Victor Grimholt's Arc

Chapter 3 of 9

By morning the swamp already knew. Victor heard it in the way the reed-cutters stopped talking when he passed, and in the boot prints that stopped a pace short of his door. A butcher with a baby was a story worth walking wet miles for. He tied Lunella to his chest under his coat, left the yellow hood peeking out, and set off before more eyes could gather. Paper. He needed paper. A name on a page that said the child was his, so no stranger could claim otherwise. The schoolhouse sat crooked on its stilts, half-sunk, vines dragging its shutters down. Averion answered the door in robes of moss and small flowers, staff in hand. Victor did not waste words. "She was left on my step. I kept her. I need a certificate that says so." Averion looked at the baby, then at the butcher, and stepped aside. "Come in, friend. The swamp has its own ledger. I can add a page." Inside smelled of wet chalk and dried river-mint. Averion set out a square of pressed reed-paper and mixed ink from a clay jar. "Names," they said. "Yours. Hers. The day." Victor rasped them out. Lunella. Grimholt. This morning. Averion wrote slow, each letter placed like a stone in a wall. The door creaked. Rhys stepped in first, hood down, wooden mask pushed up on his brow. Amara came behind him, ears twitching at the smell of milk. She saw the bundle and her whole face changed. "So it's true," she breathed. "Victor. She's tiny." Rhys spoke slower, picking each word. "Word's out past the reeds. We came to see if the story matched the man." Victor's shoulders locked. He put one broad hand over the baby's back. Amara raised both palms. "Easy, butcher. We're not here to take her." She grinned, and her tail flicked once. "Look at you. Bunny hood and everything. You're a father." Rhys nodded at the paper drying on the desk. "That'll settle most tongues. The loud ones, anyhow." He pulled a small carved rabbit from his pouch and set it beside the ink. "For her. I make them when I can't sleep." Amara stepped closer and leaned to look at Lunella's face. The baby caught a strand of red hair and pulled. Amara laughed. "She's got grip. Good. She'll need it, living with you." Averion pressed a wax seal to the paper and passed it to Victor. He held it a long moment before folding it into his coat. "If anyone comes asking," Rhys said at the door, "my sister and I heard it first. We'll say the child is spoken for." Amara winked. "Loudly." They left him on the schoolhouse step with the seal against his ribs and Lunella warm under his coat. The curious eyes would still come. Now he had an answer for them, and two voices in the swamp that would speak before his did.