“Why?” The upper half of Morton’s body lifted into the air. “Because you have a past? Just like we all do?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand people. Not at all. I read about you in all these books, and your actions rarely make sense. I definitely don’t understand you. But Niamh does.”
My head snapped to him. “What are you talking about?”
Morton rolled his eyes. “I know she’s told you about her past. She lost her parents and Princess Ashami, who was like a sister to her.”
“I know.” My heart broke thinking about it. I hated that Niamh had had to experience that kind of pain and suffering.
“Then you also know she survived while everyone she loved died. Every person in this world that meant something to her is gone. Do you know what she’d give to have any of them back? To have the chance to talk to them? To see them? To spend time with them?”
I understood where he was going with this, and I held out a hand. “She didn’t cause their deaths.”
“Just like you didn’t cause your brother’s.” Morton pointed his tail at me. “You have one life, and you’re wasting it sulking and feeling sorry for yourself.”
“That’s not what I’m doing?—”
“Oh, yes it is.”
The bookwyrm was as tall as my hand, yet somehow he made himself so intimidating.
“You have a family that loves you, a family that could love Niamh as well, that could heal the parts of her that long for that kind of community again. After she came back from dinner with your mother, father, and brothers, she had this glow about her I hadn’t seen since she lost her own family. You could give her all of that. You could give her love and a home.”
“I’m too broken.” My voice shook.
“You’re too scared,” Morton shot back, and I met his gaze.
No one had ever called me scared. Grumpy, mean, cold, distant. Brave, even. But not scared.
“I may not understand you humans, but I’ve read enough stories to know that you’re scared. You lost the person that meant the most to you, so now you’re pushing away Niamh because you’re scared of losing her too. But let me ask you a question.”
I swallowed.
“Would you rather Lor had never been born? That you’d never shared that time with him?”
“Of course not,” I snapped, and Morton peered at me from underneath those shaggy pink eyebrows that, quite frankly, looked ridiculous on him.
“Niamh mentioned that you told her about Lor. She didn’t tell me the specifics of what you shared with her, just that you did. How did you feel after sharing that story about your brother?”
I swallowed, my throat growing thick. How had I felt that night by the fire? It had been hard, at first, to talk about him, but I’d liked remembering him, and I’d liked sharing that memory with Niamh. It felt like I was giving her a piece of myself that I hadn’t given to anyone, but it had also felt like I was sharing a piece of Lor, that he wasn’t completely gone, that he could still be here with us in memory.
“It felt like hope,” I said, not realizing it until this moment.
Morton nodded knowingly. “Exactly.”
I sniffed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t deserve Niamh.”
“Well, you’re absolutely right about that,” Morton said. “You don’t deserve her.”
My head hung.
“But you could.”
I slowly looked up.
“You’ve been helping her overcome her fear of fire. Just last night, she lit candles around the library. Actual candles. It’s a small step forward, but she hasn’t lit any candles in years. We always used jars of fireflies to keep our tower warm. She refused to use the hearth, still refuses it, but she’s getting there. If she can overcome her fears, if she can be that brave, then why can’t you?”
