Page 7 of The Forsaken
“Why would a squire be buried with his master’s sword beneath the kitchen floor? Doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. A son, perhaps?”
“That’s more likely, but why bury him here instead of in consecrated ground?”
“How long do you think he’s been there?” Quinn asked. If the sword was anything to go on—centuries.
“If he was buried before the new house was built, then definitely several centuries. If he was buried after the new house went up, then considerably less. Just because he’s holding a sword doesn’t mean the sword belonged to him. Perhaps it was an antique that he was particularly fond of and wished to be buried with,” Gabe speculated.
“Is there anything else?” Quinn carefully set the sword on the kitchen table and peered into the hole.
“Yes, actually. Because the grave was concealed beneath the floor, less moisture permeated the ground, since it wasn’t exposed to the elements. There are bits of fabric, shriveled-up leather, strands of hair, and this!”
Gabe held up a rosary. The amber beads glowed in the late afternoon light, the amber still translucent and not a bit damaged by centuries underground. The links were tarnished but intact, holding the beads together as they had done since the rosary had been crafted.
“The cross must be solid gold to have lasted all this time without oxidizing.” Gabe used the bottom of his T-shirt to carefully rub away the dirt. The crucifix shone in the sunlight as if it were newly minted, the figure of Christ delicate and intricately rendered.
Quinn accepted the rosary from Gabe and held it up to the light. “It doesn’t look like a man’s rosary,” she said, admiring the craftsmanship and the honey-gold glimmer of the amber.
“Men used prayer beads,” Gabe argued. “It’s an expensive one, to be sure, not the rosary of a peasant.”
Quinn shook her head. “I see a woman using this rosary—a wealthy woman.”
“Perhaps. The fabric looks like it might be velvet. Either a man or a woman could have worn velvet and leather.”
“Any jewelry? That would tell us for sure before we even send the bones to Colin.”
“I don’t see any.” Gabe set down his brush and climbed out of the hole. “I’ll have to finish up tomorrow. It’s getting late.” He picked up the sword and held out his hand for the rosary. “I’m going to lock these in Dad’s study.”
“Are you afraid that I will sneak downstairs in the middle of the night to get a head start?” Quinn asked, annoyed that Gabe wanted to lock up the artefacts.
“The doctor said you must avoid stress. This”—Gabe held up the sword—“is not an object devoid of stress.”
“Leave out the rosary then,” Quinn insisted. “How distressing can a rosary be?”
Gabe’s eyebrows shot up, making Quinn laugh. “Are you joking?”
“Gabe, come on, you know I won’t rest until I know what happened to this boy. Please. I’ll set the rosary aside if I start becoming upset.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I promise,” Quinn pleaded. She had to know more. Already she was involved, and she wouldn’t rest until she found out what had happened to this poor boy and how he had come to be buried beneath the kitchen floor with an object of war and a symbol of faith.
“I will let you have the rosary on one condition,” Gabe said, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Which is?”
“You will only handle it in front of me, and if I see you getting worked up, I will take it from you. Agreed?”
“Dictator!”
“I prefer ‘loving husband’,” Gabe replied with a charming smile.
“All right. Agreed.”
FIVE
Quinn woke up with a start. Moonlight streaming through the net curtains silvered everything in its path, including Gabe, who appeared almost otherworldly in its glow. The house was quiet, or as quiet as a centuries-old house could be when it creaked and groaned like an old man complaining about his aching joints.
