Page 90 of These Tears

Above the hearth, a crossbow is mounted on the wall with a neat row of bolts beside it, displayed too plainly to be decoration and too carefully to be an afterthought.

A shudder courses through me at the sight. I avert my gaze, glancing instead at reindeer and bear pelts. Alongside a handwoven wool throw, they lie draped over furniture that doesn’t quite match, but still feels like a deliberate choice, as if each item was bartered for or hunted rather than produced in a grand factory.

My attention snags on an iron ring recessed into the floorboards. I pull, and a square hatch lifts with a groan as it releases a breath of colder, earthier air. The narrow steps that disappear beneath it are crude and I consider them carefully before I eventually dip inside.

The shelves in the root cellar are stocked with more sense than mercy.

A row of sealed jars comes into view first. One catches my eye. Dried porcini caps curl brown against its glass.

As I pick it up, my eyes trace over every detail of the cellar and something starts itching at the back of my mind.

The stocked shelves. The fresh food. My luggage.

‘No roads. Nature’s perfection,’ he said.

How did he get us all the way out here? How did he carry me, unconscious, along with two bags? Did someone help him?

God, are there more people here?

The thought that someone nearby might have helped him move a person without question turns the cellar colder than the ice crusting the windows upstairs.

Why does every shelf, every storage space scream preparation as though he’s been at it all summer, when I know he was locked up?

Before I let myself spiral, I reroute my mind away from the horrors I’ve endured this morning. Because panic won’t feed me. Rage won’t warm me.

If I am going to get through this, I need to own the small territories he hasn’t taken from me: the range. The knife. Small choices – like what goes into the pot.

Anna flashes through my head – her voice, her fussing, the way she used to get absurdly excited over things.

I glance at the jar in my hand.

She loved foraged things especially. I never thought I’d be grateful for that book she’d bought me as a joke – about preparing mushrooms. The joke is on her, because I read it. My brain reaches for names and methods, holding on to something that isn’t tied to Elias.

After gathering the rest of the ingredients, I’m back in the kitchen. The cheese is grated, spices lined up, and caps go into the broth until they soften. Then I lay them out and dress them with cheese and seasoning before sliding them into the oven. The door shuts with a dull thunk, underscoring the rural hell that keeps closing in around me. The sound dies slowly, intent on leaving one last thread of unease behind.

Elias is still outside when dinner is ready. I can hear the indoors settling around his absence – the occasional creak, the low hush of the fire, the faint whistle of wind worrying at the seams.

I take advantage of it.

In the bedroom, I pull on a jumper and warm joggers. My skin aches as it remembers what the cold taught me on the porch.

When I start for the kitchen, my eyes catch on the camera sitting atop the desk, and it reels me in.

Like a flower turning towards the sun, I reach for it – its weight familiar. It irons out the edges of the world by a fraction. Enough to breathe and pretend – for one minute – that looking through a lens is the same as having distance.

‘I thought you didn’t know how to cook.’ The words spill from the doorway, followed by the clean, wintry scent of the outdoors.

I hadn’t even heard him come in.

Twisting at the waist, I look back.

He’s braced with his arms hooked high above the frame, too big for the doorway, as if the house itself is trying to hold him back and failing.

I don’t step into the cosy little bubble his tone invites. Not after the lashing. I meet his gaze without a smile and offer no response.

His mouth presses into a thin line. His gaze drops from mine and stays on the floor a guilty little second too long.

That drives some semblance of hope into my bones. Hope… that he’s still human.