“That’s not the scary part, Kera.” She looked right through me.
“If my dreams are visions… then my nightmares are too.”
A tap on my shoulder jolted me. I flinched so hard my heart nearly stopped, and the world snapped back into focus. I was in the shed, and the smell of old paint, dust, and earth pressed in around me. It looked the way I remembered, just older. Cobwebs stretched across the walls. Dust coated everything. But the canvases were still there. Leaning where she had left them. Faded, but untouched. The Blood House was a mess. The furniture had been broken for years, anything of value long gone. But this—the last part of Licia that remained—no one had taken it. No one had destroyed it. It was all still here. Like it had been waiting for someone to remember.
“What’s all this?” Will’s voice came from behind me, I heard his footsteps slow as he stepped into the shed.
“They’re Licia’s,” I said.
He moved up beside me, his gaze drifting from one canvas to the next.
”I didn’t know she painted.”
“It was our little secret,” I whispered, and for a second, I swore I could still hear her voice in the dark.
The rest of the day dragged, but I’d told Mrs. Holt I’d clean up after she left. And the moment she was out of sight, I grabbed the largest mixing bowl we had and made another batch of dough. Then another. And another. I didn’t care that there was no space left on the counter. I didn’t care that I’d been on my feet since dawn. By the time I finished, I’d made enough to feed half the village.
I lined the loaves along the far counter, covered them with clean linen towels, and banked the fire, just enough to keep the heat for morning. The storage unit in the back was cool and dark, used mostly for sacks of flour and old linens. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of Einar crossing the square toward the bakery.
I moved fast. Cleared a space behind some crates and dragged one of the clean hampers over. That’s where I’d hide them. If Jorek and The Wardens needed bread, they’d have it.
I wiped the flour from my hands, cleared the last of the counter, and rushed to lock up. By the time I stepped outside, he was already there.
“Any news?” he asked, and I could’ve told him everything. That my wrist still burned from the soldier grabbing it. That there was something wrong with me for noticing the way Arche’s eyes lingered. About the resistance, The Wardens, the war or the loaves I’d spent the past hours making.
But I didn’t.
“There was a fight outside the bakery,” I said instead. “One of the Eredians crushed a man’s throat with his boot.”
Einar’s face didn’t change. “Then he must’ve done something wrong.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“There are hardly any brave men left,” I muttered.
He stopped, and turned toward me. “They’re not brave, Kera. They’re stupid.”
That’s when I saw it. Something I almost never saw in my brother’s eyes.
Fear.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He turned away and kept walking.
“Just promise me. If they ask something of you… you do it. You comply.”
Something had him shaken. He was never good at hiding things from me.
“I’ll comply,” I said with a small, reassuring smile. It was a lie, but if it made him stop looking at me like that, I’d say it again.
When we got home, our mother was waiting by the door. She pulled me in without a word, arms around me so tightly I could barely breathe. She didn’t say she’d been worried, she didn’t have to.
“How was your day?” My mother asked as we sat down for dinner. “Did you have time to bake those apple cakes you love?”
I shook my head. “No. Just bread. We’re behind.”
“Well… better times are coming.” Her smile trembled.
