Page 440 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

"Was she…your wife?" Rossa asked, her tone almost timid.

Boris nodded. "Princess Slavica, though I called her Vica, and our daughter, Lida. They look like they might wake at any moment." But they wouldn't, he knew. And he did not want them to, for if they did wake, they would condemn him for letting them die, and rightly so.

"They're both so beautiful, though little Lida looks more like you, I think. You must miss them very much. I'm so sorry." Rossa wiped away a tear, then laid her hand on top of his.

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her what she was sorry for, as she certainly hadn't killed them. Hadn't even been born while they lived and breathed. And while his heart still ached with loss as he looked at his family, it wasn't the same stabbing sensation it had once been. He'd said his farewells, and he knew Vica would never look at him with love again. That if he reached down to touch them, they would be as cold as the stone bed their bodies now occupied. Instead, he was becoming increasingly distracted by the warm hand on his. The living, breathing woman at his side, who knew his past, and all his failings, and still she stood beside him.

She wasn't looking down into the past, at the family he'd lost. No, she gazed upward, at the ceiling. "Whoever made this did a masterful job. Your brother's staring up at heaven, but you're watching over your family. As if the artist knew who truly lay in this coffin, though he's made your face exactly as it looked in the illusion…"

For the first time, Boris dared to look up, and what he saw had fury erupting in his chest. "I'm not some benevolent saint, watching over anyone. Whoever made that didn't know me at all. When it came down to it, when they really needed me, I could not protect them. Could not…" He buried his face in his hands and wept.

There. Now she would see him as he truly was, and leave him to his misery. He should have used that dagger the day they died, instead of dishonouring them by running…

Rossa's arms came around him, pulling him into an embrace. For a girl half his size, she had surprising strength. "You saved me. Twice. I'm not sure I ever thanked you properly for that. I'm certain you would have saved them if you could, and that artist knew it, just as they knew you were not buried in that box with them. There are witches who see the future. My grandmother did. Perhaps the artist saw something that has not happened yet, and that's what's on the wall. Not what was, or what is…but what will be."

Boris shook his head. "No, it can't be. I failed her. Failed them. What woman could ever love me, knowing I could not protect her? Or our children?"

He felt her stiffen in his arms.

"Well, I…I…I think if you kept your promise to Igor, and helped to break the curse your brother had cast on him, you'd at least demonstrate that you can save a child. That…that would be something." She pulled away from him, then waved her hand to close the coffin.

The quiet clunk of the stone falling into place over them sounded so final, Boris wanted to reach out and shove it open again. To see their faces again, just one last time…

"We should return to the castle," Rossa said, her tone cold.

Loss slid through his insides, leaving him empty. He'd lost Vica and Lida, but why did it feel like he'd lost Rossa, too?

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