Chapter 6 What History Hid
I don't sleep.
I lie on my back in the narrow guest room Alaric has offered me, staring at a ceiling webbed with hairline cracks, listening to the building breathe. Pipes knock softly. Wind worries at the windows. Somewhere below, a clock ticks with stubborn patience.
Every time I close my eyes, I see snow swallowing footprints.
So when morning comes, it doesn't feel like waking. It feels like giving up.
I sit up slowly, my head aching, my mouth dry. The room smells faintly of dust and soap and old wood. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rest my hands on my knees, grounding myself.
It was real, I think.
It wasn't just imagination.
The certainty steadies me.
Downstairs, I hear movement. A kettle. Footsteps. Alaric is already awake.
Of course he is.
I dress quickly and go down, my notebook tucked under my arm like a shield.
He's at the small table near the back of the shop, sleeves rolled up again, hair pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck. Two cups sit between us, steam rising.
"You didn't sleep," he says without looking up.
"Neither did you," I reply.
He glances at me then, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I rarely do."
I sit across from him. The chair scrapes softly on stone.
"I need records," I say. "Church accounts. Village rolls. Anything that mentions the execution."
His expression shifts alert now, focused.
"You're certain," he says.
"Yes."
"Because of what you saw."
"Because of what didn't happen," I correct. "Fire leaves traces. Smoke. Death records. Burials. There should be something."
He nods once. "There isn't."
The way he says it flat, final makes my chest tighten.
"You've checked," I say.
"Yes."
I wrap my hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth. "Then help me prove it."
He studies me for a long moment, as if weighing something.
"Once you do," he says carefully, "there's no unknowing it."
"I already don't," I say. "Know it. The official story."
That earns me a quiet, humorless breath from him.
"Finish your tea," he says. "Then we'll go."
---
The municipal archive is colder than the shop, all stone and narrow windows and the sharp smell of paper treated with chemicals. The archivist on duty a woman named Clara with sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers recognizes me immediately.
"Mireya Solenne," she says, scanning the sign-in sheet. "Back so soon?"
"I need access to eleventh-century parish records," I say. "Specifically from the northern villages."
Clara raises a brow. "Ambitious."
"Necessary."
She looks at Alaric standing just behind me. "And you are?"
"A colleague," he says smoothly.
She snorts. "You don't look like a folklorist."
"I'm full of surprises."
That gets a reluctant smile out of her.
"Follow me," she says.
We spend hours hunched over tables, hands blackened with dust, eyes stinging from strain. Clara brings us boxes, one after another. Baptismal lists. Death registries. Tithes. Marginal notes by bored priests.
I talk as I work, thinking out loud, my voice low but steady.
"If she was executed," I say, "there would be a burial. Even criminals were recorded."
Alaric nods. "Unless the death was meant to be symbolic."
"Which still leaves a gap," I insist. "Symbols require witnesses."
Clara leans over my shoulder. "You're right. The year you're looking for 1096 has… inconsistencies."
I look up sharply. "What kind?"
"Pages removed," she says. "Rewritten. Names scratched out."
Vindication flares in my chest, hot and sharp.
"Show me," I say.
She does.
We find the record where Isolde's name should be.
There is a space.
Not torn. Not burned.
Carefully scraped away.
I run my finger just above it, not touching. "Someone wanted her gone twice," I whisper. "Once from life. Once from history."
Alaric's jaw tightens.
"You were right," Clara says quietly. "The legend doesn't match the paperwork."
I look at her, heart pounding. "It's wrong."
"Yes," she agrees. "It is."
The word settles into me, heavy and sweet.
Vindication.
---
We return to the shop as dusk falls, arms full of copies and notes. My exhaustion is edged with something brighter now a fierce, trembling clarity.
"She survived," I say as soon as the door closes behind us. "She had help. They let her go."
Alaric sets the papers down carefully. "And then they erased her."
"Poorly," I add. "They rushed. Fear makes people sloppy."
He watches me with something like pride. And something else. Something softer.
"You believe her now," he says.
"I believe she chose," I reply. "That matters."
I spread my notes across the table, sorting, cross-referencing. My hands move with purpose.
"There's more," I murmur. "The handwriting shifts after the execution date. Different ink. Different pressure."
Alaric stills.
"After," he repeats.
"Yes."
I flip to the last page of my notebook, the one I hadn't dared examine closely before. A folded sheet slips free, brittle with age.
My breath catches.
"This wasn't in the bestiary," I say. "It was tucked into the binding. Separate."
Alaric's face drains of color.
"Mireya," he says softly.
I unfold the page.
The writing is careful. Familiar.
And at the bottom
A name.
My voice shakes as I read it aloud.
"A letter signed by Isolde after her 'death'."