31
Today
Aodhan finished checking the grandmother’s room. There wasn’t much else in there. A small potted plant that had wilted and browned from lack of water, a cardigan left on the bed, and a pile of clothing squares in a basket by the window. Grandmother was the quilt-maker, likely the person who cross-stitched.
Who’d been the water colorist?
He took care as he opened the small closet, but it held no horrors, only the older woman’s clothing, and a few personal items.
Leaving the room with a sense of melancholy heavy in his blood, Aodhan went to the next door down.
It had once been part of a bigger room, but someone had put up a rough wooden partition at some point.
The first room was of the couple, the one next door the child’s.
There were no surprises in either, but Aodhan felt a heavy weight crush his chest as he stood in the doorway to the latter, and saw the small table beside the window. On it sat three toys, two pretty-colored stones, and a handheld device that he recognized as a cheap game player once advertised on huge billboards in Times Square.
Cheap, but expensive when it came to a family who lived as did the one in this house. Everything neat and tidy, but nothing new, nothing extravagant. All the clothes worn and repaired, many of the dishes chipped. That game would’ve equaled weeks or months of saving up, and it was obvious the child had treated it with care. It was placed carefully in its open box, as if the boy put it back there after every use.
Aodhan rubbed his chest, began to step out.
The light changed outside, perhaps a cloud moving, and the shift caught his eye, brought it to the wooden flooring.
There was something not quite right about it.
Striding over, he flipped the bed so it leaned against the makeshift wall that had given the boy his own private space. He’d been loved, this child. And under his bed was a stain of blood so large that no child could’ve survived it.
Forcing himself to keep going, Aodhan glanced at the slats of the bed. The bottom of the mattress was clearly visible . . . and it was soaked in rust red. Bringing the bed back down, he flipped away the hand-stitched quilt.
The child’s bed is soaked in blood, he told Illium, his throat hurting from all that he didn’t say. Enough of it that the smell hasn’t fully dissipated. He’d caught the faint whiff of cold iron the same instant he flipped back the quilt.
Rage against the child? Or was the mother there, trying to protect the boy?
No way to tell. Aodhan left the room, and checked the only other doors. One led to a small but crisply clean toilet, the other to a shower that made him suck in his breath. Someone bloody showered in here and didn’t clean up.
Dried blood flecked the plastic of the shower walls, while streaks of watery brown clung to the faded shine of the sink taps. A full handprint marked the wall next to the sink. The size said woman or a small man to him. Perhaps even a teenager. Definitely not a child as young as the one in the photo.
He turned his attention to the characters written in blood on the mirror. His local language ability was good as far as speech went, but he wasn’t confident when it came to his writing skills. Taking an image using his phone, he sent it to Illium. Can you read what I just messaged you?
No. I think it’s an older version of the language most often used in this region—see how complicated it is, how many lines? I don’t think most people these days use it.
Aodhan nodded, though Illium couldn’t see him. It was obvious now that his friend had pointed it out. Suyin will likely recognize it. I’ll send it to the general to show her.
A reply buzzed his phone just as he left the house.
First, he took great gulping breaths of the clean air, while Illium stood on alert watch, the kitten sitting at his feet with its ears pricked and claws unsheathed. “It feels as if the scent of death is in my mouth, coated on my tongue.”
“Here,” Illium said. “Had it in my pocket.”
It was a small piece of hard candy, one of Illium’s little vices. Aodhan far preferred chocolate, but he took the candy with a grateful hand and, peeling off the wrapper, put it into his mouth. The flavor—a fresh mint—was a gift that cleared his nostrils and overwhelmed his senses.
Shoving the crinkled paper of the wrapper in his pocket, he gave himself another moment—then looked at the message from Arzaleya. Unable to make it make sense in his mind, he just held out his phone to Illium.
“？‘Why doesn’t it work, Mother?’？” Illium read out. “The same question repeated three times.”
“Perhaps we’re wrong,” he said, “and it was the husband, and this is all about his mother.”