I scrambled for the flashlight I’d dropped, shined the light into the opening.

It was narrow, but eight or ten feet deep, covered by the granite shelf. And in the bottom lay the remains of a body, a simple dress in pale pink fabric with tiny green leaves, leather boots, and a small leather satchel. By the look of it, both of her legs had been broken.

A century had passed since her death, and dirt had fallen over her bones and dress like snow. But so many years later, she was still Fiona.

I stood up, whistled, and let the rest of them find me.

“What is it?” Tom quietly asked. Wordlessly, I shined my flashlight into the hole. There were gasps, curses, prayers.

“You found her,” Nessa said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “You found her.”

“I think she broke her legs in the fall,” I said, using the flashlight to point.

“The space must have been too small for her to shift,” Ethan quietly said.

“So she couldn’t heal herself,” Vincent said, remembering what I’d told him.

I nodded. “She wouldn’t have been able to climb out, and the overhang would have made it nearly impossible to see her. I didn’t see her until I hit the ground. And there’s something else,” I said, pointing my flashlight at the glimmer on the lapel of her dress—at the gold and gems of the laurel brooch. She’d been wearing it when she fell.

“Did she run away?” Rowan asked. “Did he kill her? Did he put her here?”

Rowan was not, among other things, an optimist.

Tom looked into the hole again, sighed. “We’ll get the forensics team up here, and we’ll see what Ms. McKenzie has to tell us.”

***

We waited while the scientists were called, the lights prepared, plastic sheeting arranged so her body could be carefully extracted.

After taking copious pictures, they used long tongs to bring up her remains and her effects, including a canvas bag of her art supplies: nibs and holders, some colored chalks, a small bottle of ink. It also held several sheets thick, folded paper that had miraculously survived. I crouched by the plastic, used a stick to carefully unfold the first page.

Some of the ink was faded to invisibility, but the visible words were enough to get the point across.

Christophe, my love, I have done——. I have disappeared into “—— warrens” of this beautiful—— wild land. I’ve—— myself—— stuck, without room to change or——. For that, above all——, I—— sorry.

I aimed to sketch our valley, to—— reveal it—— pigment as well as—— Mr. Barrymore. It—— my gift—— you. I try to—— amusement,——, in how easily our plans are torn—— by fate. And six days later—— I am.

I fear this is my final——, that immortality is not a—— I—— receive. If you—— not find——,—— pray that your mind will be soothed, as mine——, that—— passed so many months together.—— weep for me in sadness, but in joy, in—— of all that we have seen of—— world. Seek solace—— family; let them comfort and console—— not fear for me. I am not afraid—— for the darkness comes for all of us.

—— love, and—— eternally, Fiona

“Six days,” Rowan said, when he’d taken his turn reading the words, his voice choked with emotion. “She was here for six days.”

Hot tears fell from my cheeks like coins of tribute. Fiona hadn’t run away, and Christophe hadn’t killed her. She’d taken a hike, intent on drawing a picture of the valley for Christophe, had fallen and been injured, and hadn’t been able to make her way out again.

Christophe couldn’t weep for Fiona anymore, couldn’t experience the dual joy and despair of having found her. So I wept for him, for her, and for all those who’d come after them, locked in a battle no one had ever intended to fight.

“Let’s give her a moment of silence,” Tom said, and every person on the hill stopped moving as we counted down a minute in silence. Tom sniffed when the minute was up, wiped dampness from his eyes, as well.

“I’d like to say some words,” Rowan said.

Tom nodded, and we moved aside to give him space.

Shifters were romantics in the classical sense, their connection to the natural world deep and profound. I’d heard Gabriel recite Yeats, invoking a poem from his In the Seven Woods, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that Rowan chose another Yeats verse.

“‘And then you came with those red mournful lips,’” he began, voice clear and ringing. “‘And with you came the whole of the world’s tears, / And all the sorrows of her labouring ships, / And all the burden of her myriad years.’”

Rowan paused, teeth gritted while he made an obviously heroic effort to hold back his emotions. A quick shake of the head, a drawing of his hand across his jaw, a haggard intake of breath. When he was sure of his control, he clasped his hands in front of him, began again.

“‘And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, / The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, / And the loud chanting of the unquiet leaves—’”

Despite his efforts, his eyes welled, and he sniffed angrily, as if his body had betrayed his emotions. “‘Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.’”

That was his implicit signal, and his shifters howled their mourning dirges, their voices unified and so utterly sad.