His gaze flitted up toward the sagging door of the cottage that looked like it might sink into the earth at any moment. His sister wouldn’t be in there. He knew she wouldn’t. But something had convinced Mamm-wynn to come here, whether it be something natural or . . . not. He took the clutch of flowers from her fingers and stood. He hated to leave her there even for a second, but he had a feeling she’d forgive it if it meant possibly finding Beth.
It took a shoulder to shove the door fully open. It dragged against the floor—which inspired him to look behind it and see that there was an arc of cleaner space where someone else had done the same and pushed it wider.
Not necessarily Beth. It could have been anyone. Tourists caught out in the rain, seeking the imperfect shelter of leaky thatch, most likely.
Then his gaze found the rickety, rotting table in front of the window. On which sat a rock. No, not a rock.
A small, water-scarred cannonball.
His heart thudded, though he wasn’t sure if it was from hope or more dread. He spun around, taking in the entirety of the cottage in one turn. Was that clean spot there evidence that someone had hunkered down here? Was that water in the ancient sink from use or the holes in the thatch?
Had Beth been here?
Probably not. But . . . but maybe so. And if so, this could be his only chance of getting a message to her.
Thinking it worth the gamble, he pulled the note from his pocket as he strode to the table. He added a line about Mamm-wynn, scrawled Beth’s name on the outside of the folded page, put it on the table, and anchored it with the lead. Finishing off the offering with Mamm-wynn’s bouquet, he backed away.
Father, draw her here. Let her find this, I beg you.
With that, he spun on his heel and hurried back outside, careful to wrestle the door mostly shut behind him.
His grandmother still hadn’t budged. As carefully as if she were made of finest porcelain, he gathered her into his arms and began the trek back to Tas-gwyn, Libby, and the boats.
Evening had found them again, somehow. Right now it was stretching through the house with long arms of sunshine that elbowed their way through the windows, but soon those golden rays would go purple and red and dusky. Then would come the grey, then the blue, then the black.
Oliver raked a hand through his hair and stared out at the familiar coastline, the familiar sea, the familiar vista. Such beautiful colors, when they were painted over the land.
Such hideous ones when they marred the flesh of one he loved. Mabena’s face displayed them all today, and Tas-gwyn’s head did too. Only his grandmother had no visible signs of whatever trauma had found her.
Only his grandmother still lay in her bed unconscious, the twelve hours since he found her passing in a blur of visits from neighbors and family and the doctor, who had quietly suggested that she’d suffered some sort of apoplexy. They couldn’t know for sure, but the evidence suggested that her own body had attacked her rather than some outside force, likely caused by her advanced age or the stress of Beth being missing.
Perhaps he could accept that, if not for the other two injuries in his family.
No. No, he could never accept it, not really. Even knowing that she was mortal and so her days were numbered, he couldn’t accept the soft words that said she might never open her eyes again. Might never call him her favorite. Might never laugh that fairy laugh.
He’d been sitting here beside her bed for hours, but he’d promised Mrs. Dawe he would get up by seven o’clock and find something to eat. It was seven now. A few minutes past. But his stomach churned at the very thought of putting food in it. Even so, he leaned over to kiss Mamm-wynn’s ever-soft cheek and then stood. He could use a stretch of his legs, anyway. He’d spotted Libby in the garden a few minutes ago. Perhaps he’d go out there with her. Apologize. With Mabena in bed and Mrs. Dawe and him fussing over Mamm-wynn all day, she’d been the one to welcome neighbor after neighbor who’d come as soon as they heard.
It wasn’t fair to her—she was just a guest here. She shouldn’t have to play hostess. And yet she’d done it without question, without any qualm that he could see. And his neighbors, those who had slipped back here to bring a vase of flowers or put an arm around him, hadn’t seemed to think it odd in the slightest. They’d merely said things like, “I’m glad our lady was on Tresco, at least, to be here now.” And “Our lady said I could slip back for a moment, to give you this.”
He stepped out into the hallway, knowing Mrs. Dawe would take his place within a minute or two—she’d said she’d be in at seven to make sure he kept his word, and she wouldn’t grant him more than a few minutes’ grace on that count. But rather than going directly down the stairs and out into the garden, his feet hitched before a closed door at the end of the corridor.
It had been months since he’d opened it. Because for as many good memories that lived in that room, there were bad ones too that he hadn’t wanted to face. Too many reminders of the last loss to rock their family. Of the years they’d spent fighting an invisible monster eating away at his brother. Of the final battle that Morgan had lost.
His hand found the latch, cool in the shadows of the hallway, and pushed the door open. He didn’t enter, but he leaned into the doorframe. So very weary. In body and mind and soul. So very afraid that soon another room would be empty. First their parents’, then Morgan’s. Mamm-wynn’s next? And what about Beth? Why was she not here, where she ought to be, instead of hiding somewhere?
His eyes slid shut against the evening light streaming through Morgan’s window. He missed his brother with a bone-deep ache. He wanted to talk to him now. To share the worry about Mamm-wynn. About Beth. To glean some of his wisdom. To introduce him to Libby and confess that he’d kissed her, and that he shouldn’t have, and that he wanted to do it again. That he loved the way their neighbors had claimed her as their own. That he wanted to do the same, even though all wisdom said it was far too soon to know if he should, and not likely he could regardless.
She was an earl’s sister. And he . . .
“Was this your brother’s room?”
He didn’t jump at her voice. Perhaps he’d heard her step behind him, even though he didn’t recall noticing it. Perhaps he was too tired to react so. Or perhaps he couldn’t be surprised at her appearing at his side because she felt so right there. Oliver opened his eyes and glanced down to find her in the doorway too, leaning a shoulder against the opposite side of the frame. Inches away. Her gaze focused on Morgan’s sanctuary.
“It was, yes.” They’d changed nothing in it. It still had the narrow bed in which he’d spent so much time. The books lining every wall, which had been his window to the rest of the world. The desk whose regular chair had been moved aside so he could wheel himself to it instead. And the wheelchair itself, parked beside the bed.
Her fingers found his and wove through them. “You’re not going to lose her yet.”
He squeezed her fingers, simply because she understood what had brought him here now. “He was sick for so long. It came upon him when he was just a lad, six or seven. I remember him being excited to go to school soon, and then . . . then our whole world changed. He was so ill, and the doctors couldn’t determine the cause. Our parents took him to the mainland once, all the way to London. But it didn’t seem to matter. The doctors could only alleviate the symptoms. He’d get better, but never fully better. And we always knew that each new illness to go round would find him. Eat at him.”