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Father.
Chapter Four
Kaja
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ISHOULD HAVE SAIDsomething to my father about the man hiding in the forest.
I don’t know why I didn’t. It wasn’t as though I was naïve about my father’s work, and I understood the threats he had from rival forgers and what those could mean. Had it been that I’d known the man would have ended up dead if I’d opened my mouth? Or was it that I was angry with my father and didn’t want to do something that might help him?
He didn’t want me to live my own life. All he wanted was for me to continue to live his.
The white nights of summer, where it never really got dark, were long behind us, and it was dark before eight now. A dampness had filled the forest air, settling in the moss and fungi that attached to the tree trunks.
The first half of September had been noticeably warm, but the chill in the air told me winter was on its way. Winter here was difficult. Snow would be on the ground for months, and we’d even end up snowed in for weeks at a time. We were prepared for it, of course, with plenty of canned foods and dried meats in stock, but it only increased my sense of isolation. We literally were cut off from the rest of the world when that happened, and I couldn’t even get into the city to replenish my book supplies, so I’d have to reread all my favourites.
It was growing dark now, and the image of the blond head of the man in the forest remained in my mind. Who was he? What did he want? He hadn’t been dressed appropriately for a hike, so I didn’t think he was someone who’d taken the wrong path and ended up near our property by accident. I’d known that I’d have signed his death warrant if I’d opened my mouth. My father and his men wouldn’t have listened to any excuses. He’d looked young—maybe mid-twenties. Had he come here alone? It didn’t make sense. If someone was here to attack our compound, surely they’d have brought others with them?
Our days ended early here, and we rose early, too, living with the light. During the winter months, that meant we almost went into hibernation. My father passed the time by drinking, while I continued to read.
After dinner, I went to bed, sliding beneath the covers. I always slept well—physical work combined with fresh air helped—and my eyes were shut within minutes.
***
IWOKE TO A HAND OVERmy mouth.
I tried to gasp, but cool skin muffled the sound. What was happening? Did I need to keep quiet because we were under attack? Did it have something to do with the man I’d seen in the forest?
At first, I’d thought it was my father’s hand, but then I realised it didn’t smell like him—not wood smoke and dirt, but something cleaner and sharper. The fingers were longer and slimmer, too, not thick with rough skin like my father’s. Whoever was smothering me caught my wrists with his other hand, pinning them over my head.
Full-blown panic set in.
I kicked out wildly, hoping to strike the man, but he managed to avoid them. It was dark, and all I could make out was the shape of him above me. I writhed and bucked and screamed against his palm, but his hand stifled the noise. My bedroom was located on the other side of the cabin to my father’s, and normally I’d be happy for the privacy, but not tonight. I remembered how he’d been drinking vodka when I’d gone to bed, and if he’d had a skinful, it would take a bomb going off to wake him.
