THE FRAME THAT WAS CUT

James

The drawer stayed empty after Isabella left and the scent of her fear stayed in the room.

I stood beside the desk for a long time after she closed the door. I did not move to lock the drawer again. I could still see the way her fingers had gone numb when she looked at the photograph.

"I knew it the moment she saw it," I said out loud to the empty tower. "She recognized the buckle."

My wolf did not answer at first. He had been quiet for weeks.

"You saw it too," I said. "You knew she was lying when she said it was nothing."

"You let her lie," my wolf said. His voice was low inside my head.

"I let her lie," I admitted.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I needed to see what she would do with a truth before I dared to name it," I said. "If I named it now, I would be asking her to doubt the only person who was kind to her before me."

"That is strategy," my wolf said.

"It is also cowardice," I said. "I know it is also cowardice. Naming it would mean telling her that the man who helped her family might have stood outside my tent the night I was cursed."

I sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed my arm. The black lines under my sleeve felt hot.

"I unlocked the drawer on purpose," I said. "I no longer trust my own memory of the border camp. The curse has worn that night to fragments."

"What do you remember?" my wolf asked.

"I remember cold canvas," I said. "I remember the weight of a cup pressed into my palm. I remember a sweetness laid over something bitter. That is all. I do not remember who gave me the cup."

"You drank it," my wolf said.

"I drank it because I was thirsty and someone offered it," I said. "I was stupid."

"You were fifteen and you were on watch," my wolf said. "You were not stupid. You were trusting."

I stood up again and walked to the window. The tower was sealed. I had kept the studio sealed for two months while I was supposedly senseless from the curse. No one was supposed to enter.

"Since she touched me, you have been different," I said to my wolf. "You have been quieter, but you keep surfacing with an impatience I cannot read."

"I am trying to remember too," he said.

"You have begun using a word for her that I do not understand," I said. "A word that is the name of a plant."

"Thornbind," my wolf said.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

"I do not know," he said. "It is an old word. It means something that holds even when it hurts."

I felt my chest tighten when he said that.

"Do you think you recognized her before I did?" I asked him.

"I think I felt her before you saw her," he said. "I cannot explain it."

"Try," I said.

"When she entered the castle, my silence broke for a second," he said. "I thought it was pain from the vines. Now I think it was because she was near."

I left the tower chamber and went down the narrow stairs to the darkroom. I needed to do something with my hands. The chemical routine steadied my hands when my thoughts did not.

I locked the darkroom door behind me and turned on the red light.

"I need to pull the full negative strip from that night," I said. "I need to print the frames around the buckle."

"Why?" my wolf asked.

"Because a single photograph means nothing," I said. "But a sequence means something. I need to see what happened before and after that man stood at the edge of my tent."

I opened the metal filing cabinet and found the box marked Border Camp, Third Patrol. My hands were steady now. I took out the negative sleeve and held it up to the light.

"Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three," I counted under my breath. "Thirty-five."

I stopped and counted again.

"Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-five," I said out loud. "Where is thirty-four?"

"Is there a gap?" my wolf asked.

"Yes, there is a gap," I said. "Frame thirty-four has been cut away with a clean blade. The edge has not yellowed. The cut is recent."

"How recent?" my wolf asked.

"So recent that the plastic still smells sharp," I said. "Someone cut it within the last few weeks."

"But you have lain in the tower for two months with the studio sealed," my wolf said.

"Exactly," I said. "I have lain in the tower for two months with the studio sealed, so someone with a key entered while I was supposedly senseless and knew exactly which frame to take. Someone knew which frame mattered."

I put the negative strip down on the light table and turned on the enlarger. I printed frame thirty-two first. It showed my tent from a distance, empty. I printed frame thirty-three. It showed the same tent, with a lantern inside. Then I printed frame thirty-five. It showed the tent again, but the lantern was out.

"Thirty-three shows the man at the edge," I said. "Thirty-five shows the lantern out. Thirty-four is the moment between. Thirty-four is the moment when whatever happened, happened."

"What was in thirty-four?" my wolf asked.

"I do not know, because it is gone," I said. I felt anger rise in my chest. "Someone took it because they knew it would show something."

I opened my field log. It was my own handwriting from that night. The pages were smudged with damp.

"Look at this," I said to my wolf. "My log for that night."

"What does it say?" he asked.

"Frame thirty-one, no activity," I read out loud. "Frame thirty-two, no activity. Frame thirty-three, movement at the east side. Frame thirty-four, magnesium flash. Frame thirty-five, cup offered."

"Magnesium flash," my wolf repeated.

"Yes," I said. "Frame thirty-four is the only exposure that night marked with a magnesium flash, which he uses only when he sees something he needs to prove."