Chapter One

Erik

"My God, I thought we would never get off that damned train," Phelan said as we awaited our trunks to be removed from our private car and placed on the platform.

He hopped up and down, then twisted his torso with his arms above his head as if he could not sit still for a moment longer.

"It certainly felt like we were going to be stranded," I said.

The train ride had come to an abrupt pause some fifty miles outside of Calais, in a stretch of barren land where the tracks ventured over a bridge and then through wooded landscape.

The storm that we had chased for the majority of the trip downed at least two trees onto the track, and it took hours for the lumber to be removed and tracks inspected for damage. Once everything was cleared, the train was finally able to resume travel.

"You wait for our trunks," Phelan said. "I am going to send out a few telegrams and see if Julia responded to you."

I nodded in agreement, watching from the corner of my eye as my brother jogged across the small train station and to the telegram stand. The way in which he bounded through the building in long strides reminded me of Alex when I would see him running ahead of Meg on their way back from the market. In the back of my mind, I could hear her exasperated request for my son to cease acting like a wild animal.

Stop running or I will tell your father! Meg would say as if Alex had ever taken those words as a threat. No amount of me sternly talking to him or stomping about, arms flailing in frustration, had ever made Alex reconsider his actions. Sometimes I felt quite certain that he jumped off the stairs merely to make me leave my desk and ask if he wanted to break his neck.

Once in a while his shoulders would sag and he would sullenly bow his head and trudge away, but I was fairly certain it was all an act. He had a flair for the dramatic, which I suppose came as no surprise as he was with Meg most often and no one was as theatrical as little Meg Giry.

I found myself missing Meg. Not to the extent I missed my wife or children, or even Bessie, but I missed hearing her hum around the house and mutter her complaints over my music when she thought my bedroom door was shut.

"Kimmer?" one of the train station attendants asked.

"Kimmer and Kire," I answered.

The man's eyes widened. "Kimmer and Kire? The painter and the composer?" he asked.

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

The man shook his head. "No problem at all, Monsieur. May I ask which one you are?"

"Kire," I answered.

"You don't say." He looked me up and down. "A pleasure, Monsieur. Or perhaps I should say that it is an honor to meet you," he said, offering a bow. "I love your music and so does the rest of my family. My wife is not going to believe me when I tell her I met the man who wrote Mauro and Jewel." He placed his hand over his heart. "The ending is perfect. I'm sure you hear that all the time."

I wasn't sure how to respond, which left a moment of silence that lasted far too long.

"Thank you for your kind words," I said awkwardly, having yet to find a reply that seemed reasonable in response to praise, especially since Madeline was responsible for the ending.

"Of course, Monsieur. I will have your two trunks on this platform in just one minute, Monsieur."

Seeing as how my brother and I were already delayed by several hours, a matter of minutes seemed inconsequential. Once the man walked away, I linked my hands behind my back and waited for Phelan to return and the trunks to arrive, hoping that no one else would approach.

"Julia responded," Phelan said the moment he walked up, handing me the telegram.

"What did she say?" I asked.

Phelan narrowed his eyes. "I didn't read it."

"Clearly you're a better person than I am."

Lan smiled tightly. "We both already knew that, Kire."

Our trunks were unloaded and Phelan asked for them to be placed into storage. We paid a fee for our belongings to be held overnight as a precaution as it was later in the day than either of us had expected to arrive.

While waiting for the trunks to be taken away, I read through Julia's telegram, which stated that she understood and looked forward to the two of us returning. She also said that she would inform everyone else and assure them that nothing was wrong and we would return as soon as possible.

'I hope my beloved husband and his brother return soon and no worse for wear,' she said in closing.

Hailing a cab proved far more difficult than either of us anticipated, and it was after seven when we were finally able to find a driver willing to take us to Conforeit.

"Are you knowledgeable with the village of Conforeit?" my brother asked the driver.

The man nodded. "Familiar enough."

"The house we are traveling to is located south of the town, near Breux's Ridge, if you are familiar with that."

"I'll find it," the carriage driver assured us.

Given that we had no other choice, we both nodded, paid the fare, and climbed into the hired cab.

oOo

The driver of the carriage was surprisingly familiar with the village and sure of his navigational skills along unmarked roads and down the curving path leading to the old house. Other than a few bumps in the road near the property, the ride itself was not terrible.

