Another chapter. Would still love to hear some thoughts...

Chapter 3

Several days later, on a rainy Thursday night, Elphaba sat in a dim corner of the library at Hogwarts. She had books spread all over the table in front of her. However, her focus had narrowed to the stack of back issues of The Daily Prophet that now sat on top of the books. She'd been reading for hours, her thin frame wrapped in a ragged sweater and her dark hair piled in a messy knot on her head. For the first time in months, she felt calm, like she'd gotten a shot of morphine after ages of pain. Books would always be her solace, her safe place, and her catharsis. Even during her last days in Oz, when she'd been slowly going mad in a dark castle, books had always calmed her down. Now, in this new and uncertain place, she turned to them again.

Elphaba had started coming to the library at night after the students were supposed to be in bed, because she couldn't stand the noise during the day. She wasn't sure exactly what Azkaban held, but she couldn't imagine a worse punishment than being a prisoner in a castle full of whining, shrieking, stomping adolescents who gossiped openly about her at every turn. She'd never managed, in her thirty-eight years, to come to like children. So she mostly kept to her quarters during the day and only ventured to the library at night. Tonight, she'd started the evening by reading all the historical folklore about Oz. She'd pulled every book she could find on the subject and read for herself the accounts Minerva had told her about.

Oz had never been listed on any proper maps of the wizarding world. The closest mentions were a few accounts of a group called the Ozians from hundreds of years before. They had supposedly been dissatisfied with the current leadership of the time and had threatened mutiny. They were a raggedy group of minorities, outcasts, and magical creatures. Legend said they were quickly put down, but disappeared without a trace shortly thereafter. Most witches and wizards believed they had been attacked and killed by the very tyrannical leaders of the ancient wizarding world. However, a few insisted they had made a new home in the Americas, which were mostly uninhabited at the time. The stories Elphaba read included suggested locations for their settlements and spells that might've been used to conceal the Land of the Ozians, as the books called it. The stories suggested that, as the population of the States grew, it became harder for Oz to stay completely undetected. Occasionally, someone would find their way inside and emerge with a fantastic story. They were all dismissed as crazy and none ever found their way back to the mysterious place. What interested Elphaba more, however, were the handful of stories of people who claimed to be Ozians who had come out of Oz. All four accounts were from people, three witches and a wizard, who were banished from Oz. Three were hung or burned before their stories could be validated. The last one, a witch named Mariella, lived out her days in a house by the sea trying to find her way back to Oz. She was mostly left alone, and she died that way.

The more Elphaba read, the more she felt sorry for these lost souls. She understood their struggle, having been plunged into a world they had never seen and did not understand. She felt their pain, because this new world and Oz were very different. The Muggle world was full of technologies she'd never seen and clothing that was foreign to her. If living in the Muggle world was her only option, Elphaba thought she might have gone crazy as well. However, she realized the difference between her story and theirs. Elphaba had significant magical abilities. She'd never thought much of it before, as it was not a source of pride in Oz, but she was here at Hogwarts because the magical world had noticed her. Elphaba was also the first story she could find of someone getting themselves out of Oz. All the others had been banished and had no idea how they got out, much less how to get back in. It made her wonder if the answer to proving Oz existed was as simple as apparating back. She'd yet to try it, however, because it was impossible inside this prison of a school.

Having tired of that train of thinking, Elphaba moved on to reading The Daily Prophet. She wanted to know more about her surroundings and the magical people who were keeping her here, and the news was the easiest way to find out. She read snippets going back many years, piecing together a rough idea of how the Ministry worked and what major events had occurred. She'd been unable to avoid the story of Harry Potter, from his near-death, to his schooling, to his defeat of the dark lord, Voldemort. It almost seemed too fantastical to be true, but Elphaba knew something about oppressive leadership and war. Oz might very well be in the middle of a war right now. She couldn't imagine a battle being fought by students, however. It seemed impossible to imagine the shoving, snickering brats she was forced to dine with fighting a war, but the Prophet said it had happened.

With a sigh, Elphaba sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. She needed to get some sleep, but she was still restless. It was hard to truly rest when there was nothing during the day to tire out her mind. Glancing around the room, she saw another figure hunched over a table. The dim light revealed short, cropped hair in a glossy brown. She had a strong jaw and an upturned nose. She was also thin and wrapped in her own stringy sweater. Sensing Elphaba's gaze, she turned. Elphaba met her eyes and recognized her.

