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Unable to tear my eyes away from the pretty little cottage, I squeaked out the answer that I could barely believe myself.
“It’s home,” I mewled. “This is my home.”
Chapter15
Zen
It was all too much for her. She was cracking under all the pressure.
I stared nervously at her as Mirielle traced her hands lovingly over the house that had magically appeared from the ground, the adoration in her eyes unmistakable.
“What?” I sputtered.
“This is my home,” she repeated, her words distinct and clear. “I lived here.”
I shook my head as I followed her, trying to make sense of what she thought she was seeing.
“Miri, how can this be your home?” I asked slowly. “You grew up in an orphanage. Is this the orphanage?”
She finally turned to look at me, shaking her head as if the spell that had overcome her had worn off. “No, Zen. This is where I lived with my parents before they were killed. This is my real home. I can’t believe I didn’t remember it…”
Trailing off, she rushed toward the door, and I raced after her, unsure that we were alone.
“You lived out here? In the Locaza Forest?” I demanded.
“I don’t remember the details,” she admitted, finding the front door. “I was too young. But this was definitely the cottage where we lived. I remember every detail of it. I used to count the stones on the front.”
“Maybe it just looks like the same place?”
She was already inside the house, and I could barely keep up with her energy, her footsteps racing against the pristine wood floors. It certainly didn’t seem like a place that had been buried in dirt for fifteen years.
“Miri, what if this is Agnan’s doing?” I asked her pointedly. “He could have created this with dark magic.”
“It’s not his doing. He doesn’t know about this place. I didn’t even remember it myself until right now. Seeing it opened the floodgate of memories for me.”
She grinned at me, and it was difficult not to be infected by her enthusiasm as she dropped to her knees in front of an old television cabinet and dug out the contents, my doubts beginning to dissipate as I realized what she was holding.
“Look,” she pleaded, reading my skepticism from the doorway. She gestured at the photo albums. “Here we all are.”
I ambled closer, kneeling beside her to look, and my eyes enlarged as I saw the old photographs of Mirielle as a little girl, smiling and happy between two distinguished-looking parents.
“You look exactly like your mom,” I murmured, relaxing as she flipped through the pages, her eyes lingering on each picture lovingly.
Long fingers reached out to stroke the faded photographs as if the redheaded woman was in front of her, the regal bearing oddly familiar about her somehow. My eyes narrowed as I took her in closer, my pulse tripping.
“Can I see that, Miri?” I asked, leaning closer to look at the couple.
“Of course,” she chirped, handing me the album. She dug deeper into the cabinet as I stared at the photo, a strange sensation prickling the back of my neck.
“What was your mother’s name, Miri?” I choked, shaking my head, trying to clear the fuzziness from my eyes.
“Audrina,” she answered promptly. “My father was Yusi.”
My stomach flipped, and I began to tear through the album, scouring for more photos. Mirielle found another box and had busied herself pulling out papers. She was oblivious to my mounting excitement—and disbelief.
Was this possible? How?
“Oh,” she breathed, pulling out a leather-bound book. “I think this belonged to my mother.”
