“Fuck, Aline, do you think I don’t know that? You’re my sister. Calm down. You’re acting like a hissy cat.”
“I’m not.”
“You so are. And you have the mark to prove it.”
He’s talking about the small scar I have on my inner thigh, something he’s always teased me about. Four dark, parallel lines, as if I’ve been marked by claws.
“It proves nothing,” I retort.
“How about the fact that you were so weird growing up? Eating our food made you sick all the time and Mother was scared you’d starve to death. But otherwise, you never fell sick. Every little injury you suffered healed so fast, one might think you are a fae.”
“My round ears prove I’m neither a cat nor a fae, Eis. And it’s not a good look to admit you were jealous of your baby sister.”
“Hissy.” He sticks his tongue out at me. “Always so hissy. And bitey.”
I snicker. Gods, I don’t want to fight with him. It hurts when he’s away and it hurts to love. Love this family who has taken care of me, because I can’t stand to see them suffer, and haveno food, no wood for the fireplace, and no clothes to replace the garments that are falling apart on their bodies.
Besides, my head is throbbing, and last night’s dream was way too vivid and unsettling.
“Hey, did you hear anyone talking last night?” I ask casually, popping an olive into my mouth. It’s salty and bitter, and perversely, I like it.
I like salty, bitter things, apparently.
“Talking?” Eiras gives me a look that says it all. “Are you serious? Saying what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” I take my time chewing the olive, rolling the pit around inside my mouth. “I thought someone was outside the door. Or the wall. Our walls are paper-thin.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Naida turns and gives me a long, probing look. “What did you hear, Aline?”
“Like I said, nothing. I don’t remember. It must have been a dream.”
“Another nightmare?” she asks quietly, worry lacing her voice.
“No,” I say brightly, “nothing of the sort.”
Bloodcurdling screams, crimson and gore, a sense of dark foreboding, danger and death. They have been plaguing me more and more lately.
“I’ll prepare you an herbal remedy,” Naida says decisively, “to help you sleep.”
“I’m good,” I mutter.
“Fighting for your life every night isn’t good for you,” she goes on and I wonder when I told her details about my nightmares. “You need a weapon?—”
“In my sleep?”
“—so try to conjure one up. Controlling your dreams works if you set your mind to it.”
“Be a fighter, like Adeline the Bitey,” Eiras intones.
“The name is Adeline Bright, ignoramus,” I correct him absently. “Naida, I’m not the heroine of your favorite book. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she sighs, sorting through her herbs. I bet she’ll have that remedy ready for me tonight, want it or not. “And I wasn’t comparing you to her.”
“The Hawk and the Nightingale”is Naida’s favorite book of all time. She has told me the story many times. It’s set in a time of war and feuding, where the heroine’s family and friends are killed in a terrible bloodbath, leaving her alone to escape the kingdom and reach safety. The worst part? She doesn’t even survive in the end. To this day, I don’t know why Naida loves the book so much. I mean, she actually named me after her. A heroine who loses everyone she’s ever loved and then joins them in death.
So cute and uplifting.
“How is my girl this morning?” Brogan calls out from the other side of our little home. He’s awake, crafting something out of wood as he often does, propped up on his bed. His amber eyes catch me and a smile tugs on his mouth, but he looks worried. “Did I hear you had bad dreams?”
