Trial

At ten to eight the following evening, the knives were still lined up on the cleaning table.

Recen had spent the day without fishing. At five he put his tackle together, and at six he took it apart. At seven he assembled it again. He repeated the procedure four times, as though the precision of his hands could compensate for the disorder that had settled behind his eyes.

He did not cook. He did not light the stove. He simply waited facing the door, the small axe leaning against a chair leg.

At eight o’clock sharp, someone knocked.

He had heard no engine, hooves, or wheels on the path. No approaching voices, either. The knock came softly against the wood, almost politely: three taps, two identical pauses.

Recen opened the door.

Cat stood on the threshold in the same gray coat. Beside him were a woman with her brown hair pinned up, a girl of about sixteen, and a little girl clutching a rag doll to her chest. All four had clean boots.

Behind them, the path was empty.

“Good evening, Mr. Skantranovic,” Cat said. “This is my wife, Lila, and my daughters, Violeta and Rosa.”

Lila raised a basket covered with a white cloth.

“We brought dinner. I hope we’re not imposing.”

Violeta attempted a smile she could not sustain. Rosa did not smile. She watched Recen with a seriousness ill suited to her eight years.

He studied her.

She had fair hair tucked behind her ears and a patch of mud on her left knee. It was the only visible dirt on any of the four visitors. Recen felt the pressure beneath his breastbone again.

“Rosa,” he said.

The little girl gripped the doll tighter.

“Yes, sir.”

An image flashed through Recen’s mind: a braid on fire, a small hand beating against glass, smoke gathering beneath a ceiling that did not belong to the cabin. It vanished before he could make sense of it.

Cat tilted his head slightly. He was not watching his daughter. He was watching Recen.

“You said you wouldn’t let us in,” he reminded him.

Recen looked away from Rosa.

“You’re here now.”

He stepped aside.

The visitors crossed the threshold in single file. Lila first, then the girls, and Cat last. As he passed Recen, a brief metallic click came from inside his coat. Cat pressed two fingers to the pocket, and the sound stopped.

Recen closed the door.

Lila glanced around the room. She saw the bed, the unlit stove, the fish box, and the blades laid out on the table outside, visible through the window.

“What a peaceful place,” she said.

There was no conviction in the words. Yet Rosa repeated them softly:

“What a peaceful place.”

Violeta looked at her.

“Why did you say that?”

Rosa frowned, bewildered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Cat took off his gloves.

“May we use the table?”

Recen pointed to the five chairs. There were only four.

He blinked. Now there were five.

Lila removed the cloth from the basket and set out a platter of meat, bread, potatoes, and a bottle of wine. Everything was hot. No steam rose from the food.

“Sit down,” Recen ordered.

No one argued.

They took their places, leaving Rosa opposite him. Cat sat at the head of the table, though this was Recen’s home. Lila served the food with gentle movements. The serving spoon touched each plate three times, even when there was nothing left to serve.

Recen did not touch his food.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“In town,” Lila replied.

“Which street?”

Lila looked at Cat.

“Near the square.”

“What’s across from your house?”

“The square,” Violeta said.

“The fish shop,” Lila said at the same time.

Both went still.

Cat cut a piece of meat.

“Our house is on a corner. Different windows look out on different places.”

“I didn’t ask what you could see from the windows.”

Cat’s knife stopped against the plate.

Rosa gave a little giggle. It was a small, spontaneous sound, unlike anything the family had said. The others looked at her with such immediate severity that she lowered her head.

Recen felt an urge to protect her from them.

The thought alarmed him more than the contradiction.

“Do you like fishing?” he asked her.

Rosa took a while to answer.

“I like watching the sunrise.”

The air left Recen’s lungs.

“Who told you that?”

“No one.”

“Rosa can see the lake from home,” Cat interjected.

“You said you live in town.”

“The lake is visible from many places.”

“Not from behind the mountains.”

Cat set down his knife.

“You’re tired, Mr. Skantranovic.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel.”

Lila reached toward her glass but did not drink.

“Perhaps coming here was a mistake.”

“No,” Cat said. “It’s important that we finish.”

Violeta raised her head.

“Finish what?”

The silence that followed was too complete. No wood creaked, no wind blew, no water lapped against the shore.

Rosa dropped the doll.

It landed face up. Three gray lines had been drawn around one of its eyes.

Recen pushed back his chair and stood.

“Where did you get that?”

The little girl looked at the doll as though seeing it for the first time.

