CHAPTER 3
Kaspian was late. Very late.
As he stepped out of the shade of the Perun-struck oak, the fields before him weren’t animated with the tall, breeze-rustled ears of rye he always brushed his fingers over. Only bare earth, shorn close to the ground, filled the expanse. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifted on the wind. The reapers had cleared almost the entire field; only stipples of wheat stalks remained. He hefted the painting onto his back, rearranged the satchel’s strap, and picked up the pace. If he missed this year, Tata would have his head, heir or no.
The autumn light had been so beautiful this morning, the perfect time to paint the lake. He’d only meant to linger a little while. For months he’d been trying to capture the esoteric feeling that place emanated. At times it al
