were used for rituals!”
“I thought that was just a story!” Arthur said, running to catch
up so that he and Thomas flanked her.
“Everything is just a story. Stories are the only things that
matter.”
Minnie prayed silently that they would make it in time to
rewrite the ending.
July, 1982
twenty-one
T
he low tones of an argument echoed around cora.
They were punctuated by the slow, maddeningly arrhyth-
mic dripping of water from the cave ceiling into pools
around them. She sat on the ground, unforgiving shards of rocks
beneath her, with Charles’s head cradled in her lap. He was start-
ing to get some color back, and his breathing seemed less labored,
but she wanted to get him to a doctor right away.
Unfortunately, their way was blocked. They were being kept
by Alden, Mary, the woman she assumed to be Constance, and
several other people she didn’t recognize but who seemed vaguely
familiar, as though she’d passed them on the street. Alden stood
nearest to the way out, his tall frame almost pushing his head
against the cavern roof. Around him, carved into the rock, were
designs Cora had mistaken for water grooves, but that she
could now see were symbols and letters, painstakingly created to
blend in.
Mary, ignoring the heated exchange between Alden and
Constance, drifted toward Cora, trailing her finger along the rocks.
She looked down and smiled tenderly at Charles. “Don’t
worry,” she said.
