“Not the most Russian profile in the world, is it?” said Ruslan.
“Well…”
Enrique knew the Russian Empire was huge, with citizens who looked as varied as hues in a rainbow, but there was something Enrique recognized in Ruslan’s features. A gap, in a way, whereothernesssnuck in and blurred his features. He recognized it because he saw it in his own reflection every day.
“I know,” he said, then patted the top of his head. “I don’t know who my mother was. I imagine she was a Buryat native or a Kyrgyz woman or what have you. Then again, they have suchexcellenthair that one would think I would’ve inherited it! Rude. Ah well. It does not matter. What does matter is that the part of her that clings to me is the part no one seems to like. So I understand, Mr. Mercado-Lopez. And I see what you wish to hide.”
Enrique felt a hard lump in his throat. It took him a while before he could muster the strength to talk again.
“I’m glad I’m not alone.”
“You most certainly are not,” said Ruslan kindly. He thrummed his fingers against the sling of his injured arm, then turned about the room. He let out a sigh. “Eva told me all about your ratherdisturbing discovery. Young womendeadin these halls?” He shuddered. “I don’t blame you for escaping into the quiet of this room.”
Escaping? Was that what everyone thought he was doing? His cheeks warmed.
“I didn’t come here to be alone with my thoughts,” he said, fumbling with the Mnemo bug. “I came here to research and study what I saw in the grotto. I think there’s a link between those girls and the Fallen House’s treasures. And I’m quite certain those girls are the truth behind the ghost stories here.”
Ruslan blinked at him. “Ghosts?”
“The… ghost stories about this area?” clarified Enrique, but Ruslan’s face was still blank. “Hyp—I mean, Patriarch Hypnos—told me that this area terrified the locals so badly that House Dazbog even investigated. Nothing was ever found, though.”
“Ah, yes,” said Ruslan, shaking his head. “If those really are the same victims, I am glad they can be laid to rest. Though what does it have to do with the Fallen House’s treasures?”
Enrique had his ideas, but maybe they were foolish. He was about to say so when he caught the way Ruslan looked at him. Wide-eyed and excited. Tristan used to be like this, eager to hear what he had to say, even if he hadn’t the faintest clue what he was talking about. It was intoxicating, he thought, to be so clearly seen by someone else.
He slid the Mnemo into the projection. He did not want to go straight to the image of the girls. He needed to think through his process before jumping to a conclusion that could change the course of how they treated the ice grotto. Instead, he brought up a couple of images that had cropped up throughout his research in Paris. One was of the Matsue Castle of Japan. Another image followed, this time of a bridge, then another temple, then a design tornfrom the pages of a medieval book on Arthurian legends showing a tower balancing atop a red-and-white dragon fighting beneath the ground.
“All of these buildings have one aspect in common,” said Enrique. “Foundation sacrifice. In Japan, they called this practicehitobashira, an act of human sacrifice specifically done around the construction of institutions like temples or bridges. In this area, in and around the Ural Mountains, the ancient Scythians and Mongolians had similar constructions with theirkurganburial sites, where warriors would be buried with all their riches and sometimes various servants and guards, so that the spirits of the sacrificed went on to act as guardians.”
As he spoke, he saw the stories he referenced stretch out before him. He saw them linking back to the girls in the ice grotto and their ruined mouths. He wondered at their pain and their fear, all of it sliced through with the taste of snow and blood, metal and cold.
“In terms of the positioning of the girls… it feels similar to that ritualistic sacrifice, though we need more concrete proof before I can make that leap,” said Enrique.
“But you think that the presence of the dead girls might be proof that there’s treasure in that room? That there’s something to be guarded?”
Enrique nodded hesitantly and then maneuvered the Mnemo bug to the last and final image, the one of the dead girls above the three shields. It was bad enough they had been murdered and strung up, but if their jaws held a symbol, then it might be a clue.
“Dear God,” breathed Ruslan, his eyes widening in horror.
Enrique stared up at the image, his heart twisting. He made a quick sign of the cross down his body. He wasn’t like Séverin orZofia, who could separate the human story from the treasure hunt. All hesawwere stories… lives cut short, dreams withered from cold and forgotten, families torn apart. How many girls had gone missing for this? How many people had been left wondering where they’d gone? When all this time, they had been here, and no one could find them.
Across the mottled skin of the girls’ mouths and cheeks lay precise and terrible slashes and puncture wounds, a grisly and unmistakable cipher that weighed down Enrique’s next words:
“Those girls are the key to the treasure.”
19
ZOFIA
Three days until Winter Conclave…
Zosia,
Do you remember the chicken soup Mama made with eyerlekh? You used to call it “sun soup.” I crave that so dearly right now.
I do not wish to worry you, but my cough has returned, and though I feel weak, I know I will get better. The boy delivering my medicine left me a flower today. He’s handsome, Zofia. Handsome enough that perhaps I don’t mind having to stay in bed all day if it means he comes to visit. His name is Isaac…
ALONE IN THE GROTTO,Zofia decided to test a theory.
