Leaving wet footprints on the flagstone, Magdala walked up the path to her father’s cottage. Her clothes were sodden, her hair tangled in a knot at the base of her neck. Her knees threatened to buckle.
The front door stood open and angry voices carried out—her father’s deep baritone warring with Julian’s defensive whine. Heat flared behind her breastbone, but it was quickly snuffed. She was too tired and wet to burn with anger.
Magdala paused, her toes touching the square of light cast through the doorway. She almost turned and snuck in through the cellar so she wouldn’t have to face either of them.
Taking a steadying breath, Magdala crept over the threshold.
Her father stood by the fireplace, his face an unhealthy shade of puce. Julian was standing in front of him, his hands up in a defensive gesture, while Huxley sat in one of the oversized armchairs, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers steepled before him.
“And so you left her? She could have been trampled! She could be torn to shreds!” her father boomed.
“It’s not my fault! The people broke through the line," Julian keened in reply.
“How could you let this happen?”
“It was chaos!”
“We’re not assigning blame here,” Huxley droned. “These things happen …”
“And why weren’t there better defenses?”
Huxley let out a huff. “Against what? Against the people you incited to violence?”
“WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?” Seamus roared.
Magdala cleared her throat. All three men turned, and the color drained from Seamus’s cheeks.
“Magdala!” It was a rough exhale, but the hypocrisy of his relief lit her rage anew. He stumbled toward her, his arms outstretched, but she pushed past him and started for the stairs.
“Where have you been?” Seamus cried. “I’ve been ill with worry.”
Magdala didn’t reply, but she looked daggers at Julian as she passed him. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on his boots.
Her father persisted. “Magdala …”
“I have had a horrible night,” Magdala’s voice was low and trembling. “And it is in some way due to the stupidity of each of you in turn. I want to change into something dry, eat the bread I made myself, and go to bed. And I want to be alone. Get out.”
“Go,” Seamus ordered Huxley and Julian.
With an expression of smug amusement, Huxley got up and left.
Julian hesitated, his eyes following her, pleading. “Don’t tell …” he mouthed.
“Get out, Julian,” she bit back.
Ashen-faced, he scurried after his brother, shutting the door behind him.
“My dear,” Seamus said, turning toward her.
Magdala raised her eyebrows. “What are you doing here? I said I wanted to be alone.”
“It’s my house …”
“It is my house. I pay the mortgage for it myself.”
“But I live here …”
“Not tonight!” Magdala barked. She walked to the kitchen, her stomach growling, and searched in the larder for the bread she’d made. But she only found a wooden cutting board dusted with crumbs.