The sun was setting behind the clouds as we approached the house, greeted by the sound of windchimes and the birds in the trees. The branches swayed, groaning as the wind picked up, splattering raindrops onto us.

Given the amount of trees on the property and dwindling light, the house itself looked darker and more imposing than it had when we had previously visited, and my stomach tightened with a sense of foreboding.

My eyes scanned every tree, listening for the snap of branches beneath boots to indicate we were not alone as I fully expected we would be confronted by a group of bandits hiding out.

"Why are you breathing so hard?" Phelan asked over his shoulder.

"How do you want me to breathe?" I snapped.

"Like a normal human being accustomed to breathing."

I rolled my eyes at our exchange. The air smelled of rain and the heady scent of dirt and wet leaves. Several branches were down along the property, the result of the storm that had passed through before us.

"Do you see a light on?" I asked as I followed behind Phelan, attempting to stay on the moss-covered stone path rather than the damp ground.

"What sort of question is that, Kire? We can both see the same thing." Phelan shook his head. "Do you see a light?"

"No," I answered.

Phelan inhaled and slowed his pace. "Stay here, Kire."

"I am not staying out here alone," I protested. He was absolutely mad if he thought I had any inclination to wait in the failing light of day for him to return. "Especially if you think there is someone inside."

"I'm sure they're gone," he whispered over his shoulder.

"And if they are not?"

"Then I will handle the intruder. Now stay outside."

"What if they run out?" I asked.

Lan looked over his shoulder at me. "Then you will stop them."

He entered through the rear of the house with me at his heels, shooting me a look of annoyance as I refused to stay outside and leave him to battle thieves or trespassers alone.

"I'll search the bedrooms, you look in the parlor and dining room," he said, keeping his voice low.

"Should we be armed?" I asked.

"There are candlesticks holders in the dining room. Or at least there should be."

My preference was rope, but I nodded all the same as we walked into the kitchen where we would split off into separate parts of the house.

"What are you going to do if you find someone?" I asked.

"Apprehend them," Lan answered.

"And then what?"

He issued a significant look in my direction. "Tell them to leave and lock the damned doors, Kire. How in the hell should I know? I've never dealt with this before."

Without another word, he disappeared toward the bedrooms, leaving me to find my way in the meager light toward the dining room and parlor.

I took a deep breath and gripped one of the brass candlestick holders in my hand, gently setting the unlit taper onto the table. The metal holder was cold against my fingers and I held it up toward my head, prepared to bludgeon an intruder if necessary.

I advanced through the house, mentally rehearsing what I would say if I happened upon someone attempting to hide.

Growl, I thought to myself. I will growl like some wild beast and the person will flee in terror. Lan would never allow me to live that tactic down if he heard me imitate a bear. Perhaps it was better if I said nothing at all, just as I had done in my days roaming the theater. Silence was a frightful weapon that kept people guessing until I was directly behind them or tossed an item across the stage, startling the entire cast when they could not figure out where the object had originated from.

The house was too small for the element of surprise I desired, and it seemed as though my tactic was not needed anyhow as the dining room and parlor were both empty. I couldn't say that I was not relieved to find the house vacant–at least in the rooms I searched. Given the amount of time I had spent outside of the theater, I felt out of practice in guarding my home.

The floorboard creaked on the other side of the house, and a moment later, Lan thankfully appeared at the end of the hallway and shook his head.

"Nothing?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Now what?"

He took a box of matches from the mantle above the fireplace and lit one candle, using it to light several more.

"We wait until morning."

"Here?" I asked.

"Unless you want to walk through the dark back into Conforeit, hope for a cab, travel into Calais, and pray we find lodging for the night. If not, we would return here anyways. The next train heading south is not departing until nine tomorrow morning."

My jaw clenched as I looked around the shadows, at the home that had been the core of my nightmares. I wasn't sure I would be able to shut my eyes, let alone sleep.

"Would you rather walk back to Conforeit?" Lan asked, apparently sensing my apprehension. "It's up to you, Kire. I will not protest either way."

I wanted nothing more than to be away from the house, but I had a feeling we would indeed return hours later, exhausted and picking our way through the night along a muddy, unseen trail.

"I suppose not," I said at last.

oOo

"Both rooms are furnished," Phelan explained as he removed fresh linens from the closet and handed a stack to me. "Two beds in each one."

"Are we staying together?" I asked.

Lan glanced at me. "Do you prefer a room to yourself?"

