“You’re doing it again,” I say. He looks up with candlelight dancing across his glasses. “My feet are fine. You dinnae—don’t need to do anything else tonight.”

  “Sorry. I’m nervous. This keeps my mind busy.” He gets up and sits next to me, slipping out of his coat and laying it across the chest.

  The muted silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of my family moving down the hall and plates clattering together in the kitchen. I tear up, thinking about how much I’ve missed the sound of a busy house.

  “You didn’t tell your mother why we’re really here yet,” he says. “Or about the baby.”

  I drop the quilt in my lap. “I dinnae want to worry her today.” Telling Ma would mean she’d get hopeful for something that might not be. Seeing her heartbroken again would crush me. I don’t want to spoil today’s joy.

  “You’ll have to tell her eventually,” Percy says.

  “I know. But I’m not sure I have the right words that willnae make her worry.”

  “She’ll worry regardless of what you say. You’re her daughter. You’ll always be her concern.”

  My hands tighten around the soft sheets. Our home hasn’t been without its sorrows and hard times, but to bring the possibility of fresh sadness here makes me sick. I want to keep the sunshine shining here for as long as I can before the clouds roll in. For tonight, I’ll pretend that there are no monsters following us and that nothing can find us beyond these walls.

  Percy leans against me, head resting on my shoulder. “I noticed your accent’s back,” he adds. “I’d forgotten how cute you sound with it.”

  I roll my eyes and give him a light slap on the leg. “It’s going to be hard to hide it again,” I mutter.

  “For now, you don’t need to,” he says and kisses my jaw. “At least for a little bit, be yourself.”

  My walking stick sinks into a muddy patch as Ma and I lead the cows up the hillside to the grazing pastures near where the sheep are. These hills are covered in memories, and I sense the scattered bones of animals buried beneath my feet. To be back in the mountains doesn’t seem real. I still feel that I’ll blink and be in some forest, hungry, on edge, and my body aching. The crisp air sweeps out the clouds fogging up my mind, and for the first time in weeks, I can breathe easier.

  My gaze finds the house again, my family’s bones calling to me. Percy’s settled in like he’s been here for years instead of a few days. He’s even had time to work on recreating and studying the bloodleaf’s effects. Seeing the children playing with him, eager for the giant flowers he grows for them, makes my heart clench. No doubt he’s thinking about when we have ours, but those thoughts are still painful.

  Behind the house, the town is nestled in the valley, the cottages tethered together by smoke rising from the chimneys. Only a few houses are new, but little has changed. Fishermen walk through town toward the smokehouse with baskets of silver caught in the rivers since the salmon run is happening. I find the old schoolhouse and the healer’s hut I frequented when my arthritis got bad. I wonder if Aregwydd is still alive since she seemed ancient when I was a child. I know the familiar shapes of my aunts’ and uncles’ houses, and where the alehouse stands in the middle of town. So many memories floating through the hills and roads.

  The lowing of the cows makes me turn as they head down to the stream. Ma’s a few feet ahead, and one of the black and white collies keeps the herd together. A few of the younger calves stick close to Ma and nose her pockets for treats.

  “You seem distracted, Morana,” Ma says. Strands of hair escape from her bun, her cheeks red from the wind. Another calf bounds past her as it follows its mother.

  “Just a wee bit tired,” I tell her. “I havenae had to walk hills in a while. Àitesìol was mostly flat.”

  I still haven’t told her why we’re here, but she gives me that knowing look of hers. There’s a small voice that makes me wonder if she’ll tell us to leave to keep the peace that’s here. My family never made me feel bad about being a boneweaver, but the rest of our extended family and the other townsfolk won’t be as understanding if they find out. I grew up letting others believe that I was an earthcarver who couldn’t use her gift, putting up with the mocking from the other bloodgifted children because that was easier than the truth being known.

  “Are your joints botherin’ you?” Ma asks.

  “They’re fine. Percy’s been taking care of the pain.” There’s a tin of numbing balm in my skirt pocket in case some new ache appears.

  “You found a great man, mo chridhe. There are plenty of good ones, but it’s the great ones that are harder to find.”

  I smile. I didn’t find him. He found me.

