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Marcellus’ mouth parted for the briefest moment, an inscrutable look scrawling across his face. Then, his jaw ticked and he averted his eyes. “Have you told Delmore this?”

Thicket’s forehead wrinkled. “Elian? No, why?”

Marcellus shook his head. “No reason.” But there was. She could sense it. Something in him had shifted. “I’m going to go dump this barrel out. I’ll be right back.” He descended the stairs without glancing in her direction.

Thicket didn’t know why, but she had the sense that he was retreating. She sighed, hitting her leg with the cloth.

Something clattered to the ground. One of the picture frames lay face down on the freshly cleaned floor. The others rustled as her wind rushed past. She bent to pick it up, wincing at the dented corner in its wooden frame. The glass on the other side, thankfully, was still intact.

Thicket eased herself on the ground, muscles groaning with protest, and wiped the frame off with her cloth. The dust was so thick and sticky it smeared along the glass, blurring the image even further. Puckering her lips, Thicket set the frame down and forced her aching legs back up to grab a bucket before settling down once more.

Determining there was no better time to practice the illusive spell alteration, Thicket muttered, “Here goes nothing.” She closed her eyes, feeling for the moisture she knew lurked in the air and grabbed hold of it. Now firmly in her grasp, she funneled her own magical energy, creating a spark.

All that was left was to merge them together. She imagined her fire heating a pot of water, bubbling and steaming and said, “Yoa yt fya.”

Water filled the bucket. She peered inside. The water appeared still, clearly not boiling, but when she dunked the cloth inside, she wanted to believe it felt a little warmer. Wringing out the excess water, Thicket wiped it across the glass. Beads of water carved paths down the smooth surface, but as it dried, Thicket could finally make out a group of people. They sat on the porch, huddled in close—just like she had envisioned. There were three adults and three young boys, the oldest of which stood beside his mother and father. Despite the roundness of the boy’s cheeks, she would recognize that apathetic stare anywhere.

Her fingertips whitened around the frame. She had suspected, but this was confirmation.

Thicket abandoned her spells and raced outside. She found Marcellus around the side of the house, shaking the barrel into a pile of overgrown bushes.

“This house…” she said, breathless. “It was yours.”

Marcellus’ eyes snagged on the picture frame clutched to her chest. He lowered the barrel and set it onto the ground. He whispered, almost inaudibly, “I forgot that was there.”

If this was Marcellus’ house, then this must have been the place she was brought while under the sleeping curse. And, the place where Marcellus’ family had been killed.

She glanced back at the picture, eyes drinking in every detail. His father had one hand on Marcellus’ shoulder and a second on his wife’s. He bore a striking resemblance to Marcellus now, bearing the same sharp almond eyes and calculating expression. The only difference was the thick beard stubbled with gray.

Marcellus’ two younger brothers were draped across their mother, the youngest perched in her lap and the older of the two clutching the fabric of her dress. However there was a second hand on Marcellus’ shoulder. A man she knew but would have never expected to see.

“Why is Caspian in this photo?” Thicket asked.

Marcellus scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “He was best friends with my father.”

“He was?”

Thicket remembered Bern mentioning that Caspian knew Marcellus’ father, but she hadn’t known they were that close. Her fingers tightened around the picture frame. “Why didn’t you tell me you used to live here?”

“Because it didn’t matter.”

She took a step towards him. “Of course it does.”

“The houses of those who evacuated were eventually torn down and used to rebuild parts of Bilya.” Marcellus’ head swung in the direction of the empty dirt roads, as though he could still see the homes of those he once called his neighbors. “I expected this one to be demolished, too, but Caspian said they already had enough and there was no need. I have a feeling that was just an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

Marcellus grabbed the shovel from where he had tossed it in the bushes and carried it over to the side of the farmhouse, lining it along the wall. For a long, tense moment, Thicket thought he wouldn’t respond.

“I guess so one day when this is all over, I could return to it if I wanted.”

She wondered now if cleaning it hadn’t just been a part of her training, but a desire to restore his childhood home.

I know a place, he had said. Do you trust me?

At times she thought she did. At others she didn’t know him or his intentions well enough to know for certain. He was harsh and infuriating and knew just what to say to push her buttons. But what she did know was that when she said she didn’t want to return to the house, he could have taken her anywhere. Yet he had taken her here, despite the painful memories being back must have brought up.

Guilt clawed at her. “You didn’t have to bring me here,” she said.