Chapter 20.1

“Boris is…” Griff hesitated. “Boris died nearly seventy years ago.”

Tilting my head to the side, I feigned confusion. “Sorry, what?”

“Come with me.” He strode toward the largest of the bell tents.

I followed after him, my heart fluttering and not in a pleasant way. When Griff told me about Boris being a soul resurrected from Hell, I would have to ask about him. That’s when I would get another account of our story, but from the point of view of the man who hadn’t deemed me worthy of any respect, let alone compassion.

Once again, I regretted not remaining with Dad in his hut. Griff’s tent was even more luxurious than mine, complete with a safari-style four-poster surrounded by thin gauze. The walls were raised, exposing its interior to the elements.

Sheepskin mats covered the floor, adding to the air of comfort. At the other side of the bed was a wicker love seat that barely fitted two, and beside it was a cushioned footrest.

“Sit.” He gestured at a loveseat.

I remained standing and fo