Chapter 2

He dressed and walked to the kitchen. The kettle was old and whistled with a thin, reedy note. He poured water over tea leaves and stood by the window, watching the first light touch the birches. The forest looked the same as always, patient and wise, but he felt a new urgency in his chest.

A knock came at the door. He opened it to find Musmere, her dark hair tied back, a scarf around her neck. She carried a small basket.

“I brought bread,” she said. “Fresh. I baked it at dawn.”

He stepped aside to let her in. The cottage felt smaller with her inside, but not in a bad way. She set the basket on the table and unwrapped a round loaf, still warm. The smell of yeast and honey filled the room.

“You bake too,” he said.

“I do many things,” she replied with a smile. “Pottery, bread, brewing tea. It’s all the same—mixing earth and water and waiting for the transformation.”

They ate in comfortable silence. The bread was soft, with a slight sweetness. Gruzdas poured her tea, and she held the mug with both hands, warming her fingers.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About the archive. The county office might have old maps, deeds, conservation records. If we can prove the land has special status, Klisto can’t just build over it.”

“The archive is in the old courthouse,” Gruzdas said. “I haven’t been there in years. The clerk is a woman named Birute. She keeps the records locked up, but she might remember me.”

“Then let’s go,” Musmere said. “Today.”

He nodded. There was no time to waste.

They took his truck, a dusty green pickup that had carried him through countless patrols. The road wound through the forest, then opened onto farmland, then into the small town square. The courthouse was a stone building with tall windows and a clock tower that had stopped at half past three decades ago.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old paper and floor wax. A woman sat behind a high desk, her glasses low on her nose. She looked up as they entered.

“Gruzdas,” she said, surprised. “It’s been a long time.”

“Birute. I need your help.”

He explained quickly. Birute listened, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern. When he finished, she pushed her chair back and led them down a narrow hallway to a room filled with filing cabinets and rolled maps.

“The protected land records are in the back,” she said. “But you’ll need to know exactly what you’re looking for. The system is old—everything is handwritten.”

They spent hours searching. Musmere’s fingers, used to clay, handled the brittle papers with surprising care. She found a ledger from 1952 that listed a conservation easement granted by the county. It stated that the land east of the mill, including the forest and the creek, could not be developed for commercial purposes. The document was signed by a judge and a surveyor.

“This might be enough,” she said softly, her eyes bright.

Gruzdas leaned over her shoulder. The ink was faded, but the words were clear. He felt a flicker of hope.

They copied the relevant pages. Birute offered to make official copies for a fee, and Gruzdas paid without hesitation. As they were leaving, he glanced out the window and saw a black sedan parked across the street. Klisto was standing by the courthouse steps, talking on his phone. He saw them and ended the call, walking toward them.

“Mr. Gruzdas,” he said, his voice smooth but cold. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Researching your options?”

“Just looking at old maps,” Gruzdas replied. “For personal interest.”

Klisto’s eyes flicked to the folder in Musmere’s hand. “I hope you’re not planning to cause trouble. Development will happen. It’s progress.”

“Progress shouldn’t erase what’s already here,” Musmere said.

Klisto gave a tight smile. “Sentiment. I’ll see you in a week.” He turned and walked away, his heels clicking on the pavement.

They drove back in silence. The easement was a good find, but Gruzdas knew it might not be enough. Klisto had resources, lawyers, connections. He had only a folder of old papers and a potter from the city.

When they reached the millhouse, Musmere invited him in for tea. He accepted, grateful for the company. The interior was sparse but warm—a kiln in the corner, shelves of unfinished pots, a wooden table covered in clay dust. She put the kettle on.

“I found something else,” she said, hesitating. “When I was cleaning the cellar, I noticed a door under the stairs. It’s old, heavy, and locked. I didn’t have a key.”

Gruzdas frowned. “I never knew the mill had a cellar door like that. The original owner might have hidden something. Or it could just be a root cellar.”

“Maybe,” she said, but her eyes held a question.

The kettle whistled. She poured the water, and the steam rose between them. Outside, the afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the forest floor.

“Should we look at it?” she asked.

Gruzdas thought of Klisto, of the easement, of the week ahead. The locked door was a distraction, perhaps. But it was also a mystery, and mysteries had a way of leading to answers he hadn’t expected.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll bring a crowbar and a lantern.”

She nodded, and the smile returned to her face. He finished his tea and stood to leave. At the door, she touched his arm, lightly, just for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said. “For not letting this place be forgotten.”

He walked home through the twilight, the folder tucked under his arm. The trees whispered in the breeze, and he felt that thread of hope again, thin but strong. The lock on the cellar door would wait until morning. But something told him it was important—something that might shift the balance of the coming fight.

The stars came out, one by one, and the forest settled into night. Gruzdas slept more soundly than he had in weeks, dreaming of clay and keys and doors that opened onto hidden rooms.