Hermione Granger.

Elphaba remembered reading about her. She felt an odd sort of connection, because this Hermione seemed as awkward, studious, and full of conviction as she had been at that age. Hermione, however, had won her war. Elphaba had only succeeded in being vilified by the whole of Oz. Perhaps because it was so late, or because she hadn't properly spoken to anyone in days, Elphaba quietly got up and crossed the space. She sat down across from Hermione and they stared each other down for several minutes.

Finally, Elphaba asked, "You're Hermione?"

Without flinching, the younger girl said, "And you are Elphaba Thropp."

"How do you know?" Elphaba asked.

"I read," Hermione stated flatly.

"Well, we have that in common," Elphaba returned evenly.

Sitting up straighter, Hermione asked, "Do you really believe you come from Oz?"

Taken aback, Elphaba said, "I know that I came from Oz."

Hermione said nothing, but her eyes belied that fact that she was not convinced.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Elphaba demanded.

"Because," Hermione fired back, "No one has ever proven it exists. And I know. I've read all of it. And the last thing we need is another witch or wizard showing up and trying to cause trouble. We've had enough trouble for ages to come."

As she spoke, Elphaba caught a glimpse of fear in the young woman's eyes. She might be an adult now, and hardened from war, but she was still young. She'd been forced into making decisions beyond her years, and now the vulnerability was returning. Elphaba felt for her, because she had once been that idealistic young girl who needed only a cause and bare-knuckle bravery. Now, however, she was twenty years older with nothing but a list of crimes and a label of insanity to show for it.

"What are you reading tonight?" Elphaba changed the subject.

Acquiescing, Hermione said, "I'm scanning the papers for sightings of someone."

"Someone famous?" Elphaba smirked.

Hermione shook her head.

Elphaba should've guessed that Hermione Granger would never be so silly as to pine for a musician or a film star.

"Who, then?" Elphaba pressed.

Sighing, Hermione said, "Severus Snape. A professor who taught here."

"Really?" Elphaba was very confused. She vaguely remembered reading that name in the articles about the Battle of Hogwarts.

Worrying her lip, Hermione went on, "I really must find him. I never thought I would say that, but I want to talk to him."

Smiling a little, Elphaba said, "I wouldn't have picked you to have a crush on a teacher."

Snapping her head up to meet Elphaba's eyes, Hermione stated, "Absolutely not. This has nothing to do with anything that silly. And I have a boyfriend."

Chuckling, Elphaba said, "We young crusaders have no time for love, do we?"

Hermione looked annoyed and said, "I just told you, I have a boyfriend."

"And where is he?" Elphaba threw back.

Glancing down, Hermione said, "In London. He's apprenticing at the Ministry. His name is Ron. And we may be apart a lot right now, and he may drive me absolutely mad half the time, but…I love him. I do."

Feeling a twinge of compassion, Elphaba softened and said, "Well, then never take him for granted."

Hermione's expression changed from annoyed to wistful, and Elphaba felt a flash of a memory – a dark loft, blood on the floor, blood on her hands, and the absolute certainty that he was gone. She shook it off. Elphaba would not dig up her past again.

Instead, she asked, "Why this…Severus Snape? Why is he worthy of your concern?'

Pushing her hair back, Hermione dug through her stack of papers. Pulling out a copy of The Prophet, she pushed it toward Elphaba and said, "Here. This explains some of it."

The article was dated three months previous, in June. Next to it, on the cover, was a large photo of a man. It was a close shot, as though taken for a portrait. Elphaba studied the man's long, unkempt dark hair and severe features. His mouth was set in a grimace and he was all nose and cheekbones. However, his eyes struck her. They were dark, fathomless eyes that constantly glanced to the right in the moving photo. The article detailed how Snape had served as Headmaster at Hogwarts for a year and had been considered one of the Dark Lord's greatest assets during his final reign of terror. The price on Severus Snape's head had been almost as high as Voldemort's at one time. However, as Elphaba read on, she realized that this article served as something of an obituary or a eulogy for a man who would never have a proper funeral. A quote from Harry Potter himself stated:

The truth is, Severus Snape was quite possibly the bravest man I ever knew, but I was never able to see it while he lived. I won't reveal all that his memories showed me, but he chose to keep the best parts of himself secret so that he might be able to serve as a double agent when the Dark Lord returned three years ago. He was a man who felt great remorse for his mistakes and who was willing to go to his grave trying to right his wrongs. Were it not for Severus Snape, I believe Hogwarts would've been entirely at the mercy of the Carrows this past year, and Dumbledore's Army would not have been able to penetrate the castle. Ultimately, he chose to die rather than reveal what he must've known, that either myself or Draco Malfoy was the master of the Elder Wand. He chose to die, rather than send Voldemort after us with the truth.