It should have been a simple answer. Yes, of course I prefer a room to myself. I am perfectly capable of sleeping in this hellish nightmare alone, without my brother across the room. I want nothing more than to spend a night in the bedroom that I had been denied as a child.

"No," I said at last.

Lan looked relieved. "Good. Neither do I."

I nodded in agreement. "If the person returns, we are better off together," I reasoned.

"Exactly," Phelan said. "I will be able to defend you."

I bristled at his words. "I don't need you to defend me. I merely thought it would be better for both of us if we weren't separated."

"Did I disagree with you?" he impatiently asked as he walked down the hall and motioned for me to follow him.

Rather than the room we had briefly shared as children, he opened the door to the bedroom that would have belonged to our parents.

I had stepped into that room perhaps a dozen times, possibly more. Every time I sneaked into my parents bedroom, I wanted to sit on the bed where my mother slept. In absolute silence, I would look at the chest of drawers and the small trunk with the knitted blanket neatly folded over it. While my father was at the tavern and my mother was asleep in her chair, sedated with the help of laudanum, I tormented myself with the life that they would not share with me.

It was probably no more than a handful of minutes, but I would sit on her side of the bed, running my hand over her pillow, imagining what it would have been like to be nestled in her arms. I pictured myself lying with my head on her pillow and her body close to mind, warm and soft, protecting me. I would hold the figure of an infant that sat on the chest of drawers beneath the window and imagine that I was that figurine and she would kiss and embrace me if I had been made of something other than ruined flesh.

My mother had never touched me for as long as I could recall. She had not reached out to me or offered comfort. It was a painful wish from a lonely, forgotten boy who had desperately wanted to feel loved.

Like all things, the moment ended once my father returned unexpectedly and I was caught in the bedroom. Once or twice I managed to escape through the window, but other times I would find it latched shut and I was too weak to open it before he walked in and found me.

My father made certain I was thoroughly punished for being out of the cellar. He would leave my eyes blackened and nose bleeding, striking me repeatedly until he dragged me back where I belonged and locked the cellar door.

Those quiet moments of longing, however, were worth the suffering. I cherished those imaginary scenarios of being with the woman who didn't seem to know I was alive.

Thirty years had passed and the room still felt forbidden. Silently I walked in behind my brother and fit the sheet over the mattress and pillow cases onto the pillows.

The linens smelled like cedar and lavender, which I thought would have been pleasant under different circumstances. I couldn't remember if the room had any particular smell when I was younger, but assumed it most likely smelled of spilled whiskey.

"There are a few spare pajamas if you want to change into something more comfortable," Phelan offered, opening one of the dresser drawers.

"Why do you have extra pajamas here?"

Phelan shrugged. "I like being prepared. Plus, I have been teaching long enough that I know my students and their astonishing level of forgetfulness quite well. There is extra tooth powder, tooth brushes, soap, of course, and spare pajamas should someone forget the necessities."

"You're far more responsible than I am," I commented, removing my mask, which I placed on the bedside table.

"I'm older. I was born more responsible." He turned to face me, holding up two sets of pajamas. "Blue or green?"

"It doesn't matter."

He tossed the green pair onto my bed and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I have stayed in this room nearly every time I have traveled here," Phelan said without looking at me. "The sunlight in the morning is quite enjoyable through the curtains. The light is soft and warm and the breeze is cool and refreshing. The trees provide just enough shade where the sun isn't harsh."

I didn't reply. I was sure the morning would be fine, but it was the night that already felt suffocating. My heart pounded and I had to concentrate on inhaling and exhaling to keep from erratically breathing.

"I have put years of work into making this more than what it was," Lan said.

"You've done an excellent job."

"That is kind of you to say, but I know you don't want to be here, Kire."

"I–"

He looked at me over his shoulder as he folded his shirt, brow raised as if he challenged me to disagree with him.
"You are correct. I do not wish to be here, but if I had to be here at all, I am at least glad we are here together," I replied.

My brother frowned at me. "Perhaps I should have sent you to Paris instead," he ruefully said. "I apologize for dragging you here."

"I came here voluntarily," I reminded him. "Besides, I would rather be here with you than home without you, worried sick that you'd fought off an entire gang of ruffians."

"Gang?" he asked, sounding amused. "It was one person and by the sound of it a woman. I am fairly certain I could hold my own against a female."

Once we had both finished making our beds and changed clothes, we sat facing one another. I gazed around the room, then down at my hands resting on the edge of the mattress.

