A Night in the Cabin with Zack - Entry Log #1

  “See, it’s not so bad, right?”

  “It’s filthy.”

  “We can fix that. And you say that as if you haven’t been living in crypt.”

  “There’s no ‘we’—this is a one time thing.”

  “You’ll need somewhere to go when you finally decide to wake up. I was thinking about it the other day, how if I were asleep for four hundred years and didn’t have anywhere to go, it might be daunting to think about being homeless. I mean, I know you’re not homeless. But you don’t want to go home, so I reckon you can borrow mine. I even have a key for you.”

  “The speed at which you’re capable of speaking is dizzying.”

  “Will you think about it?”

  “Would you consider a rug?”

  “Will you pay for it?”

  “Feargus Finlay, I don’t have any money.”

  “Weeeeeeeeeell—aye, I can swing a rug.”

  Obligatory (R)AM Check-In:

  ? Strauss spent an inordinate amount of time in the church library.

  ? Michael and Varis sat at the kitchen table at The House.

  ? He drank tea. She pretended to.

  ? Neither of them said much.

  Obligatory Ivana Check-In:

  ? “Cookies” was rudely interrupted when a customer entered the inn.

  ? Only it wasn’t a customer. It was Strauss. I’d get him back for that one day.

  ? But here’s how their conversation went from my awkward neck of the woods:

  “There’s a face I’ve missed,” V said. “Come to blow my bar to smithereens?”

  Reasonable as always, V.

  “Only to ask a question,” Strauss answered. “This time, anyway.”

  The comedy from that man, and without even trying.

  “What can you tell me about the Roska family?” he asked.

  Oooo, this should be interesting.

  “There are stories. Hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I don’t eat anything save oats and words, fair maiden, and I’ve already had my oats today. Therefore, I’ll take one story.”

  “They’re just stories, though,” Ivana said.

  And Strauss replied, “You dare deny my sustenance, wench?”

  Mates, I’m taking some liberties with the dialogue because it’s Strauss. How else will he know how much I love him? And how else am I going to keep this part of the story interesting? But the short of it is: Ivana told Strauss a watered down, ambiguous version of the Roska story. Nice family, two kids. A boy and a girl. The girl got pregnant young, gave birth, and then they both died, not long after which their parents died, and then the boy disappeared.

  We all know now the boy was Alexander and the girl was Lidia, but even at the time, this information seemed to satisfy Strauss. So, given the nature of his fishing expedition, and the fact Rhian had left him a portrait of Lidia, it confirmed RAM was headed in the right direction.

  “Hungry? Thirsty?” V asked.

  “No—still no—but thank you.”

  Once the story was over, Strauss asked V a few questions about herself, about her education and her time in the city, and that went on for a while, leading to V confessing that she’d taken over the inn when her sister died. Partly true.

  “My condolences,” Strauss said.

  “It’s not so bad. It’s a family thing, it’s just what we do. Too bad the village is the shit-fly’s dinner.”

  “My condolences were for the death of your sister.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Hungry? Thirsty?”

  Strauss’s answer hadn’t changed, but then—

  I tuned into the sound of armoured boot-steps against the stairs. The steps approached the bar, and after a moment, Emerich Bach stopped and asked Strauss to leave the Peak with him.

  They did.

  Then we got to finish our cookie.

  “She’s sleeping,” Alexander said.

  “Not this again,” I answered.

  “She’s sleeping all on her own. A late riser, it seems.” Alexander turned to Peter. “Would you mind waking her and bringing her some water and a fruit? Direct her to the attic for a surprise.”

  Peter nodded and stepped off, making for the kitchen.

  “Well?” Alexander eyed me. “Go play in the attic.”

  I chuckled and tossed the man a quick salute before tackling the stairs two at a time.

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  I wasn’t sure if Rhian already knew what was in Alexander’s attic, but as soon as I crept up the ladder and walked in, I knew she’d love it. It was an art room, stacked with easels and canvases, costumes, and paints of all shades. My sister saw truth, and that applied to her talent as an artist.

  Pacing, and pacing, and pacing, I waited, and waited, and waited—

  Waited, and waited, and waited—

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—the number of steps up the ladder. She’d barely made it to the landing before I clobbered her. Peter came up behind her, but I didn’t care. We hugged and made a series of odd, animal sounds, and then she asked, “What in the six hells are you doing here?” which was a very good question, wasn’t it?

  “Visiting my new best friends Peter and Alex,” I said.

  Peter found that amusing. He excused himself, but not before offering to make us a tiny lunch.

  Now, as you might remember from The First One, the next part went a lot like this:

  “What are you actually doing here?”

  “I’m here because you need me.”

  “That’s a shit answer, mate, but I’ve missed you.”

  I told her I missed her, too, that she was my left arm, and that’s when I decided to dress up like a storybook hero. I asked her to paint me, and she started sketching.

  Fun fact: Alexander ended up hanging that painting in his dining room.

  He still has it.

