***
In the shade under the table she saw two figures. They were the size of children like she, but with adult faces.
Jem was knelt on the stony floor arranging cutlery in neat rows. He would return to the start as he reached the end of each row and adjust it ever so slightly.
Hunor sat next to the huge table leg, head in hands and muttering to himself.
“Why are we hiding?” Emelia asked.
“Who is? Who are we afraid of?”
“The Darkmaster—he is coming for you,” Hunor said. “Oh, Master Hü-Jen, I am so, so sorry.”
Emelia felt the grip of terror stealing her breath.
“For me? Why for me? What have I done?”
“Help me then. Please.”
“We cannot. We have our own demons to defeat, our own journey to make,” Jem said. He returned his attention to his cutlery.
The shadows were extending slowly under the table. Emelia had the sense touching them would be a terrible thing.
She ran from her hiding place. She darted past cauldrons and pots, past the dog’s basket and the tarnished urns.
Her blood turned to ice.
Drifting across the kitchen was a small man with a dark cloak and a white face. She knew him, but from where? Then it struck her.
It was the man from the painting.