"What is it?" Lan asked. "You look a bit green, Kire."

"Is this where our father…?"

I couldn't bear to finish my question, feeling nauseated by the thought that our father had taken his last breaths not only in this room, but where I currently planned to sleep. I would have preferred the cellar to his deathbed.

Lan gaped at me, horrified once he understood what I was about to ask.

"No," Phelan said quickly. "My God, no, I would never have done that to you, Erik."

I nodded. "I didn't think you would, but I wasn't certain if this was the room where he took his final breaths."

"There was nothing left in this room when he was dying," Lan said. "Everything of value had been sold to settle his debts from what I was told. Honestly, I'm not sure if he crawled his way into our old bedroom or if he was left there, but after he was gone and his body removed, I had the bed and mattress burned as I had no intention of using either ever again. I also asked the priest to sage the house, hopefully driving out his miserable spirit as I fully expected he would linger here forever, the bastard."

"You don't really believe it's haunted, do you?" I asked.

"No," Lan answered. "I do not believe in ghosts."

I inhaled, feeling quite certain that if talk of spirits continued, he would once again ask about the opera house and I had no desire to become embroiled in an argument over my former residence.

"You must have invested a small fortune into furnishing the home and all of the repairs."

"Not as much as one would imagine," Phelan answered. "I know a carpenter and he worked practically for free."

I arranged the pillows and laid back, surprised that the bed was actually comfortable and the pillows softer, which I preferred.

"A carpenter from here in town?"

"From Wissant, actually," he answered. "Bernard. I've mentioned him previously."

"The retired boxer?" I recalled his scowling visage from the sketches I'd seen in my brother's book.

"Miraculously, you listen when I speak," Lan said lightly.

"You didn't mention he was a carpenter."

"Didn't I? He made all of the bird houses around the house," my brother said. "And all of the bed frames, the trunk at the end of your bed, and both dressers. With a slight amount of help from me, I should add."

"The furniture is incredibly well constructed," I commented.

"Bernard is far more talented than he realizes."

"How long did it take to make the bedroom set?"

Phelan flopped backwards and extended his feet, causing the joints in his ankles to pop. "We didn't work straight through, so what should have been about three weeks took closer to four months, I think." He looked quite proudly at the dresser. "Christophe did the sanding, staining, and varnishing once everything was completed and I added the hardware. I'm quite good with hardware. And wheels. If you need a wheel replaced on a chair or a service cart, I am proficient at both."

"How long ago was this?" I asked, feeling a slight pang of jealousy that I had not been involved. "That you and your friends built all of this furniture?

"A year now? Year and a half? I think when we started with the dresser, Bernard also brought some additional birdhouses."

I nodded slowly. "I don't believe I noticed the birdhouses," I said. "Are there many?"

Phelan shot upright. "How in the world did you miss those, Kire? There are literally over a hundred all over the grounds."

"Given that we are here to apprehend a possible intruder, I wasn't exactly looking for birdhouses," I told him.

"Fair enough, but we were here last time in the full light of day."

"I wasn't looking for birdhouses then either."

"I suppose not, but they're quite well-constructed and as I said, there are over a hundred in all different colors."

"Made by a boxer?"

"Made by Bernard Montlaur," Lan answered. "Bern. He's like an older brother to me, Kire."

Another spike of unexpected jealousy hit me square in the chest. "You consider him a brother?"

"He is like a brother," Lan said. "And he has been for the last nine years. I do hope the two of you get along well enough. I would hate to have to pick one of you over the other, and considering the furniture and birdhouses, I'm leaning quite strongly toward Bernard."

Again I bristled at his comment, feeling betrayed by his words despite knowing he spoke lightly.

"I didn't realize the two of you were so close," I said.

Lan eyed me suspiciously, as if he sensed my jealousy toward his brotherly friend and former boxer turned carpenter. By the way Lan spoke of Bernard Montluar, I expected to meet a man likened to Jesus Christ.

"He's a good man and an even better friend. I'm a bit ashamed to say that Bernard has been far more valuable to me than I have been to him," Phelan said.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing I wish to discuss at this time as it sullens my mood."

"Shall we discuss Luci?" I asked.

Lan issued a significant look that slowly melted into a smile. "As much as I would like to sing my Luci's praises, I would rather talk about your wife. How is Julia, anyhow? I hope our delay has not worried her."

"Julia sounded far more understanding than I would have if our places were exchanged," I replied.

