"Take the bed," he orders.
"Huh?" I say for the second time today.
He jerks his chin toward the only door in the cabin I haven't been through—a heavy plank door at the far end, past the fireplace. "Bedroom's through there. Take it. I'll sleep out here."
"I'm not taking your bed."
"Your ankle needs elevation and the couch is too short," he overrules. "The bed has an extra pillow. Use it."
I'm genetically inclined toward argument, but this is one I'm not that upset about losing. Anyhow, he's right: my ankledoeshurt and the couchistoo short. Plus, the knot on my head has once again inflicted me with a crippling migraine.
"Fine," I mutter for the second time today. "But I want it noted that this is under protest."
"As with all your other complaints, this has been noted. Goodnight, Caroline."
He drops into the armchair, stretches his legs out, and closes his eyes. Conversation over. Audience concluded. The king has retired.
I hop over to the bedroom door, push it open, and step inside.
As I suspected, the decor in here is sparse. A double bed with a plain quilt—dark blue, well-worn, tucked in with military corners. A nightstand with a glass of water and a book facedown. A wooden dresser. A narrow window showing nothing but snow and darkness. No photographs, same as the rest of the cabin.
Or wait.
Maybe that last part isn't quite true.
Because over there, on the nightstand, underneath the facedown book, the corner of a photograph peeks out.
I glance over my shoulder toward the door. Through the gap I can see the back of Afon's head in the armchair, eyes still closed.
I shouldn't…
I absolutely should not…
That's probably why I do.
I pick up the book and slide the photograph out. It's old. Creased down the middle from being folded and unfolded too many times. The colors are faded and sun-bleached.
Two men and a woman stand in front of what looks like a restaurant. The man on the left is young and lean, with dark hair and a jaw that hasn't yet been broken. He's almost smiling—almost—which is how I recognize him despite the thirty-year gap.
Afon, barely older than I am now.
The man in the middle is a somewhat familiar-looking stranger. Same dark hair, same strong build, but looser in his posture, more at ease. There's an undeniable resemblance, though. Brothers, maybe. He has his arm slung around Afon's shoulder in the casual, possessive way of family.
And the woman on the right, in a blue sundress, one hand resting on the stranger's arm, laughing at something just off-camera?—
My breath catches.
She's beautiful. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, her face lit up with joy.
I turn the photo over. On the back, in faded blue pen, someone has written three names.
Afon. Gervasii. Yelena.
Gervasii. That's Matvei's father—the one who died.
And Yelena...
Out of nowhere, my mind goes to the bronze band on Afon's finger. It's probably glinting in the firelight right now. One little source of illumination in the midst of this valley of darkness.
