Victor Grimholt's Arc

Chapter 11 of 11

The seal on the folded paper meant the man would come back, and soon. Victor read the message twice, then burned it in the stove. Lunella watched the flame catch. She did not ask what it said. She only pressed closer to his leg, the way she did now when the shop grew quiet. He put a hand on her hair. He had work to do before dark. He walked her through the swamp path to Rhys's door. Vorak was already there, arms folded, filling the porch like a boulder someone had dropped. Rhys, small in his hood, the metal mask catching the last light, was carving a wooden bird on the step. Victor had sent word an hour before. Neither man had asked why. "Tonight," Victor said. "I need to be gone. Market business. She stays at the shop." Rhys set the knife down. "We'll sit with her." "No." Victor's voice was low. "Outside. She sits alone inside. She has to." He looked at Lunella. She looked back. "Or she never will." Vorak grunted. "A cub that cannot sleep without the mother learns nothing. We watch the door. No charge. Nothing gets past us." His yellow eyes cut to Rhys. "Nothing." Back at the shop, Victor knelt at the chest. He lifted a bundle of oiled cloth from the bottom, one he had kept since the night she was left on his step. He unwrapped an iron hook. Runes ran along the handle in pink and green light, faint as a pulse. He had held it back for a night like this. "This is yours now," he said. He set it in her hands. It was heavy for her, but she did not drop it. "You know the grip. Same as the paring knife. Thumb here." He moved her thumb. "If the door opens and it is not me, you swing. You do not ask. You do not call." She nodded once. She set the hook on the bench beside her stitched leather hare, the small brown rabbit he had sewn her years ago. The hare's black eyes watched the room. "I will be back before the lamp burns to the second mark," he said. "Rhys is at the front. Vorak is at the back. You are not alone. You are only alone in here." He closed the door behind him. He did not look through the window. He walked to the treeline and made himself stand there. Inside, no cry came. The lamp burned. He counted his own breath the way he counted cuts. When he came back at the second mark, he opened the door slow. Lunella sat on the stool. The hook lay across her knees. The hare sat in her lap. Her eyes were wet, but her mouth was steady. "You did not call," he said. "No," she said. He closed the door. The night was hers now. The man with the seal could come.