Chapter 54

I spoke softly, addressing Mrs. Henderson, "Mrs. Henderson, may we come in? We need to ask you a few questions about what happened."

Mrs. Henderson, her face pale and filled with sorrow, weakly nodded. She sat on a worn-out bed, her bandaged arm resting on a pillow. Rose stood by my side, clasping her hand in front of her. Then she took a deep breath and gently placed her gloved hand on Mrs. Henderson's shoulder, offering comfort. There was concern in her eyes, and her muscles stiffened at her own act. She pulled away after squeezing her shoulder a little. The small gesture might not mean much to anyone except an act of sympathy, but I knew the courage she had mustered to do this.

Rose spoke in a gentle tone: "We're truly sorry for what you've been through, Mrs. Henderson. We're here to help in any way we can."

Mrs. Henderson's voice trembled as she replied, "I... I can't remember anything, my lady. It's all a blur. One moment, I was picking wild berries with my little Ronald." Her voice grew thick, and her eyes welled up as she fought back tears. "The next day, my little Ronald was nowhere to be seen."

I responded firmly, yet with empathy, "Mrs. Henderson, we understand how confusing and distressing this must be for you. But please, try to think back. Was there anything unusual before the incident? Any strange sounds or smells?"

Mrs. Henderson closed her eyes, deep in thought, and after a moment, she shook her head sadly.

In a compassionate tone, Rose assured her, "It's alright, Mrs. Henderson. Take your time. Sometimes, memories resurface when we least expect them to. You should rest. We will get Ronald back home." Rose's eyes shimmered with determination.

Leaving Mrs. Henderson's house, the scent of damp earth filled the air, indicating the approaching rain. We proceeded to the next house, belonging to Mr. Ramirez. He sat at his kitchen table, nursing a bandaged leg, his eyes carrying a mixture of fear and hope as they met mine.

"Mr. Ramirez, we're here to listen. We want to understand what happened, even if your memory is foggy. Every detail might be crucial."

Mr. Ramirez's voice trembled as he replied, "I wish I could remember. My mind feels empty, like a void where memories should be."

Rose's eyes watched him, and I scanned the surroundings. The place reflected the man's sorrow. There was an unclean pot by the fireplace, and it was cold here.

Rose interjected softly, "We believe you, Mr. Ramirez. It's not your fault. If I may, can you tell us how old your daughter was?"

"Seven; she was going to turn seven this summer. She is a wisp of a thing. I don't even know..."

Leaning closer, I asked, "Did you notice anything peculiar? Anything at all, even the smallest detail?"

Mr. Ramirez paused, his gaze fixed on a worn family portrait hanging on the wall, lost in thought.

After a moment, he responded thoughtfully, "There was a scent... a strange scent in the air, like burnt metal and something sweet. It made me dizzy, but that's all I can recall."

We nodded at each other and left Mr. Ramirez alone.

As we stepped outside, a gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers, a stark contrast to the unsettling state of the house.

"He is not himself, and there was no one else there to take care of the poor man. Do you think we should talk to Elder Hilda? He is alone?" Rose wondered, her eyes filled with concern. I watched as an anxious frown deepened on her forehead. Whenever those stress lines appeared on her face, I felt unease rise inside of me. After I healed her, the memory loss and the aftereffects were unpredictable. What if I had done something wrong? The notion clawed at me every second of every day.

"We can suggest to the council that some people keep an eye on the victims," I said.

"They should not be alone." She shuddered, and her eyes went unfocused.

"Rose," I called to her.

She didn't look at me.

"Rose," I said, taking her hand in mine. "Rose, look at me."

She snapped out of it and blinked at me. "What is it, love?" I touched her forehead. She was cold and shivering.

"I am fine," she answered, her voice thick. She frowned, meeting my eyes, and I saw the same troubled look she had when she used to flinch at the prospect of being touched. But she grasped my hand and held onto it tightly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said firmly, slipping on the guarded facade she always had on herself. I hoped that one day she could simply be herself with me.

"Where to next?" she asked.

"If you want, you can rest," I suggested.

"We can't rest. We have to talk to everyone and find out what is going on. Stop being so concerned," she said, waving her hand nonchalantly.

I nodded, not entirely convinced, but I would rather have her with me, where I could observe her, than alone in the guesthouse. I kissed her brow, and she relaxed under my touch. I smiled against her skin. These were the most endearing moments when she just melted in my arms like she never knew any other way. I was glad that, at least if she couldn't share her troubles, I might be someone she could forget them with.

I grabbed her hand, and we moved to the next house.

***

The strange smells of iron and gold and rotten eggs—missing victims are all children. And they didn't remember anything. Whatever these creatures were, they had the power to manipulate memories, leaving no trace or proof of what or why these children were missing.

"They want their identities to be a mystery, and they don't need gold. The children are in much more danger if it's not about gold," Rose said from behind me as she leaned over my shoulder, looking at the parchment I was writing on. My quill stopped, and I looked up at her. She was in her sleeping robes, running her fingers through her long red curls. Her sharp, sea-green eyes emitted warmth in the candlelight, casting a glow on her freckles. For a moment, I forgot to breathe as I admired her. She looked relaxed in her white robes, her collarbone exposed to the swell of her bosom. I looked away as the familiar fire started to ignite in my belly. I focused on her words. She was right. This was not about gold. These creatures were not humans, nor were they lycans.

"What could this be about, then?" I asked, trying to distract myself. Her soft hand came to my shoulder.

"I don't know. It depends on who they are, what they are, and what it is they want," she whispered in the last part. The look of wonder clouded her gaze once again, as it had countless times since this morning.

"What can erase memories so efficiently?" she asked.

"Vampires"  came to mind first. "But their magic is all about balance. They can't erase memories at this frequency," I said, shaking my head. There was no way a vampire would try to harm humans. Their magic is sourced from them. Hurting them would be like hurting the vampire species, and the wolves were protectors of this village. No vampire could cross me.

"Can witches manipulate memories?" she asked.

"In some incidents, perhaps, but this time, I don't think it's witches," I said.

"Why?

I wonder, how much should I mention? After the attack, she lost her memories and she doesn't remember exactly what happened. Should I tell her? Or mentioning that night would trigger something?