  “I might be pregnant,” Rhian said.

  “Stracha’s Steed.”

  Stracha’s Steed was right, mates. Look, if anybody should have been pregnant, it should have been me, miraculously by sheer volume. Meanwhile, Strauss and Rhian do it once—well, twice. No wonder she needed me.

  “Is that why you were living in the forest?” I asked.

  “How did you know I was living in the forest?”

  “Because I know everything.”

  Rhian peeked around the canvas just to roll her eyes, and for the next little while we talked about Lidia, Alexander, and what to say if anyone official found out she was pregnant—we decided she’d say it was mine. She wasn’t ready to tell Strauss yet, and I understood.

  Without saying so directly, I confessed to knowing about the Anima.

  It wasn’t much longer before Peter called us out for lunch, and as you know, we ate with Alexander who didn’t eat. After lunch, he told us the real Roska story—most of which I already knew, but he hammed it up for Rhian, and ultimately focused on Lidia.

  By the time Alexander was finished, it was well past dusk, and Rhian and I were alone in the library. I was going to make us some Piglets, but then I realized she probably shouldn’t drink. I sat on the couch instead, and Rhian joined me, laying face up with her head in my lap.

  When I witnessed Rhian and Strauss’s first kiss That One Time in Delphia, I remember teasing her about what their kids would look like. And now, I was going to be an uncle. But poor Rhian—she’d never actually expressed any desire to be a mother, but then again, objectively motherhood for a Partisan was an entirely different experience. The idea of pushing a barrel out a cookie for what? To give it up almost immediately and watch it live like we did? But I knew the future—the future in which we all change the world—and no niece or nephew of mine was going to be oppressed. And if she wanted to be, Rhian was going to be a great mother. The best.

  “So,” I said. “A baby.”

  “Fuck.”

  “That’s what got you knocked up, actually.”

  Rhian snorted. “Right, and I don’t know how to feel, mate. So for now, denial.”

  “Fair play. But how’d you feel when Lidia told you? Right at the minute.”

  She shrugged. “Like a triple punch to the gut. It might have been dread. It might have been excitement. Who can tell?”

  “It could be both.”

  “Aye, could be both,” she agreed. “How’s your lad?”

  “Got a bit complicated—you know how it is for us. Lifestyle incompatibility, let’s say.”

  “That’s rough, mate.” There was a pause when she looked me squarely. She knew it hurt, I know she did. And she hurt because I hurt, and I know that, because after she finished comforting me in silence, she made a joke.

  “Want me to kill him?”

  I grinned. “Aye, and make him suffer.”

  She chuckled, and it was quiet for a minute.

  “Rhi-rhi, I have to tell you something.”

  “All right.”

  “Yesterday when you were sleeping, I went into your room and talked to you.”

  “Well, I didn’t even hear a thing. What’d you say?”

  “So, I said a lot.”

  “And are you gonna tell me, or am I going to have to find a telepath to dig it out of my brain?”

  Fff—“Remember when we were five, and I told you you ripped your pants when you fell, and then I ripped my pants to match yours?”

  “Aye…?”

  “I lied. I ripped your pants on some jagged rocks when I was trying to wash them.”

  “All right,” she said. “Appreciate you trying to wash my pants, Gus. They were shitty pants anyhow, but—that’s what you told me while I was sleeping?”

  “Aye. Among other things…”

  “Like?”

  “That I’m sorry I can’t be there for you as much as I’d like.”

  “Aye, mate. Me, too. What else?”

  “That I feel like I’m missing out on your life, and I wish I could tell you more about mine.”

  “Gus, I wish you could, too, but that’s the way of things, isn’t it? And look—“ my sister sighed, and I knew it was because she was about to say something nice. “Wherever I am, you are. Wherever you are, I am. That’s just how we’re built, mate. Case closed. Now, what else did you say?”

  “I danced open a secret door.”

  “Not even surprised.”

  “I eat Strawberry Rhubarb Pie almost every night.”

  “Well, that’s a bit excessive, mate, even for you. Where are you getting all that pie?”

  “I know a lad,” I said. “Say, do people go bald in the face?”

  “I—what? I don’t know. Probably?”

  “…”

  For the next few hours, we chatted back and forth. Rhian told me everything she could about their investigation, and I told her everything I could about whatever I could, which wasn’t much.

  The next day, we made it back to Oskari to celebrate Rhian’s birthday at The House. As expected, she hated her present, which was a pistol.

  But that’s Rhian for you—she hates almost everything before she loves it.

  

  A Night in the Cabin With Zack - Entry Log #2

  “Still no rug, I see.”

  “I’m a busy man.”

  “Plenty of alcohol, however.”

  “If we’re going to live together, we need to get on the same page as far as our priorities. First priority, alcohol. Second priority, snacks. Third priority, either a decorative piece to go above the bed, or a plant. Fourth priority, rug. And how do you feel about cats?”

  “We aren’t living together.”

  “Yet.”