Page 130 of When the Sky Breaks

Two nights later Ansel, Sorcha, and I docked at the quay on Islay’s eastern shores. Da and my cousin Cavan were waiting there to meet us. Da was nearly as old as Ansel, with my same dark curly hair, but cropped short, and a solid build honed by centuries working the land around Sorcha’s father’s estates. It wasn’t any part of his official duties, but Da had an iron constitution, near infinite energy, and a deep intolerance for boredom. Cormac’s agricultural success—first in berry wine in Scotland then in cattle out in Santa Fe—was largely Da’s doing. Cavan was young by Elven standards—forty-something if I remembered correctly—and had taken after his father, all black hair and blue eyes and freckles sprinkled across his nose.

Da wasted no time pulling me and Sorcha into an embrace as Ansel helped the boatman unload our bags.

“Oh I’ve worried,” Da said, kissing both our heads. “I’ve worried every damn minute.”

“We’re here now, Da,” I replied. “We’re here. We’re safe.”

“And I think,” Da said, hands going to Sorcha’s belly as he pulled away, “that given this one is yours, Neal, you’ll also be needing a new Steward for the Court?”

“We certainly will,” I agreed.

“Cavan’s just the boy for you,” Da said immediately. “He’s young of course. He’s only trained, what, twenty years now? Thirty, Cavan?”

“Right about thirty, Uncle Glen,” the young man replied.

“But he’s good,” Da continued, leading us up the stone pathway and to his waiting horse and cart, “and I’ll keep an eye.”

“Thank you, Da,” I said earnestly, letting him help Sorcha up into the wagon.

“And you keep an eye on her,” Da instructed. “Hear me, boy?”

“She’s my wife, Da,” I replied. “I hardly need reminding.”

We reached Da’s cottage after a drive filled with benign but charming anecdotes and absolutely no talk of the portals, the demons, or the perils of the journey. Sorcha relaxed into my side, cheeks flushed in the cold sea air, as she watched the roving flocks of sheep. The utter quiet and stillness of the place was a revelation after months on end filled with chaos and struggle. The cottage was small, only two rooms and a loft, with deep grey stone walls and a blue slate roof. A cheery glow emanated from the windows, but when I helped Sorcha down from her seat and we hurried inside against the growing night wind, the welcome was anything but comforting.

A woman with chestnut-brown, wavy hair and weathered-but-fair skin stood stirring something at the open hearth, scowling into the pot—Aunt Irene.

We’d never gotten on particularly well, but I still greeted her warmly. “It’s been too long, Aunt Irene.”

A long moment passed in silence.

“Sorcha, this is my Aunt Irene Doherty,” I continued, hoping to somehow break through the odd stillness hanging like a fog in the cottage’s interior. “And, Aunt Irene, this is my wife, Sorcha Wilson MacCairn. You remember Cormac?”

Irene just scowled and slammed a platter of bread down onto the wood-plank table.

“Don’t get water on the carpets,” she snapped.

“I’ve missed you too,” I muttered, shrugging off my wet coat and helping Sorcha to do the same, then sitting her down to take off her boots.

“Irene,” Da said as he carried in our bags, “be hospitable. They’ve come all the way from New Mexico. You remember what a trek it was when I made it. And she’s got a bun in the oven too!”

Irene turned her back and didn’t reply. Sorcha shot me a worried glance.

“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered as I leaned in to help her up.

“You’re perfect,” I assured her. “It’s fine.”

“So this is where we set up shop?” Ansel asked as he walked in with the last of our things—Ironmoot-made, demon-killing pistol wrapped in canvas and tucked under one arm.

“This is where you set up shop for now,” Da replied. “We’ve got a bigger, nicer cottage up the hill. Once Lady Sorcha sees it and approves it we’ll finish papers with the landlord and get you all ensconced up there. Better view. Bedroom, loft with a door, and there’s an office. Perfect for the Court.”

“We truly appreciate it, Glen,” Ansel said. “Hasn’t been the same without you. And we know it’s an awful imposition.”

“It’s not an imposition at all,” Da assured him. “It’s my boy and his wife—who I practically raised, need I remind you? It’s no trouble. No trouble. Besides we should have moved the Court here ages ago, all the peace and quiet of Santa Fe without any of the dust and the proper libraries in Edinburgh only a day away, not weeks or months like back in the desert. Lady Sorcha is onto something.”

“We appreciate it nonetheless. And we’ll see if you still feel as hospitable when I give birth in your kitchen,” Sorcha chuckled.

“It’d be such a good story,” Da enthused. “Don’t fuss about it, Lady Sorcha. Besides, having you here will be good practice for Cavan. He’ll have such a resume after this!”