Page 145 of When the Sky Breaks

It’d been almost a week now since I’d actually laid down and closed my eyes deliberately—instead finding myself dozing off seated, once standing. Because every time I gave in and tried to rest? The image of Sorcha bleeding out in my arms, our too-small, now-dead baby cradled against her chest, sprang unbidden into my mind. The thought made me want to vomit.

Avoiding it was more than worth the fatigue.

I slouched at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of strong tea to stay awake and glaring at the bloodstain on the wood-plank floor while trying to figure out how to get a rug to cover it as soon as possible.

Ansel and Cavan were talking by the fire—though I wasn’t following the conversation. I heard the door creak open, expected it was one of their guards with bad news again—that they’d found a good trail but been accosted by a rogue eagle or a particularly determined and belligerent fox—more of the same.

Chairs scraped back on the rough floor. Cavan gasped. And then the door slammed shut and a pair of bare, sopping feet came into view.

“Neal?” Sorcha’s voice was faint, graveled like her throat was raw from screaming, crying.

My gaze snapped up and I leapt to my feet. Sorcha was still in the nightgown Ansel had dressed her in days before—right after she gave birth—now bloody at the legs, stained with mud, transparent from rainwater and plastered to her skin. But she was here. She’d come back.

I held out a tentative hand, let her come to me. I didn’t want her bolting again. The ache in my chest eased as Sorcha rushed to me, pressed herself into my arms, face in my chest. In that moment, it didn’t matter that she was dripping wet and pouring blood. It didn’t matter that she’d disappeared and deliberately avoided me for days. It didn’t matter that Lucy was in the ground instead of there safe in my arms. Because my wife was alive. And she was back. So at least my entire world wasn’t ending. Not today.

“Neal,” Sorcha said, pulling away just enough to look up at me, “I can’t see right.”

“Kadish!” Ansel shouted up the loft steps. “We have a problem!”

I coaxed Sorcha out of her dripping clothes, checking her over for injury as I went. She was still pouring blood from delivering and her skin was alarmingly pale. But there was no sign of harm, no sign of infection. She didn’t have a fever. She didn’t speak as I undressed her, bathed her, brushed out her wet hair and wrapped her in a clean nightgown. She didn’t look at me either.

She’d respond to direct instructions but seemed even more detached from the conversations around her than I felt. Sorcha let Kadish examine her without complaint. But wouldn’t respond to anything he said. Only me.

That was worrying.

“Her left pupil isn’t reacting,” Kadish said after he’d finished.

“So she’s blind now?” Ansel asked bluntly.

“Right eye seems fine. She likely can’t see as well as before,” Kadish replied. “No way to know how bad the damage is if she won’t tell us.”

“Any idea why she isn’t talking?” Ansel pressed.

“Give her time,” I snapped.

“It’s likely related to trauma.” Kadish shrugged. “Try and make her sleep. I’ll check again in the morning. Keep her warm. Give her sage tea if she’ll take it for the bleeding.”

I curled in bed with Sorcha, holding her close to try and stop her trembling. It didn’t work, but at least it was something that felt like it could help. She slept—eventually—fingers tangled in the front of my shirt and head on my shoulder. And after a while I did too—harder than I had in days.

But when I woke I found Sorcha already up, limp in my arms, her right eye fixed on the ceiling, her left roving pointlessly in an incongruous direction.

“Sorcha, love,” I said gently, fingers brushing over her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

She didn’t reply. Didn’t even look at me.

“Do you want me to help you get up and get dressed?”

No response. Not even a glance.

“Okay come here,” I said softly, pulling her closer and sitting her up. Sorcha didn’t resist. She was limp in my arms like a rag doll.

“Do you need water? Kadish said sage tea would help the bleeding,” I pressed.

Still no reaction.

I sighed, realizing the real fight might just be beginning.

I grabbed a cup of water from our bedside table, held it to her lips. She drank. But didn’t comment, didn’t react otherwise at all. I brushed out her hair and braided it clumsily, pulled off her nightdress and got her into clothes then held out a hand, hoping she’d get up and follow me.