He fell back, too weak to even sit, and thought of his father and sisters. They would have noticed he was missing when the sun rose, and they would have absolutely no idea where he went. They might find his footprints leading into the forest, and if they followed them long enough, they would surely see the paw prints of that blasted wolf. They might even follow them all the way to the lake.

But they wouldn’t know that he’d gotten into a boat and crossed the lake. They’d assume he was eaten or drowned. They’d never imagine he was here, on Endla. And even if they knew, they had no way to get to him. He had to make it off this island.

He glanced around the cottage, desperately hoping that the last inhabitant had perhaps left a pitcher of water, because he was getting thirstier by the second. All he found was another candle stump—in itself a blessing, since he wasn’t keen on the idea of spending all day and evening in the dark—and a stack of books.

He picked up the first one and dusted off the leather cover. It was a poetry collection, he realized with disappointment, written by a well-known poet who’d lived two hundred years ago. Children were forced to study her work in school. He tossed it aside and sifted through the remaining books. They were all similarly boring, novels he’d already read or texts that were so obscure he had no interest in the subject matter—and he doubted very much that the hovel’s previous occupant had found them riveting, either.

He was about to close his eyes when he noticed one last tome tucked under the wooden crate that served as a makeshift table. As soon as he pulled the book free, he realized it was being used to steady the crate, and the lit candle nearly slid off onto the blankets. He managed to shove the poetry collection under the crate just in time, sighing in relief that death by fire hadn’t just been added to his list of possible ends.

This book was different from the others. It was crudely made, with a spine sewn with catgut. There was nothing written on the wooden cover. Carefully, he opened to the first page.

It appeared to be a handwritten book of Endlan songs. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to read music. These songs, like the ones he’d heard in the past few weeks, didn’t have lyrics. They were just a series of notes to be hummed or chanted. Or perhaps the notes had meaning he simply didn’t understand. But it was the sounds themselves that made the music so haunting. He hadn’t realized before that a voice could be so full of sorrow or hunger or mourning without any words at all. Combine that into dozens of voices, and the effect was almost overpowering.