Page 154 of The Mortal Trials

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Isit at the kitchen table, strangling my cup like it’s Cillian’s neck.

The gods have already taken my mother and sister. I’ll be damned if they take my brother, too. Even if he’s to blame for the trouble he’s in.

Ripples spread over the surface of my tea in time with my bouncing knee. I put my sole on the tile and try to focus on something else, anything else.

Soft sunlight sings into the room, joining the melodies of the bright quetzals that flit from sturdier stems to the windowsill in hopes of an easy meal.

The birds are never comfortable or settled. Always moving. Tilting their heads. Stretching their wings. Ready to fly. Abuela swears they speak to each other. I wonder what they say about what’s left of us. Of the crumbs we’ve become.

Down the hall, Cillian drags himself out of bed. His tired footsteps pad toward the kitchen.

Our grandmother hums to herself as she pushes a steaming, worn-thin rag across the counters. A vibrant green scarf holds her long, gray curls back from her face. Faint water spots are drying on her orange apron. She’s like the blooms in her garden, full of color and life despite the blistering desert around her.

Abuela smiles at my brother as he shuffles into the kitchen muttering a sleepy good morning to us both.

She returns the greeting.

I do not.

Her eyes sharpen and cut to me. The woman misses nothing.

Abuela wrings the rag into the bucket. A graying brow rises as she glances between us.

I stare into my cup, focusing on the warmth under my fingertips and the amber tea that tastes like home.

I didn’t realize how much of our grandmother’s love – woven into every small detail of our lives and home – I’d taken for granted until I was too far away to feel its warmth. Maybe that was the silver lining of leaving, that I remembered and tucked those happy, mundane moments into my heart for safekeeping.

“Drink all of it. Even the petals,” she reminds me, pointing to my teacup.

I take another sip and feel a thin petal slip down the back of my throat.

Cillian kisses Abuela’s temple before moving past her to fill a plate with slivers of papaya, slices of boiled egg, and the last crust of bread we have, tearing a molded piece from its edge and tossing it onto the sill. A bright quetzal swoops in to gather his treat, mold and all.

The bird leaves a short jade feather behind.

Some luck.

Abuela coos at the bird and collects the offering as Cillian takes a pinch of salt and sifts it over his eggs and bread.

My brother’s dark, wavy hair is a mess. Bruised crescents hang beneath his eyes. He tossed and turned all night. The constant straining and groaning of his cot betrayed how little he slept.

Our grandmother abandons her cleaning, removes her apron, and settles in her usual chair to my left. She lifts the dented copper kettle and fills her cup to the brim. Steam slithers between us. She watches me with furrowed brows, silently asking if I’m okay, a question I’m sick of answering.

The answer I always give is yes. The truth is that I’m not and never will be.

“Have you received a new conscription list from Morrigan, mija?” Abuela asks conversationally. She’s valiantly trying to distract me from what plagues me and failing miserably, because the plaguing subject flops into the chair across the table.

I glance away, attempting to remain civil. For now.

Until Abuela goes outside to water her flowers, at least.

I clear my throat. “Not yet.”

The seat to my right remains empty. Its very presence makes our sister’s absence louder.

I imagine carrying the worn, yellow-painted wood chair outside, raising it over my head, and smashing it into splinters. We can always use them for the stove. But I could no sooner throw Carina’s chair, even broken, into the flames than I could myself.