“Daddy gave it to me.”

“I didn’t give it to her,” Cat said.

Rosa began to struggle for breath.

“You gave it to me before the fire.”

Cat stood.

“Rosa, look at me.”

“There was smoke,” the girl went on. “And the door wouldn’t open.”

Recen smelled it before he saw anything: burning wood, cloth, hair. The cabin walls darkened. For an instant, a soot-covered window appeared behind Rosa, and two small hands beat against the glass from the other side.

“Celeste,” he said.

Rosa looked up.

“Daddy.”

Cat came around the table and took the girl by the shoulders.

“The session is over.”

He was not speaking to Recen.

A vibration passed through the floor. The nonexistent flames vanished, but the smell remained. Lila and Violeta stood at the same time. Their chairs slid back exactly the same distance.

“We’re leaving,” Lila said.

Recen stepped between them and the door.

“She stays.”

“She isn’t your daughter,” Cat replied.

The words broke something open inside Recen.

It was not a complete memory, but a succession of fragments: a building in flames; sirens; a little girl’s face behind glass; men forcing him down onto the pavement.

Recen stumbled back, dazed.

Cat reached for his coat pocket.

“Reduce the response,” he ordered.

Cat’s voice came twice, once from inside the room and once from very far away.

Pain pierced Recen’s skin.

He fell to his knees. For a second, he saw the table turn into a white surface and the four visitors stripped of color, reduced to figures of light. Then the cabin returned.

Lila ran for the door.

Recen reached the axe before she reached the handle.

The first blow sank between her shoulder and her neck. Lila fell against the wood without a scream. Her body struck the floor and lay still.

Violeta shrieked.

Cat lunged at Recen. Neither weariness nor courtesy remained in his face. He caught Recen’s wrist and tried to twist his arm, but Recen headbutted him and hurled him against the table. The plates fell without breaking.

Recen grabbed the thick-bladed knife. Cat managed to raise a hand.

“Recen, listen to me. Rosa isn’t Celeste.”

The blade opened his throat.

Cat clutched his neck with both hands. At first, no blood came. The wound revealed a blue light, as fine as a line drawn in ink. Then the blood came all at once and covered his coat.

Violeta pulled Rosa toward the back door.

“Run.”

Recen followed them.

Outside, a storm had begun. Rain was falling hard, though the last glow of a clear day still shone over the lake. Violeta slipped in the mud, scrambled up, and pushed her sister toward the trees.

“Don’t look back!” she shouted.

Rosa obeyed for three steps. Then she turned.

Recen caught up with Violeta beside the cleaning table. She picked up one of the knives, but she held it in both hands, and the point trembled.

“Stay away.”

He advanced.

Violeta struck. Recen knocked the blade aside and slammed her against the edge of the table. The air rushed out of her. Before she could recover, he drove the knife beneath her ribs.

Violeta opened her mouth. Her eyes searched for Rosa.

“Run,” she managed to say again.

Recen pulled out the knife. The girl fell on her side, and the mud took her blood.

Rosa did not run.

She stood a few yards away, motionless in the rain, the doll pressed to her chest. In places, the water passed through her body. For an instant, Recen could make out the trees behind one of her arms.

He approached slowly.

“Celeste.”

“My name is Rosa.”

“Not anymore.”

Recen knelt in front of her. The knife fell from his hand. He brushed the wet hair from her face and found a tiny, regular pulse behind her left ear.

The same as Ten’s.

Rosa closed her eyes.

“I’m scared.”

It was not the voice of the little girl who had arrived at the cabin. It was another voice, smaller and older, or perhaps only the one Recen needed to hear.

“Daddy’s here,” he said. “No one will ever hurt you again.”

He held her.

Rosa remained rigid in his arms. Then her body grew weightless, as though made of air, and the rain began to pass straight through it.

“No,” Recen whispered.

He held her tighter.

The little girl went limp in Recen’s arms. This time she had weight. She was breathing.

He picked her up and went back to the cabin without looking at the bodies.

He laid her on his bed, took off her wet shoes, and covered her with the blanket. Then he sat beside her, his bloodied hands resting on his knees.

Outside, the storm stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Rosa woke a few minutes later. She looked at the ceiling, the window, and finally Recen. She did not ask about her family.

He took a lock of her hair and stroked it with a tenderness he had never shown any other living creature.

“You have no idea how much I missed you, Celeste.”

Rosa began to cry silently.

Recen smiled.

“You’re home now.”