“Gideon was twenty-two when it happened. He’d just taken over the tavern with Hunter. He didn’t question the official report. I think he needed it to be an accident. The alternative was too much to deal with on top of losing his father.”
“That’s sad. I can’t imagine losing my parent like that.”
I swallow. “I can.”
He looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“Because I lost my father the very same way. A tragic car accident during a rift.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Silas is quiet for a moment, turning his glass on the bar. “My mother died when I was ten.”
The vulnerability catches me off guard. I look at him, but he’s staring at his water like it holds something worth reading.
“How?” I ask.
He pauses. The pause stretches long enough that I start to feel uncomfortable.
“Silas. Forget I asked. That was?—”
“I don’t remember.”
I frown. “What do you mean, you don’t remember?”
“I mean I don’t remember how she died. I know she died. I know I was ten. I know there was a funeral and my sister cried and my father didn’t. But the actual how—the cause of death, the circumstances—I can’t recall any of it. It’s like there’s a wall where the memory should be.”
“That’s not normal.”
“No. It’s not.” He finally looks at me. “I’ve never thought about it before. Never questioned it. When people asked, I’d say she was sick, and I believed it because that’s what felt true. But just now, when you were talking about Victor Ash and the official story and how it didn’t add up?—
“You think someone altered your memory?”
“I think it’s possible. I think a lot of things are possible that I didn’t think were possible three days ago.”
I set my water down. “I’m sorry. I was being insensitive, bringing up your mom like that.”
“You weren’t. You were making conversation. And I’m the one who brought it up.” He finishes his water and stands. “Let’s check those boxes before April changes her mind.”
The back room of Hearthlight is cluttered with old furniture, spare kegs, and boxes of inventory. But in the far corner, behind a shelving unit stacked with napkins and coasters, there’s a stack of cardboard boxes that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.
Dust coats the top ones. The tape on the flaps is yellow and brittle.
I pull the first box down and open it. Files. Manila folders stuffed with papers, diagrams, handwritten notes. Victor Ash’s handwriting—cramped, precise, slanting to the right.
I flip through them quickly. Quarantine maintenance logs. Ley line measurements. Ward schematics that look similar to the ones in Aunt Etta’s library but with subtle differences in the rune construction.
“Silas.”
He’s already beside me, pulling down another box. This one contains maps—old survey maps of the quarry, hand-drawn overlays showing the ley line paths, annotations in the margins that I can’t decipher.
“This rune style,” Silas says, holding up one of the schematics. “It’s the same as the secondary ward layer. The one underneath yours.”
“Victor Ash built those wards.”
“Victor Ash built wards that are feeding energy into the Rift instead of containing it. And he hid them underneath the legitimate ward structure so no one would find them.”