Elphaba read the rest of the article, which discussed Severus Snape's role at the school over the years and how Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had trusted him without question for seventeen years. The article didn't fully explain what had prompted Snape to suddenly and vehemently change sides, but Elphaba suspected it had something to do with Harry Potter's near-death as an infant. As she finished reading, she felt a strange jealousy in her gut. She had tried for so many years to right her own wrongs, to make some sort of good out of her life, but she'd only been labeled a wicked witch. While Oz's Great and Glorious Wizard had slowly plunged the land into genocide and war, she'd been unable to stir a rebellion to save the Animals. They were forced out, like Mudbloods and Muggle-borns. Elphaba couldn't help wishing that she'd had a Professor Dumbledore, or even a Harry Potter to clear her name and to see that she was no villain. She wished for her own vindication. Of course, in her story, she hadn't managed to kill the wizard.

When Elphaba looked back up from the paper, Hermione quietly said, "Professor Snape gave up his whole life to protect Harry, to make sure Voldemort would be defeated," she paused, "and he did it all because he loved Lily Potter."

"Lily Potter?" Elphaba asked.

"Harry's mum," Hermione explained, "She and Professor Snape grew up together. They were inseparable. But, things went wrong and Lily and James Potter ended up dead. Harry, Professor McGonagall, and I agreed not to share the intimate details of all of it with the press."

Elphaba listened, trying to put the pieces together. She was old enough to deduce there must have been some sort of complicated love triangle that had played out. She was reminded of how many battles were fought over love.

"Why do you want to talk to him so badly?" Elphaba asked.

Hermione sighed and answered, "The Ministry is rounding up all the former Death Eaters and imprisoning them. The public is calling for executions without trial. It feels like we're in a dangerous place. Most of the witnesses to the Dark Lord's meetings have fled. But I believe that reacting too quickly, and out of panic, will only perpetuate fear of one another. We will find another group to hate and divide ourselves again. And we cannot vindicate merciless bloodshed with more bloodshed."

Cocking her head, Elphaba said, "You're a smart girl, Hermione Granger. A smart woman."

Hermione smiled a little and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"So how does Snape figure into this?" Elphaba asked.

Hermione went on, "He is the only person left who was privy to all that Dumbledore knew, and Dumbledore was very secretive. But he confided more in Professor Snape than anyone, even Harry. And Snape is also the only person who had access to both sides. Serving both sides, he knew more about the war than anyone. He knew everyone involved, intimately. He is the greatest witness. And," she paused, "he is the only Death Eater who we can be absolutely sure actually switched sides. He would know better than anyone who is loyal now."

Scanning the article again, Elphaba asked, "And what makes you think he is alive?"

Hermione glanced away and said nothing.

"I'm not serving you any more, Draco. Go home," Claire, the current bar maid at The Three Broomsticks, growled as the Monday afternoon sun struggled against the clouds outside the windows.

Draco glared back at her. She would not be intimidated, however. Claire had taken over for Madame Rosmerta after the Battle of Hogwarts, as she had never fully recovered from the trauma of it all. Draco was now forced to drink in this dreadfully quaint pub because Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had decided their family should retreat to an old family property passed down from Lucius' grandfather. The old house was east of Hogsmeade in the absolute middle of nowhere. The Malfoys had sensed the growing uneasiness in the Ministry and had decided to put some distance between themselves and London. Draco wasn't sure if they were hoping to be forgotten, or simply to have an easy escape into the Scottish mountains should executioners come knocking. Either way, he was finding it hard to care. He was an outcast now, known only for his cowardice among the former Death Eaters and for his manipulative deception among the rest of the wizarding world.

Fuck them all, Draco thought to himself.

Getting up from the bar, he crossed to the large, stone fireplace. Dropping into one of the worn chairs, he stared into the embers of a neglected fire. He didn't want to go home. It wasn't that late and his parents would be awake, waiting to glower at him for being such a massive disappointment. Raking back his white-blonde hair, he calculated how many weeks he had before the Hogwarts students took over the town for their first weekend out of the castle. He planned to be far away that weekend.

