The Founders

Chapter 46

The chest-squeezing crush of apparating abruptly deposited them in a dark room. Alexander gripped her closer to him for a moment, his wand raised. Kyra disentangled her hand from where it was wrapped in his, pressed against his chest. She took a step back, looking around and blushing imperceptibly in the darkness.

With a wave of her wand, she lit the candles. The soft illumination of the flickering wicks threw yellow light and shadows against the walls, and made the warped mullion windows gleam blankly, obscuring the view outside.

The room was low-ceilinged and small and seemed to be a living room. A sofa dominated the centre of the room, dark purple velvet and very motheaten. It faced a wrought iron fireplace with a painting of pears set over it, painted in the style of chiaroscuro; a few pears were arranged in a wooden bowl, one side lit up to translucent gold, the rest of the canvas covered in shadow.

Turning slowly around, Kyra saw that a narrow wooden dresser ran the length of one wall, perpendicular to the fireplace. A few picture frames were arranged along it, a furry film of dust along the tops.

Moving closer, her breath hitched and she lifted up a picture of a small girl with dirty blonde hair, her eyes bright, being held on the hip of a man with the same hair, laughing down at her. In the background, a large tree was covered in red and orange leaves which were just starting to fall to the ground, with one long bough supporting a wooden swing.

Kyra's heart squeezed at the domesticity of the picture, and she blinked her eyes rapidly. Alexander had come up silently behind her, and he placed his hand on her shoulder, a thumb at the nape of her neck.

Leaning back into him slightly, she set the frame back down again and sucked in a breath. Breathing slowly out, she walked along the dresser, avoiding Alexander's gaze.

In the corner of the room, between the windows and dresser, was a low wooden door with a warped black lintel set over it. Turning the iron handle, rust sticking to her palm, she pushed the door open into the darkness of the next room.

The triangle of light falling on the floor gave the first indication that something was amiss in the room; black burn marks were etched into the worn flagstones and reached her feet. Steeling herself, Kyra cast lumos, and stepped carefully into the room, staring.

The blue light of her wand made everything eerie, and she had to raise her arm up high. The room had evidently once been a kitchen. A solid wooden table, like one you might find in a farmhouse, was placed in the centre of the room, four chairs arranged around it. The legs were all charred and warped by heat.

A cracked blue ceramic teapot still stood on the table, and a mug lay shattered on the ground, the pieces scattered haphazardly. An old-fashioned stove stood in the corner of the room, tucked under a low alcove, two more mugs placed on it, perfectly intact.

In front of it was a huge black circle of incinerated stone, deep grooves shooting away from it, where the stone had melted and reformed. The ghosts of black flames licked their way up the walls and charred the ceiling so that standing in the room felt like being held in the clawed hand of a giant.

Kyra took a gasping breath, pressing her hand to her chest as it constricted. Her vision blurred and she could feel each time her body dragged in air violently, the blood throbbing in her temples, and her wand dropped from numb fingers, light winking out.