He lifts me.
One motion. Easy. Like I weigh nothing.
"Devyn—"
"You were standing too still."
"That doesn't even make sense—"
"It makes perfect sense." He's carrying me toward the bed, and I should protest, but his arms are warm and solid around me and I can't remember why protesting seemed like a good idea. "You're injured. You need rest."
"I have a bruise on my forehead, not a broken leg."
"Rest," he repeats, setting me down on the sheets. "Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I'm your husband." He leans over me, one hand braced beside my head. "Close enough."
And then he's kissing me again, and I stop arguing.
The next day, I wake to an empty bed, morning light, and a note on his pillow.
Meetings until evening. Rest. Don't run into any walls.
—D
I stare at the note for a long moment. At the almost-humor in that last line. At the initial instead of his name, like we're familiar enough now for shortcuts.
Then I fold it carefully and tuck it into the nightstand drawer.
I have work to do.
THE CHAPEL LOOKS DIFFERENTin morning light. Smaller, somehow. More ordinary. Just a room with pews and stained glass and a panel carved with roses in the back corner.
I cross to the panel. Press the center bloom.
The door groans open.
The darkness beyond is absolute.
I turn on my flashlight and step through.
The passage is just as I remember—narrow, cold, the walls pressing close on either side. Stone under my feet, damp and ancient. The air smells like dust and minerals and time.
Last time, I stopped at the loose stone where I found the journal. I didn't go any further. Didn't see what lay beyond.
This time, I keep walking.
The passage descends.
Gradually at first, then more steeply. Steps appear—uneven, worn—carved directly into the stone. I count them as I go. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
The air gets colder.
My breath fogs in front of me, and I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I'd thought to grab a jacket. The light from my flashlight catches dust motes swirling in the air, dancing like tiny ghosts.
Forty steps. Fifty.