While lost in his thoughts, another figure entered the pub and dropped into the chair opposite him. Eventually, Draco looked over to see a girl staring miserably into the fire. She had dark hair that was pulled back into a long, tight braid, but wisps were escaping near her temples. In profile, her sloped nose dropped off above pouting lips. She didn't appear very tall and she certainly wasn't striking in her beauty. When she finally looked at Draco, however, she had wide, dark eyes that could be appealing. She wore no makeup and her robes were worn. She also looked miserable.

Almost in spite of himself, he asked, "Rough day?"

With a sigh, she said, "Rough month."

Her accent was distinctly Scottish, so Draco wondered if she was a local. There weren't very many homes close to Hogsmeade, however.

"Are you new to the area?" he asked, deciding to be chivalrous since he'd started the conversation.

"Aye," she answered, "To Hogwarts. Oldest First Year I think they've ever 'ad."

Draco just stared at her, confused.

Sitting up in the chair, she explained, "I've just come to Hogwarts. I was never offered the opportunity until now. My childhood was…nomadic."

Draco studied her more closely. She seemed so plain, so uninteresting, like she should've come from a clan like the Weasleys. It was hard to imagine her living a rogue existence among the Muggles, escaping the reaches of Hogwarts, especially since she sounded like someone who'd been raised here.

Realizing he was staring and not speaking, Draco finally asked, "Well…what house are you in?"

With a troubled expression, she said, "Slytherin."

Affronted, Draco sat up straighter and said, "You should be proud, then. I come from a family of Slytherins."

Chewing her lip, she asked, "And what's your name?"

"Draco," he lost some of his courage, "Draco Malfoy."

If she recognized him, she gave nothing away in her expression.

He asked, "What about you?"

"Stella," she said softly, "Stella Dunbar."

In mid-September, less than a week before she was due to meet with Minerva again, Mary apparated herself to Spinner's End in Cokeworth. She'd known for some time where the Snape family had made their home. She'd had more than one assignment in this run-down area, trying to convince parents to relinquish their children to Hogwarts. The people who lived here were working class, and even when Muggle parents accepted magic, it was hard to convince them of its use. Mary had heard many a rumor about Tobias Snape and his extreme displeasure at having a wizard for a son. He'd wanted a boy more suited for fishing the waters of the North Atlantic than reading books and brewing potions. Mary remembered being shocked that Severus had been sent to Hogwarts at all. She thought certainly Tobias would've forbidden it. Now, standing in front of the Snape residence, she was very glad that Severus had been sent away.

Using a quick spell, she easily broke through the door locks and the weak enchantments meant to keep out intruders. Clearly, no one had maintained the home's defenses or even checked them in some time. It doused Mary's hopes that she would find Severus here. Once inside, she scanned the space. It was dark and small, with neglected furniture and plentiful cobwebs. Walking around, Mary noted the walls were lined with books. She wondered if Severus' mother had shared his love of reading or if he had stocked the library after his parents' deaths.

Walking through the study and into the lounge, Mary deduced from the chaotic state of things that not only had the place been abandoned, but the Ministry had already come through. They couldn't have taken much, based on the clutter, but she wondered what they might've found. Continuing through, she searched the kitchen and tiny bedrooms. Everything seemed thoroughly unused. Clothes still hung in one of the closets and she suspected the robes belonged to Severus. Picking her way down the stairs, Mary examined the basement last. There, she found a potions laboratory. Ingredients lined the shelves and cauldrons littered the counters. Studying the vials and bottles, Mary imagined that if Severus were alive, he would've raided this place and taken at least the rare ingredients. She couldn't imagine him in exile with absolutely no supplies. With a sigh, she pushed her glossy hair back in place. The evidence was pointing more and more toward Severus Snape having died in battle, as was the official story. She wasn't sure what Minerva was on about, thinking he was alive, but she would certainly ask more questions the following Tuesday. Until then, she was back to London to take on more charges.

The next Sunday, in the quiet hours before the dinner rush began, Elphaba stood in the Great Hall waiting for Minerva. They hadn't been able to speak much over the past two weeks, as Minerva had been busy with organizing the first Quidditch practices of the year. Even Elphaba, who had never been partial to sports, could sense the excitement in the student body over finally being able to play or watch their favorite sport again. She knew from her reading that it had been a year since the houses played properly, and the restoration of the pitch was another step in returning the school to a new normal.

