Thorly sat across from her, firelight turning his dark beard a warm copper. For a long moment he said nothing, as if searching for a reason that didn’t sound foolish.
“Because no one helped us,” he finally replied.
Valora lowered her spoon. “You said they burned your mother.”
He nodded once. “They called her a witch when the fever took the mayor’s son. She used healing plants. That was enough.”
“And your father?” Valora asked.
Thorly’s jaw tightened, the only sign of emotion. “He couldn’t live with it,” he said. “Took his own life months later. I was sent away. Grew up cutting timber. Learned how to live alone because it was safer than loving people who might turn.”
Valora swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your doing,” Thorly replied. Then his eyes lifted. “Just like what happened in Belwick. It wasn’t yours.”
Something loosened in her chest at those words. She had not realized how much she needed to hear them said plainly, like a nail hammered into a shaky truth until it held.
“You can stay here tonight,” Thorly said, adding another log to the fire. “Tomorrow,” Valora repeated. The word felt strange, like it belonged to someone else. She looked around the cabin and noticed the signs of a lonely life: one bed pushed against the wall, one cup near a small desk, one chair beside the fire.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. Then, after a pause that sounded like a decision, he added, “Not tonight.”
Before Valora could answer, a sudden pounding shook the cabin door. Her body seized. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Thorly’s expression hardened, all warmth replaced by something sharp and ready.
He crossed the room and lifted a shotgun from the corner. “Get into the cellar,” he said quietly, pointing to a trap door hidden beneath the rug. “Now.”
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