We spoke of trivial matters for a while until we both closed our eyes and began mumbling incoherently to one another.

"I don't know about you, Kire, but I'm exhausted."

"Are you telling me to shut up?"

"No, I'm telling you very nicely to please be quiet."

I smiled to myself.

"You know, this is a nice house, Lan," I said as I turned the pillow over and buried my face against the cool linens. "I certainly hope you reconsider burning it to the ground in ten years."

"We shall see in ten years, Kire."

oOo

Sleep was not as difficult as I had anticipated. The last thing I remembered was the candle burnt down to a stump and then waking in the dark, my face against the cool linens and the symphony of crickets outside the open window. I fell asleep for a while longer, waking up a second time to the groan of the bed and Phelan sitting up. By then it was morning, and the room bathed in golden light through the sheer curtains.

My brother eyed me briefly, then nodded toward the bedroom door.

"I think there is someone in the parlor," he whispered.

"Right now?" I whispered back, reaching for my mask.

He nodded once. "Stay here."

"No," I said sharply. "That's madness. We go out together."

"Kire–"

"I said no."

I was out of bed first, but Lan reached the door before me, and I followed him out and into the hall where we both momentarily froze and listened.

There was a rustle from the kitchen, the sound of plates or cups clanging together.

"Students?" I whispered.

Lan shook his head.

Rather than devise a plan or prepare for what we might encounter, he stormed toward the kitchen, kicking the swing door open in the process with his bare foot, and ordered the intruder to put their hands where he could see them.

His words were followed by the sound of porcelain breaking and an ear-piercing shriek. A woman in tattered, mud-covered clothing ran past me, nearly shoving me out of the way before Lan gave chase and grabbed her by the arm.

"Stop!" he ordered.

With a vicious elbow to his ribs, she managed to break free, then tripped on the parlor rug and what I assumed was the missing floorboard beneath it, and landed in a heap, colliding with one of the chairs in the process, which knocked the end table over. Phelan lost his footing as well, but didn't collapse beside her, somehow righting himself before he stumbled over her prone form.

The woman began shrieking, arms flailing at my brother, legs kicking at him. Somehow he managed to stop her bare feet from striking him in the abdomen, but she did manage to hit him once in the knee and another time in the hip. Several times she snapped with her teeth like a feral creature, causing Phelan to draw back.

"Stop!" Lan ordered, taking hold of her wrists. "Stop fighting me, do you hear?"

She released another cry, one that was so piercing it raised the hairs on my arms.

"Stop screaming!"

The woman screamed again as if she were being butchered.

"Who in the hell are you and what are you doing in here?"

Lan stepped forward and she managed to kick him in the chest and abdomen several times, but Lan refused to let go of her arms.

"Enough!" he yelled, but to no avail. The stranger appeared prepared to fight until her last breath if necessary.

Teeth gritted, Phelan managed to take hold of her wrists.

"Stop before you hurt yourself," he said. "For God's sake, are you mad? Kire! Grab her feet and help me get her out of the damned house before she breaks the furniture."

I stepped forward and caught a glimpse of the woman's features beneath a tangle of thin silver hair, her eyes feral, her teeth bared. She tossed her head back and forth, revealing the angles of her face and green eyes set far apart.

"Lan, let her go," I said frantically, my heart in my throat.

"What? No, help me." He looked over his shoulder at me, then down at the woman who was on the ground between his legs. She snapped at him with her teeth again while she released a growl.

"Lad hende gå," I said, switching to Danish.

The woman froze and so did my brother.

"Lan, I said let her go," I commanded. "Please."

Lan looked from me to her again, his eyes filled with confusion. Briefly he studied her face, and once he saw her features, he immediately released her hands. "Oh, my God," he said under his breath. "Erik?"

I nodded when he looked over his shoulder at me.

"It cannot be," Phelan said under his breath.

The woman sat up and shoved Lan as hard as she could, but it had little effect on my brother, who knelt beside her, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hands as if they were filthy, then back at the woman, who had started to howl with anguish. She drew her knees up toward her chest and locked her hands around her legs while she began to mutter.

The words had never been clear to me as a child. I'd thought it little more than the utterings of a mad woman who heard voices and repeated phrases that didn't exist in a language she heard in her thoughts.

After weeks of being tutored, I recognized the words she spoke in Danish, the pleadings of a woman who was terrified and alone, unable to communicate with others.

