“We’ll be fine, Thorfinn,” Freya said earnestly as she laid her hand on Thorfinn’s forearm. “We are all strong, and I can help Rose look after the bairns while you talk to Da.”
A fine mist momentarily distorted Thorfinn’s vision as he realized the truth of Freya’s statement. Aye, she was still young, but she was tough. She’d be there to support their sisters and brother, just like he had when their mum had died and Sigurd had experienced his first stroke. They’d survived and then thrived when it had just been him running the household. There’d been pain and sadness then, too, but like before, the gladness would come again as well as the happiness.
“And I’ll be here too,” Young Thomas said as he came to stand beside Freya, his shoulders straight. Shyly, he reached for Freya’s freepalm, and she wrapped her fingers around his. Young Thomas was clearly sweet on Freya, but that wasn’t the only reason the lad was standing beside them. The crofters always helped each other out, and Young Thomas wouldn’t be the only neighbor literally and figuratively lending a hand to comfort the Fletts.
“Go to him,” Freya said to Thorfinn, a slight catch in her voice. “Da hasn’t much longer.”
Thorfinn laid his palm over the hand that Freya had placed on his arm. “You are a strong lass. You have made us all proud—me, your da, and Mum up in heaven.”
Freya’s throat worked as she visibly swallowed. Her blue eyes grew wet and bittersweet. She pressed her fingers against Thorfinn’s sweater and then released him. As she stepped back to allow Thorfinn to pass, Young Thomas slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
Drawing in his own deep breath, Thorfinn plunged into the back room. A breeze drifted in through the single window, bringing with it the scent of summer flowers and the smell of the sea. The fragrances mixed with the ever-present remnants of peat smoke, creating an aroma that was as uniquely Orcadian as the man who lay swathed in blankets.
Sigurd—who had always been an indomitable force—seemed heartbreakingly slight as he curled in a pallet meant for a child. Even after his first stroke, when he’d struggled against paralysis, he’d seemed like a warrior of old. He’d fought, clawing his way back to life. But now ... now he was willingly sinking into death. For the first time ever, Sigurd appeared frail—his body a husk of weathered skin, brittle bones, and withered sinew.
“Sigurd?” Thorfinn called, not sure if the man had fallen into sleep or unconsciousness.
His stepda’s eyes fluttered open. The light in them was faint, but still sharp and fully aware.
“Thor ... fff ... inn.”
The word was slightly mangled, but Thorfinn had no trouble making it out. Since his stepda normally called him Sinclair, the use of his given name slammed into Thorfinn, causing conflicting feelings to cascade through him. He’d never known exactly how to feel about Sigurd, and now, after his betrayal, even less so. Sadness and sorrow crept through Thorfinn but also, ashamedly, a whisper of relief. His stepda’s death would not only relieve him of the burden of turning Sigurd over to the authorities for certain execution but help protect the children from their father’s misdeeds. But Thorfinn’s sense of escape brought raw remorse.
“It ... is ... best.” Sigurd’s voice might have been garbled, but the message was clear. He must have sensed Thorfinn’s guilt and was assuaging it.
“The ... the ... gold ... is ... buried ... on ... the ... backside ... of ... your ... ma’s ... gravestone.” Sigurd glanced away, but not before Thorfinn could see the shame in the man’s eyes. They both knew that he meant the coin that he’d made from spying. Sickness twisted through Thorfinn as he realized that Sigurd was delegating this knowledge to him because he trusted Thorfinn to use the treasure to support the children. Thorfinn could never touch the blood money, but he didn’t tell Sigurd that. He only nodded sharply.
“Take ... care ...” Sigurd forced out the instruction before his last word was drowned out by a wet rumble from his chest.
“You know I will make sure the children are provided for.” Thorfinn started to grasp his stepda’s hand, but he didn’t know if the man wanted to be touched. He awkwardly laid his palm near Sigurd’s instead. Another rush of shocked emotion blasted Thorfinn as his stepda’s fingers rested on his own. Sigurd had rarely touched him and never in any way like this—a way that carried meaning, affection even.
“You ... will ... love ... them ... too.” Sigurd’s gaze held Thorfinn’s again.
“Aye.” He answered through a swollen throat, even though Sigurd’s statement hadn’t exactly been a question.
“I ... am ... sorry.”
The apology upended Thorfinn even more than the physical contact. He stared at Sigurd, momentarily unable to speak. What did his stepda mean? The espionage? Thorfinn’s capture? The mess he was leaving Thorfinn to unravel?
“I ... never ... knew ...” Sigurd broke off, his words drowned by a gurgling sound. The man coughed, but it did not seem to clear whatever was obstructing his breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was even wobblier. “What ... to ... do ... with ... you ... son ... of ... the ... enemy.”
“I wasn’t the enemy.” Thorfinn couldn’t stop the words. He did not wish to guilt the dying man, but he could not let that stand. Not anymore. Not when he’d spent so many years believing it himself. “And I was never Mar’s son.”
“I ... know ... but ... I ... fool ... do ... not ... be ... bitter ... do ... not ... be ... me.”
“I will not,” Thorfinn choked out, realizing what this was costing Sigurd and what it meant to the older man. He felt as if the air had been pummeled from him again, his body shaky and hollow.
Sigurd lapsed into silence. As Thorfinn searched for something to say—anythingto say—an odd raspy rattle emerged from his stepda. Sigurd’s fingers on top of Thorfinn’s hand became slack and heavy. Even before Thorfinn checked to see if the man’s chest was still rising and falling, he knew the truth. Sigurd was gone.
His eyes wet, Thorfinn bowed his head and prayed. When he finished, he still kept his chin tucked close to his chest, taking a moment to gather himself before telling his siblings.
Thorfinn would miss the cantankerous old islander. The man had taught him, shown him, so much. Even if Sigurd had never been able to bring himself to love Thorfinn as a son, he’d still helped to mold himinto the person he’d become. And with his last breath, he’d tried to gift Thorfinn with the support that he’d never been able to show in life. It might not have been affection, but there’d been respect and advice too. Sigurd had been flawed—more than Thorfinn had even realized—but he’d imparted to Thorfinn the skills to survive on this harsh land. Sigurd had also given his children a love that would stay with them forever. The good of the man—the strength of him—would live on in Frest and in his offspring. And the bad—the bad could be buried with Sigurd.
“Could you please dig each divot a bit more shallow?” Myrtle asked as she hovered anxiously by Thorfinn’s shoulder.
It had been only a week since they had foiled the plot to free the German fleet and a few days since Sigurd’s burial. Although Rose had been by Thorfinn’s side constantly, they hadn’t had any time alone together. If they hadn’t been with his family, they’d been answering questions during a flurry of interviews with the British Navy or working with Astrid, Myrtle, and Percy to decode where Reggie had hidden all his reports on the spies that he had rooted out in London and even the Home Office itself.
“My goodness, Myrtle, if Thorfinn took any smaller ones, he might as well use a spoon,” Rose scoffed.