Finally arriving in the cavernous space, Minerva approached Elphaba and said, "My apologies. I still can't resist watching the Gryffindor team get started, even if I have to be a little more discreet now. The headmistress is supposed to be impartial, after all. Can't favor my own house any longer."

Minerva gave a sly grin and Elphaba couldn't help smiling in return.

Looking Elphaba over, Minerva said thoughtfully, "I would be curious to know what the sorting hat would do with you."

"Sorting hat?" Elphaba raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. It's the way we sort our students into their houses," Pointing at the banners on the wall and the vials with the house points, Minerva listed, "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."

"I see," Elphaba nodded, studying the different crests and colors. Noting the green, she said, "I would imagine your hat would take one look at me and say Slytherin faster than anyone could think it."

With a chuckle, Minerva said, "Possibly. But I've learned never to make assumptions when it comes to sorting. Just recently I had another student utterly surprise me."

"Recently? Do you sort all year long?" Elphaba asked.

"No," Minerva shook her silver-haired head, "But I had a late arrival this year. I'm afraid you're not the only rogue witch at Hogwarts. We have a student who managed to avoid us for six years. Her parents refused to let her come to school."

Looking thoughtful, Elphaba asked, "And they changed their minds now?"

"No," Minerva shook her head, "They're dead. But they were her adoptive parents. Sad story, I'm afraid. Her name is Stella, and she's a lonely thing," she paused and then said, "Perhaps you might speak to her. The two of you might have some things in common."

Scoffing, Elphaba said, "I doubt that."

Not pressing the matter, Minerva went on, "About you, now. The Ministry is pushing for me to give them some evidence of where you came from and what your intentions are. Intentions are a bit subjective, I'm afraid, but we can go a long way toward showing them you mean no harm by proving your story about Oz is true."

Taking a pause, Elphaba asked, "Do you believe me?"

Studying the green girl, Minerva replied, "I want to believe you. But I have learned over the past few years that people can be very convincing in their deceptions, both good and bad."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Elphaba asked, "How do I prove it to you? That Oz is real?"

"Tell me how to get there," Minerva answered.

"I can't."

There was a long, pregnant pause.

Minerva finally asked, "You seem adept at apparition. Can you apparate there?"

"I don't know. I've never tried," Elphaba answered.

Looking shocked, Minerva demanded, "Why ever not?"

"Because, I have no desire to go back there. They want me dead, Minerva. I'm the Wicked Witch of the West. If they catch a glimpse of me, they'll come after me with everything they can muster. More than water this time."

Studying Elphaba with piercing eyes, Minerva said, "Taking me there could be your only vindication. You must understand the seriousness of the situation. Our Ministry is shaking its fist right now. They need everyone to believe they are strong again. If they decide you are a former Death Eater in disguise, perhaps using charms to hide your identity, they will incarcerate you."

Standing up straighter, Elphaba snapped, "And they will take your word for what I've shown you? Assuming I could."

"No," Minerva stated, "They will search both of our memories, to determine if they agree with one another."

"We could have conspired with each other, fabricated the memories," Elphaba shot back.

Minerva smiled a little, "You have been studying quite a bit, have you?"

Elphaba nodded.

"Fabricating identical memories would be exceedingly difficult."

Elphaba walked away for a moment, studying the jewel-filled cylinders representing the house points once again. She reached up and touched the outside of the Slytherin vial, comparing the green of her skin to the stones inside.

"Are these real gemstones?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Yes," Minerva nodded, "Emeralds. Sapphires for Ravenclaw. Rubies for Gryffindor."

"And what...citrine?" Elphaba indicated the Hufflepuff vial.

"No," Minerva stated, "Yellow diamonds."

Elphaba studied the stones and asked, "Is there a metaphor in that?"

Minerva smiled slightly and said, "Possibly."

Elphaba was considering, in the moment, how much the Great and Glorious Wizard of Oz would've loved to be sorted into a house of emeralds, when something else caught her attention. On the surface of the emeralds, barely visible in the low light, was a faint inscription. Feeling her breath catch, Elphaba said, "Sweet Oz…"

"What?" Minerva asked, approaching.

