“That worries you, doesn’t it?” Roarke asks.
“It just looks too perfect.”
Killian rumbles.
“You don’t think so?” I ask him.
“We’ve seen a lot of blood. Blood does weird things, perfect droplets or wide arcs or big pools,” Roarke says.
“But wings,” I press.
“They’re not very big. Really, it’s not a lot of blood, given the trauma the woman had.”
I move forward, feeling a little exposed as their bodies lose contact with mine. He’s right about the size; with my thumbs pressed together each wing is barely the span of my hands.
“But they are wings.”
Killian offers a ‘maybe’ grunt, grabbing the back of my pants and yanking me back a step. His gaze is locked onto the design.
“Why does it matter?” he finally asks.
I sigh. It doesn’t in the scheme of things. “It just doesn’t make sense to me. The Sabers said they killed her, but they weren’t the ones to damage her body. They were waiting for the thing that did the damage to come back when we arrived. So something took her heart, and in the process left a mark that looks like wings.”
I run my fingers over the design, feeling a shiver as logic reminds me that this is someone’s blood that I’m touching.
Just blood. Just stained stone.
“Weird – yes. Important – no,” Killian says.
He sounds so much like the thoughts going through my mind that I have to chuckle at hearing him say them out loud.
“Agreed,” I say.
“I’ve got work to do,” Roarke says, waving towards the book he had carried out with him and the one he found in the cellar.
Among the river pebbles at the base of the big, bloody rock is something tiny and shiny. I lean down and scoop it up.
“Huh,” he says. “Looks like glass.”
“Can’t be.” Killian tries to take it from me, but I snap my fingers tightly closed around it.
“Is it a spider?” I demand.
“Not likely,” Roarke says with a curious tilt to his head.
“If it’s not going to turn into a spider – like that pretty blue leaf – then you’re not allowed to squish it.”
“It’s a rock.”
I roll my eyes. I didn’t literally mean ‘squish’ – except Killian could probably crush it with ease. So, yeah, I did mean squish.
“There’s a cliff made of smooth stone at the end of the path. Maybe it chipped off,” Roarke says.
Their attention moves down the path, looking around even though it’s obvious that we’re in a bit of a secluded nook, with the boulders and stream bordering us on both sides and the cottage blocking out all view of the rest of the domain.
“You’re right,” Roarke says, as if Killian has actually spoken. “One shard this far away is unlikely, and it doesn't look quite like the same compound.”
“What’s a smooth wall doing at the end of the path?”
“The water for the stream has probably flowed over it for thousands – maybe millions – of years. There’s nothing better than water to wear any type of rock smooth, given enough time. These boulders are black granite, which is rare, but it just means that there was a volcano around here a few million years ago, but not enough quartz. There’s only one active volcano in Silva, but the remaining mountain for this one probably forms part of the border to the south, though I’m not sure which mountain it would be.”
He points into the mist beyond the big tree. I can’t see a mountain, but in that direction I can’t even see the sky. I don’t remember seeing that kind of mountain from the Manor, either – but Cook did tell strange tales. And all we could see was a forest and the green mist of the border. It was spooky.
“So volcanoes form rocks?” I press, trying to find the link between volcanoes and the stone in my hand or the smooth wall apparently down the path.
“Volcanoes release lava, lava cools to make granite, though granite needs a percentage of quartz to be true granite, so what we’re looking at is specifically termed ‘gabbro’ –”
“Roarke,” Killian grunts, cutting in.
Which earns him a sharp elbow and my cranky tone. “I was listening to him.”
Roarke leans in and kisses my temple, leaving the spot tingling as he whispers, “Thank you.”
I want to say ‘you’re welcome,’ but I’m a bit distracted by the sensation still humming on my skin.
“I was going to say,” Roarke continues, “that volcanoes leave tunnels too, and now that I’m thinking about it, a tunnel from the mountain would create a constant source of water and pressure for the unusual direction of flowing out from underneath the roots. The tree is probably growing its roots into the tunnel, enjoying the luxury of a pure, endless water supply. If the stream didn’t flow uphill, this whole area would be a pond, or even a lake, so the stream’s direction is probably Eydis’ work.”
“But no spring?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“No spring and a path that leads to a pretty rock,” I mutter, uncurling my fingers to inspect my pretty rock.
It’s almost the size of a small egg, the kind a pigeon would lay. But it’s rough, like it’s covered in a million scratches. Without the scratches, it might be completely clear – but it just looks scratched and a little broken now. Oddly, I get a sense that it is anything but rough and broken – that this is how it’s meant to be – but all of that just feeds my curiosity more.
It’s cold against my skin, even though me holding it should have warmed it up by now. And to say it hums would make me sound crazy – but that’s exactly what it feels like.
“Is it a weapon – is this what smashed through her chest?”
“And left these marks on the boulder? Also unlikely. Why are you so curious about it?” Roarke asks.
“The blood? I’m not anymore; I’m curious about this
