Page 25 of The Scent of Snow
Anne shook her head, her lips quivering. “I don’t think our marriage can continue like this.”
A cruel smirk formed on his face, masking the turmoil inside. “I picked up a thing or two about parenting. I could teach you. Do you know that fear is a powerful tool for chiseling character? The secret is identifying what the child loves the most, and then you threaten to remove it.” He touched her cheek. “But then, I feel you already learned the concept.”
Anne stepped back. “After Christmas, I will spend a few weeks with Julia and Griffin on Vesuvio.”
The pain was immediate and sharp, like a knife to his heart. Pedro watched her turn to the door.
The dome had crumbled.
What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?
Anne dragged herself through the house. The hallway stretched before her, infinite, Pedro’s works of art blurring as tears drowned her vision. She needed solitude, a quiet corner where she could crumble.
A frantic voice broke through her haze of pain. “Anne!”
It was Julia, her face a mask of concern. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”
Anne halted, swiping at her tear-streaked face. “Julia, I really can’t right now. I need to—”
“I must find Pedro,” Julia interrupted, her voice high-pitched. “I need his help. It’s important.”
Anne’s heart constricted further. She couldn’t face Pedro. Not yet. “I can’t see him now,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I need to lie down.” Would Pedro even bother to help a family he found so bothersome?
Julia grabbed her arm, her grip tight. “Please, Anne.” Her eyes searched her face. “It’s not about you or him. It’s the children. They’re missing.”
Pedro strode outside the house, his orders echoing in the cavernous foyer. He pushed all thoughts of Anne and their separation from his mind. If he were to find the children, he needed total focus. A winter gale hit him in the chest. The majestic oaks, once proud and tall, now shook like frail skeletons.
The women whispered in the courtyard, their colorful gowns contrasting with their grey complexions. Anne’s face stood out. Her expression of disbelief at seeing him leading the search cut him deep. Did she believe he would shirk from this? Had he become Titano in her eyes already?
With a confident nod for Julia’s sake, he kept on. Fifteen minutes later, he had gathered the men at the edge of the property. Pedro looked at the horizon. The sun had started its descent, and black clouds converged at the south as if preparing to assault the hill. None of the prospects boded well for the children.
“We separate here. Maxwell, take the pastures and the gardens. Henrique, sweep the north side. Dante, stay with the women. Don’t allow them to leave the house.”
“What about the scarps?” Maxwell asked.
Pedro narrowed his eyes. “I’ll take them.” If the children went traipsing in that direction, they had probably met the riverbed. He wouldn’t want Maxwell to see it. No father should witness such a scene.
Once more, Maxwell looked at him, panic very close to his surface. This time, Pedro felt no satisfaction over the fear in his brother-in-law’s eyes. He clasped the other man’s shoulder and fixed him with a resolute stare. “I know the terrain. If they went there, I will retrieve them.”
Maxwell nodded, his English composure one thread away from snapping completely.
They set up their different paths.
The wind cut Pedro’s face, the cold metallic. The scarps were a winding maze of sharp inclines and narrow ledges overlooking the river below. If the children had wandered that way, he would need to think like them and predict their movements.
The surrounding woods were still, save for the occasional rustle of dry leaves carried by the wind and the distant caw of a raven. Pedro’s boots crunched on the frost-covered ground, disturbing the quiet landscape. The bare trees stood tall and eerie, casting long, sinewy shadows over his path.
Pushing onward, Pedro kept his eyes peeled, searching for any sign of their passage, scanning the rough texture of every tree, checking for any unnatural breaks. And then he found a series of broken twigs.
His pulse quickened. Moving with renewed urgency, he followed the trail. Just off the path, obscured by a clump of dry grass, was Clara’s doll. Pedro bent to pick it up. The cloth was dirty and damp. A pang of fear gripped his heart. The children had indeed been here. Saint George had mercy on their souls.
Twenty minutes later, the evergreens closed ranks around him, their canopy swallowing the waning light. No more signs. The trail went cold. Where were they?
Panting, Pedro gazed towards the fortress. He couldn’t see the house, just the desolate trees. He brushed his chest, the pain returning full force. Anne had dreamed of a perfect Christmas. Instead, they were on the brink of losing everything — the children, their marriage, all teetering on the edge of the scarp.
Pedro’s heart sped, trying to break free from his ribs, the thuds echoing in his ears. The air burned as it rushed in and out of his lungs. What if he couldn’t find them? If the trail vanished, the children were dead already. Anne would never forgive him.
Cold seeped into his great coat, and with it, a numbness. The rough terrain beneath his feet, the river’s murmur, his heart’s rapid beat — all became distant, muted. Pedro watched himself in the forest as if floating from the bone-dry branches. Part of him knew that if he allowed the double-think to catch him in the dead of winter as night crept in, bringing with it a host of predators, he was signing his death warrant. Yet, another part of him didn’t care. He tried to anchor himself to reality — the gnarled silhouettes of the oaks, the weight of the doll hidden in his cloak, the crust frosting the ground beneath his feet. But it was hopeless.