"How did you get the emeralds?" Elphaba demanded.

Taken aback, Minerva said, "They were given by the house founder, Salazar Slytherin. They are the finest emeralds in the world. Salazar had them marked with his initial so they could never be replaced."

Shaking her head, Elphaba said, "No. They're Ozian, from the Glikkun mines. That's not an 'S.' It's a 'Z.'"

Warily, Minerva said, "That's quite a claim to make. And it's tenuous at best."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Elphaba asked, "But what if it's true? What if I'm right? Wouldn't that be a discovery worth making? Would that vindicate me, if I could take you to where these stones are mined and marked?"

Minerva stared her down for a long time before saying, "I believe anything that enriches the history of our world is worth discovering, Miss Thropp," she paused, "I'll arrange a meeting in my office. There are certain…exceptions there."

Elphaba nodded, not sure what that meant, but sensing she would have to return to Oz whether she wanted to or not.

Two days later, Mary met Minerva just outside the gates of Hogwarts. She found it tedious that she couldn't simply apparate into the castle. Mary felt like someone as important as herself, who had done as much as she had for magical education, should be given an exemption. She could usually charm those in power into giving her most anything she wanted, including permission to reveal her magic to Muggle children, leniency in using her ageless spell, and the right to fly without a broom. Mary Poppins could convince almost anyone to do what she wanted, but Hogwarts was very much in the hands of its leader. Albus Dumbledore had refused Mary's charms, which she had a hunch wasn't because of his incredible willpower. He preferred a different sort. She didn't see things going any more smoothly with Minerva McGonagall, who loved following the rules more than she loved breathing.

So, because she got no special treatment, Mary hiked up to the castle with Minerva at her side. Silently, they made their way through the castle as the sun dropped below the horizon. It would be impossible to tell the time of day, however, as they descended into the dungeons. The air became cool and damp, and Mary wondered how anyone could live down here. She didn't mind the coolness, but she preferred fresh air and at least a glimpse of sun. Pulling a dark shawl around herself, she followed Minerva into what was once Severus Snape's personal quarters.

Immediately, Mary felt a push against her senses, as though something of Severus' magic lingered, rejecting the intrusion. She didn't think Minerva could sense it, but Mary was sensitive in this way. She could feel the traces of magic that was centuries old. With sharp eyes, Mary walked around the space, noting the spare décor and dark furnishings. Severus had certainly lived a life devoid of any frivolity. There were no photos or trinkets in his spaces. There was simply a sitting area near a deep, dark fireplace, a large, four-post bed now stripped of linens, and a washroom through a far door.

Minerva offered, "The Ministry was through already. They didn't find much, but took a few rolls of parchment. Severus kept everything in his head. When I think of it now, I can't imagine how hard that must have been, and the focus it must have taken."

"Absolute occlumency," Mary murmured, "Very dangerous long-term."

Minerva nodded.

Walking slowly around the space, Mary asked, "You're sure they never found a body?"

"Quite sure," Minerva stated, "Neither body nor wand."

It was Mary's turn to nod. She continued to move, trailing her slender fingers over the furniture and the stone walls. She could feel the spaces Severus had found the most pleasant – the chair by the fire, the cabinet of potions in the corner, and the tiny writing desk. The larger table spoke of its non-use and the bed gave off only disconcertion. In the far corner, however, Mary suddenly stopped. Leaning against the wall, in the shadows, was an old cello. It was worn and most likely out of tune, but it was obviously a fine instrument. Mary ran her hand over the neck and she could almost feel the warmth of pleasure in it. It was strange, because everything else felt so cold. Crossing back to the fireplace, she sat down for a moment and critically examined her surroundings again. Suddenly, her eyes flicked up to the mantle above the fireplace. A large, framed painting sat on the dusty ledge, as though it was intended to either be hung or carried away in a hurry. Standing, Mary crossed the space and studied it.

It was a seascape, with rolling, gray waves pounding a rocky shore. The grass in the foreground was long and wild and the sky was streaked with color. Barely visible on the far left, perched on the cliffs, was a tiny house, dark and alone. It was a lonely painting, full of wild emotion and tempestuous energy. Touching the brush strokes, Mary felt a yearning that was almost an ache.

Behind her, Minerva snapped skeptically, "Is it telling you something?"

Not taking the bait, Mary turned and said evenly, "If he's alive, this is where he is."