Page 66 of Horn of Winter

Before too long, the house came into view. It was a long, stone-built gable-ended farmhouse centered in a small clearing, with chimneys either end, a whitewashed front, and a bold red door. There were two windows on either side of the door on the ground floor and five above. Wisteria covered the front of the building, and though it was bare now, it’d be postcard-perfect in spring.

My gaze went to the open-fronted shed sitting to the right of the house. There was no car sitting there now; had Stace taken it, my aunt, or someone else perhaps? Given the knife’s restrictions no longer held, it was perfectly possible the car had been stolen and the house ransacked. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d walked into that sort of mess.

Once Mathi had stopped the vehicle, I dug my knives out of my purse and strapped them on. The wind stirred forlornly around the building, and an odd sense of... not foulness, not darkness, but something in between filled the air. It might have been a result of the red knife, but something within doubted it. My gaze rose to the first floor; Stace’s window was open several inches, the curtains fluttering through the gap almost happily, the material’s ends wet and a little raggedy. That window had been open for quite a while, because those curtains had been pristine the last time I’d seen them.

I walked around the front of the car and up the steps to the front door. From within the building came the song of wood, but it was a forlorn, lonely note that held just a hint of darkness.

That darkness, I realized, came from the blood that still stained the kitchen floor.

The red knife remained where Lugh had rammed it, hilt deep in the doorstep.

I wasn’t getting any hint of magic, not from the red knife and not from the building overall. I nevertheless drew one ofmy knives and pressed its tip against the door handle. No light flickered down the fuller. Nothing ill clung to the metal.

I sheathed the knife, then carefully turned the handle, pushing the door all the way open without entering.

The hallway beyond was spacious and airy, with stairs that led up to the next floor directly ahead, and doors to the left and the right. Wainscoting lined the walls and ran up the stairs, the wood painted but its song so strong and vibrant despite the wisps of dark loneliness that ran through it. I glanced to the left, where the coat hooks were. The two coats that had hung there the first time I’d come here remained, though they were lightly covered in dust, the same as everything else. At first glance, at least, it didn’t appear as if anyone had been in here recently, let alone ransacked the place.

I glanced around to Mathi. “You check the living area to the left; I’ll head into the kitchen.”

Where she’d supposedly been murdered.

He nodded, and I moved forward cautiously. Other than the dark stains of blood and the fingerprint dust that just about covered every surface, little in the kitchen had changed. It was a typical farmhouse style and ran the full width of the building. An old green AGA on which there was a dark spray of what I suspected was blood sat in the brick fireplace directly opposite, and kitchen cabinets ran to the left and the right of this. More cabinets and an old butler sink lay to the left, against the rear wall. The long, well-used oak table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by a cheerful variety of mismatched wooden chairs, three of them upturned, and one broken.

I carefully made my way around all the stains, then tugged my sleeve over my fingers and began opening the drawers. Alys might have said the details of the buyer would be in the study, but it always paid to be thorough.

Thorough in this case revealed absolutely nothing other than the usual shit that collected in kitchen drawers.

I returned to the hall and glanced in at Mathi. “Anything?”

He closed the bottom drawer of the exquisite Victorian cabinet he’d been inspecting. “Nothing more than old birthday and Christmas cards. Why do people collect that sort of stuff?”

“Sentimentality,” I said dryly. “And that is definitely something you would know nothing about. Let’s head upstairs.”

I led the way, running my fingers along the wainscoting like I had previously, though this time I was using the network’s song to settle my increasing nervousness rather than slipping into its golden stream to trap Stace in her room.

At the top of the stairs, I paused and motioned to the room on our right. “Why don’t you start checking the study, while I head down to the B&B guest room and see if there’s any clue as to when Stace got out.”

He nodded, and once he’d moved past I walked down the far end of the hall. The room was surprisingly large, and unlike the kitchen, hadn’t been dusted for fingerprints. Did that mean Stace had still been locked in here when Riayn had been attacked? Or had she gone by then?

Hell, it was even possible she’d been my aunt’s attacker. Whether that attack had been staged or not was something we might never know.

The room itself held a queen bed, a dresser, and a table on which sat all necessary tea-making paraphernalia. To my left, between the door and the window, was a small, two-door wardrobe. A bright red suitcase sat against this end.

I walked over and checked the tag—it was Peregrine’s—then lifted it up. It felt empty, but I nevertheless laid it down flat and opened it up. All that was inside was a luggage strap. I stood the case up again and tried the wardrobe next. A good assortment of sweaters and T-shirts sat neatly folded on the shelves, andseveral pairs of jeans and an assortment of shirts hung on the rail above.

If Stace had found a way to escape my restrictions, why would she leave her clothes here? I looked around, spotting other personal bits on the bedside table—medicine and a couple of charger cords—and several pairs of shoes under the nearest end of the bed.

Frowning, I walked over to the dresser and checked the drawers, finding knickers and bras, but little else, then moved over to check the drawers in the bedside tables. The bed had been neatly made, but I tugged off the pillows and pulled down the blankets. And about midway down the bed, I found an iPad. It was deader than a doornail, so I grabbed its charger and headed out to the study. Bookcases lined the wall behind the lovely old mahogany desk to the left, and four filing cabinets sat against the wall to the right of the door. The front wall had a large window that looked out into the yard and gave a good view of anyone entering, and on the wall directly opposite the door were multiple photos in mismatched frames. Most of them featured Vincentia and the son my aunt had lost, but there were a number of Mom and Riayn together in happier times, as well as a few with them and Gran, and even a couple of me and Lugh.

“Anything?” Mathi asked without looking up.

I jumped a little and dragged my attention back to the task at hand. “An iPad that might just provide a clue or two once we charge the thing and look at her messages.”

“It’s probably locked.”

“When has a lock ever stopped you?”

He laughed. “The lock on this top drawer has, but only because it’s been pixie molded to the frame and you wouldn’t approve of me simply ripping the thing open.”

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