floor to ceiling.
Just in front of the fire, two golden-haired children sprawl on their stomachs. I don’t recognize the game between them—something with wooden pegs and marbles—but the children? They’re Hyla’s. I’ve never laid eyes on them before, but there’s no doubt in my mind. They’re miniature versions of their mother. Two tiny lionesses, manes of soft curls falling about their shoulders.
“Leni,” one of them says, “where has everyone gone?”
“Outside, silly! There’s been a surprise.”
“A surprise!” the girl says, leaping up, grabbing her sister’s hand. “I bet I know what it is! Can you guess, Katsy?” They’re wearing matching sweater dresses and scarves, leather boots that aren’t quite right for this weather. When they stand, I can see they’re likely a couple years apart. The older girl tugs her sister toward the door.
I want to stop them, want to reach out and offer them something, but I’m paralyzed by all that Hyla’s death means for these two. They scamper past us, pushing the door open, their musical voices jabbering on in Paradyian.
“Leni,” I say, “we can’t let them—”
And then a wail shakes the night. It’s the soul-wrenching cry of a man who has lost an arm or a leg. A heart. It’s one whole person torn in two.
“We can’t let them go out there. Not now.”
But they’re already out the door. I follow, slow and unsure. I don’t know these girls. I have no right. Lenore rushes past me.
“Katsy, Kree,” she calls. “Wait, wait.”
The girls stop and Lenore catches them just at the fire pit. In the distance, the cries are terrible, clear and unabashed. The crowd has gone silent.
“Is that Father?” the older girl asks, her startled face tipping up to mine.
“Take them somewhere,” I say. “Somewhere they can’t—”
But I look around the small camp and realize there’s no safe place out of earshot, no way to outrun what’s happened to their mother, to shut out the cries of their father. Inside my own chest, Kyn’s heart breaks.
“Come, girls,” Lenore says. “Back inside. I could use your help with the cakes.”
The girls protest, but they’re no match for Lenore. I know from experience. She shuffles them back through the door, and though my boots are heavy, I don’t linger outside. There’s only agony out here.
When the door closes behind me, I’m alone, but voices and pots clang somewhere nearby. There are several doorways off this gathering hall, I realize, and though I’m tired, I take to walking around the room, poking my head into darkened doorways, doing what I can to shut out the sound of suffering. Dakk’s cries have turned to sobs now, but they’re far from quiet.
I stick my head into the kitchen where Lenore’s just whisked the children. It’s a crowded space, small and steaming. The girls stand on crates and receive instructions from Lenore and a wispy-haired gentleman wearing an apron. Next to the kitchen, there’s a room full of boots and shovels and coats—it smells unremarkably like feet and I don’t stay long. On the adjoining wall, another room holds two miniature camp beds, the blankets on top woven with glittering ribbons. Above the beds, there’s a wall full of colorful drawings affixed to the timber with twyl chewing gum—I imagine this is where Hyla’s girls have been sleeping. My heart trips and I back out slowly.
There’s just one more room to explore. It’s on the opposite wall, in a corner not quite touched by the warmth of the fire.
It has a cell in it.
The cell is dark and fusty, the lone high window covered with a scrap of metal. A thin wax taper mounted just inside the door gives the room its only light. It’s not much, but I can see well enough.
Bristol Mapes is sprawled on the floor, asleep.
When Lenore enters, she’s quiet, respectful. “He said a lot of things about you,” she says. “Out on the Seacliff Road. Things I didn’t believe at first.”
I swallow.
“There was so much kol on the air and every gust of wind made him jump. It was a nightmare there for a stretch. If we hadn’t had so much twyl . . .”
“Did he treat you well?” I ask, my voice catching. “You seem well.”