Page 146 of When the Sky Breaks

She stared at my outstretched palm for a long moment, and I worried she’d just lay back down, fix her eyes on the plaster ceiling like she had for God knew how long before I’d woken. But she put her hand in mine, still not looking at me directly, and let me lead her out into the kitchen.

Cavan was stirring a pot of porridge over the fire, Da was making tea, and Ansel was at the kitchen table going over reports. Everyone was feigning normalcy, casting uncertain glances at the two of us. I led Sorcha to a chair, put an extra cushion on it for good measure, and pressed her shoulders until she sat.

“You want food?” I asked gently, trying to get in her line of sight.

Predictably, there was no response.

So I got a bowl of porridge anyways, sat it in front of her. And when that failed I picked up the spoon and brought it to her mouth.

That finally prompted a reaction. Sorcha shook her head decisively, folded her arms, and put her head down on the table.

It went on like that for days. She’d drink if I held a cup to her lips, sit where I put her. She was refusing food outright. Not speaking to anyone. Cats from all over the island turned up to curl around her legs, drape themselves in her lap and on her shoulder. Our sheep and donkey abandoned their barn and spent hours every day just outside the window, bleating and braying like they were begging her to come back to them, back to reality.

But nothing helped.

Then one night woke I to Sorcha curling up with me in bed, clinging, shaking, finally crying.

“Neal,” she sobbed into my shoulder.

“Love?” I murmured, shaking off sleep. “Sorcha? Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”

“Neal, I tried so hard.” Sorcha hiccuped, tears soaking into the fabric of my shirt. “I tried so hard. I did everything. And it didn’t work. Neal, she still died!”

I should have responded. I knew that. But I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t figure out how to tell her that I felt the same way, felt like I’d failed them both. So I just held her tighter and let her cry.

“And she died because I got sick,” Sorcha said after a time, breath hitching. “She died because I had some stupid infection and my fever spiked and you all worried about me vomiting blood and then Irene . . .”

“We’re not going to talk about Irene right now, love,” I said gently. “Don’t blame yourself for getting sick. Don’t blame yourself for any of this.”

“But it’s my fault,” Sorcha insisted. “I was supposed to take care of her.”

“And you did, love. I promise. You did.”

The next day it was like our midnight conversation had never happened. Sorcha was distant, nonverbal, refusing food and eye contact, only taking water or moving when I physically instructed her.

Meanwhile, the mood in the cottage grew worse. We got word that Iksura had executed Irene, but no further details, no indication if it was independent or a conspiracy, nothing. Cavan sobbed for hours when he read the missive, long enough that even Sorcha took note, and in her first unprompted action since she’d come home in the storm, picked up one of the cats congregating at her feet and put it in Cavan’s lap. Ansel wanted to talk politics. But Sorcha still wasn’t speaking at all. I knew it was only a matter of time before the situation escalated.

The next night, she cried in my arms again. And the one after that, we talked again. I told her about picking the name Lucy—honoring another child killed by a would-be tyrant. Sorcha murmured about all the stories she’d wanted to tell her, all the things she’d wanted to show her, how she’d hoped that maybe Lucy would have healing like her father did. Then she fell back asleep in tears on my shoulder and woke up nonverbal and distant as usual.

“Lass, you need to process what you’re feeling,” Ansel said, sitting down across from Sorcha at the dining table. Her eyes were fixed on the wood grain in front of her, half a dozen of the island’s cats pawing at her ankles and climbing on her for attention. There was a particularly persistent sheep at the door, yelling.

“Ansel, don’t push her,” I warned from my place by the fire. It was just the three of us. Da had gone to the docks for supplies and Cavan was out at the barn—saying he’d found some solace in the animals after his loss. I envied him that—solace. Thus far, I’d found none.

“I’m not pushing, lad,” Ansel assured me, then turned back to Sorcha. “So how have you felt since Iksura killed your baby?”

Sorcha stood bolt upright in an instant, swaying on her feet. Then made for the door again. I caught her with an arm around the waist.

“Love, you can’t run off again,” I said gently. “It’s not safe. Just stay. Sorcha, please just stay.”

“Neal?” Sorcha looked up at me, her good eye focusing on my face.

“What is it, love?” I asked softly.

“I want to see her grave.”

Sorcha sat by the patch of upturned earth for hours.

“You held her the whole time?” Sorcha asked.