His lips turn down. “You shouldn’t have to do this all on your own.”
“Why not? You did it all on your own my whole life. It’s my turn to return the favor.”
He rests his rough palm over the back of my hand. His skin is calloused from years of hard labor. “I have no doubt you can do anything you put your mind to, Elorie Vale. That’s never in question. But your iron will isn’t worth me losingyou.”
His gray mustache buries his upper lip as he frowns. Lately, the yellowish hue to the whites of his eyes makes them appear more golden.
“I’m sorry.” My shoulders deflate because the last thing I want is for him to worry when he has enough on his mind. “I promise I’ll stay in the village until the ban is lifted.”
“Thank you.” Father takes the fish to the basin and starts splitting them open, picking them clean of guts and bones.
If I’m going to keep my promise to my father and heed Callum’s warning, these fish need to last us until the rebels are pushed back from the shore. Rumors and threats are concerning. But actual sightings of rebels in the village are even more worrisome.
They’re inching closer to the prison, which, I assume, is their goal.
Many Fae have been locked in those walls since the Realm War started. They must be after someone trapped inside. The question is, who is worth saving when they must brave a merciless sea, a magic void island, and a prison spelled to trap all Fae in order to get to them?
I strip off my outer shirt and drape it over the back of a chair. Blizzard or not, I’ll wash it first thing in the morning. The hanging stench of death lingers on my clothes. There’s no escaping it.
Slipping out of my sandals next, I turn toward the fire to warm my hands and toes. Between splashes of seawater and the blistering wind, I’m cold all the way through. Heat slowly melts away the chill of the storm until a bead of sweat trickles down my neck.
The fire crackles, spitting embers onto the stone tiles.
Our home is small, but it’s just the two of us, so it’s never bothered me. The one private room is Father’s, while I sleep on a makeshift bed near the fire in the main room. When I need space, I simply don’t come home for the night. It’s not uncommon in our small village for people to sleep on spare cots or share random beds when the winters get long and the nights get lonely.
I glance at Father, who is preparing the fish. “We should portion some of that for Mabel to thank her for sharing her boar stew with us last week. I can take it to Letia in the morning.”
Letia and I have been inseparable since birth. I’m an only child, but Letia and her siblings are like family to me. Her mother, Mabel, treats me like one of her own, and Father does the same with them. Our families look after each other through food, firewood, and company.
“Very well.” He nods, separating the fish into batches. “Why don’t you clean up, and I’ll prepare dinner. It’s going to be a long night if the wind doesn’t let up.”
My gaze moves upward, to the groaning ceiling, bearing the weight of the wind. We’ve barely had a break between storms. Shingles rattle. The walls shake. It’s going to be a noisy night.
“It’ll calm down by morning,” I say with as much optimism as I can muster.
False hope is my default response lately. Deep down, I worry for the state of our small house. For our wind-worn village. Nights have grown colder lately. Illness sweeps through. With enough pressure, something is going to snap.
I slip into the bedroom while Father prepares the fish for dinner, and the heat of the fire vanishes the moment I closethe door. I quickly stoke a fire in the small fireplace near his bed so the room has time to warm before Father settles in.
Stripping out of my wet clothes, I hang them along the hooks on the wall. There’s a chance they’ll still be damp in the morning, but the fire will hopefully make them wearable now that I’m down to my last few pairs of pants and shirts.
I need to remember to ask Callum for a new set of leathers, or I’ll be walking around with holes at my knees and elbows.
I’d ask Mabel to stitch me a pair of pants, but she’s still of the mindset that a lady shouldn’t be seen in men’s clothing. It’s an old tradition, but one many cling to on Alyssium. Thankfully, Father never cared what I wore, so long as I was happy.
My fingers slide over the layered sleep dress Mabel stitched for me. The fabric is coarse and stiff, but it keeps me warm. Callum once told me about the delicate, smooth fabrics they use to make dresses in the Ley Court.
Tempest silk stitched with glowworm threads. Shimmering like the stars.
“You have stars here if you’d just look up.”
My eyes narrow at the voice always in my head.“It’s not the same.”
Taking a deep breath, I turn to face the fire, letting it heat my cheeks while I try not to imagine empty eyes staring back at me.
Sometimes I wonder if I should find a different role within the village. It’s unbecoming for a lady to tend to the dead. But then, who would offer them their blessings? Who would care?
Certainly not the Guard.