Why are you in my house? Why are you hurting me? I want to go home. Please, I want to go home. Do not hurt me, I beg of you.

She sobbed as she spoke, pleading with those who had never been able to understand her in the past. I looked at her–at the woman who had birthed the men in the room with her–and felt a great sense of pity that she had been isolated for so long.

I had always thought of my time in the Opera House as one of forced solitude, but to her credit, Madeline had always kept me company as frequently as she was able to spare her time. She had willingly sat with me, and I looked forward to her company and the sweets she inevitably brought to share with me.

Gyda had none of that. She had no companionship, no conversation or reassurance. She had no one to speak to as no one knew Danish aside from her husband and she had not learned French.

She was entrenched in her solitude, and she had been trapped there for over forty years.

My brother looked over his shoulder at me, a bewildered look in his eyes as he shook his head.

"How?" he mouthed at me. "How is she still alive?"

I shrugged, having no idea how she had managed to live for so many years. I couldn't decide if it was a blessing to see her again or a curse that she had clearly suffered for decades after Phelan and I had left Conforeit.

Phelan turned from me and reached for her, but she retreated further, pinned against the wall, flinching as he touched her knee. She pulled her tattered skirts down further as if she feared we had intentions of violating her.

"I'm sorry," Phelan whispered. He swallowed, trying again in Danish. "Jeg er ked af det. Mor."

Mother. The very last word snapped her head up to look at him. She swiped the hair from her eyes, her features strained.

"Mor?" she whispered.

Phelan nodded. "Gyda?" he questioned. "That is your name, yes?"

She nodded slowly, her chapped lips parted, green eyes riddled with terror. "Bjorn?"

Phelan bowed his head, his expression indicating how devastated he felt being recognized as our father. "Ingen," he said. No "Ikke Bjorn." Not Bjorn.

"Hvem er du?" Who are you?

Phelan sat beside Gyda on the floor. "I'm Phelan," he whispered in Danish.

"Phelan?"

"I'm your son."

Gyda inhaled sharply. She drew back farther from him and shook her head. "No, no you are not my son. My son is dead. You are an evil spirit. You are not mine. You must leave at once. I will not have you near me, do you understand?"

"We are both your sons," Phelan insisted. "Phelan and Erik. You don't remember bearing children?"

She looked angrily at him, her face twisted. "Of course I remember bearing children! No woman forgets her babies."

"But you don't believe we are your children?" I asked.

Gyda's gaze snapped to me, her eyes on my mask. Slowly she shook her head, long, thin fingers knobbed with arthritis combing through her greasy locks of hair. "My children are dead. I remember. I had one who was stolen away from me and killed by demons and the other was taken from me at birth. That child never took a breath."

Phelan and I exchanged looks.

"I was not killed by demons," Phelan assured her, his voice softer than before.

"I remember the screaming," she insisted, putting her hands over her ears. "The demons were tearing my son apart. I could hear it for days. There was blood in the snow, bloody footprints from a beast."

"No, that is not what happened. I was taken away by Bjorn's brother, Alak."

Gyda blinked at him. "Alak? Alak stole you? He was the demon? Or did the demons possess him?"

"There were no demons, Gyda. Alak came into the house to save Erik," Phelan answered somewhat impatiently. "He was weeks old and starving to death."

Gyda's eyes appeared feral with alarm. She pressed her back to the wall, dirty bare feet planted on the floor and hands splayed in preparation to spring to her feet and flee.

"Erik?"

"He was not dead at birth," Phelan said.

"No, you are lying to me," she said. "No, this cannot be true. My Erik died after birth. Everyone said so. They would not let me see him, my baby. They would not let me hold him because he was dead. There was a headstone. I remember it. I remember the ground was frozen, but I slept beside him."

Her voice was frantic, her gaze darting around the room. The words she spoke made me shiver.

"He was not dead," Phelan said firmly. "Bjorn placed Erik outside moments after he was born. I brought him back in and cared for him. Or at least I tried."

Gyda's eyes brimmed with unshed tears. "No, this cannot be. If you are truly Phelan, then you were too young to care for a newborn baby. You were three and a half."

Phelan nodded. "Yes, I was three and a half."

"Alak took my children," she said under her breath. "He stole my sons. He…he took you from me. Why? Why were my children taken away?"

Phelan looked up at me and frowned.

"Tell me," Gyda demanded, her face twisted with rage. "Tell me why you were both taken from me."