  Ma waves me over as she sits down on a flat boulder. I sit next to her, and she pulls out a tin flask from the pouch at her waist. “A bit of whisky should put some fire back in your veins,” she says.

  “I cannae drink,” I tell her, gathering the strength to say the words. “I’m pregnant.”

  I’m left breathless, more aware of the new weight growing in me. It’s been sitting heavily on me for so long and having it out in the world leaves behind an odd weightlessness.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! The gods have truly blessed you!” Ma breathes and kisses my cheeks. “Why didnae you tell me sooner?”

  “I didnae know how to,” I whisper.

  Ma pulls away, squeezing my hands. “This is such joyous news, but you dinnae look happy. Why?”

  The dried baby’s breath sinks into the mud of my memories, the branches of the willow waving in the wind. “I…I dinnae ken how I should feel. This isnae…the first time I’ve been with child. I’m worried that I’ll lose this one like I did my first.”

  Her fingers tighten as her smile crumbles. “When did this happen?”

  Salty needles prick my eyes. “About two years ago. I didnae write you because I was ashamed. And…I didnae want to remember.”

  I tell her everything—the lost baby, the fires, our burning garden, Anstice, and my fears. Ma’s arms wrap around my neck, holding me close. I’m a little girl again, held together by threads while fissures crack me apart. When there are no more words left to say, I’m hollowed out and clinging to Ma. She runs her hands through my hair and kisses my forehead.

  “I’m afraid that if something happens…if I…lose this one…Percy will realize that this is too much,” I tell her before my voice dissolves into sobs.

  She grips my shoulders. “I’ve seen how he is around you, and that’s not the character of a man who leaves when things get hard.”

  “I dinnae want to bring any danger here. The Failinis keep finding us. There’s more of them now, and I’m afraid it winnae be long before the whole island is searching for us.”

  “You’re safe here,” Ma tells me and pulls me closer. “You can stay as long as you want. If the Failinis come, I’ll show them what happens when they try to take my daughter from me.”

  I touch my stomach. All these breakable moments litter the ground, leaving me no room to move without crushing them. I look at the softening lines across Ma’s face. Her eyes drift far away from here, her sadness reflecting something deeper.

  “Losin’ a child is never easy,” Ma says and wipes the damp trails from her cheeks. “That’ll always be a part of you, but you’ll find enough room in your heart for another. Grief doesn’t shrink, but we grow around it.”

  Moist pressure clamps on my arm, and I see Ceart chewing on my forearm. My sleeve becomes slick with saliva as she sucks on my arm. Bits of grass stick to my clothes as she lets go. I brush the hair off Ceart’s face, taking her large head in my hands. I smile as I kiss her nose, her tongue licking my neck before I can pull away.

  Ma stands and pats the cow’s flank. “She’s missed you.”

  The cry of a fox wakes me from a dream spun together with smoke, ash, and silver wolf jaws closing around me. Sweat soaks my nightgown, and tears wet my cheeks. Percy mutters about patellas and tibias next to me. I breathe in the smokeless air of the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I slide out of bed and shuffle to the door. The dreams have been visiting me for the past week since we arrived here, grief catching me off guard when I’m not looking.

  Grabbing my coat and boots, I head outside. Moonlight covers the garden and byre in a silvery sheen, the house glowing against the night. The dark shapes of the cows litter the fields as they sleep. Clusters of flickering sídhe light up the hillside.

  I follow the path to the barrow beyond the fruit trees. The voices beneath the ground stir and rise to greet me. Grandparents. Cousins. Aunts and uncles. I sift through them until I find Da’s deep voice. I thumb through my memories to recall the fuzzy details of his face. It’s been years, but that grief is still tender.

  The wind chills the tear trails on my skin. “I’m sorry I haven’t been home in a while, Da. There’s a lot to tell you,” I mutter, my words falling on the flowers growing around his rain-stained stone marker. The triquetra on the slab is covered in lichen, and I pull the soft patina away. “I’m pregnant, but I dinnae ken if I can do this…I miss you and wish you could tell me what to do.”

  “Morana, what are you doin’ out here?”

  I turn to see Ma cradling Craig under her shawl. Her hair flows down her shoulders, ribbons of silver shining against the dark tresses.

  I clear my throat. “I didnae mean to wake you. I couldnae sleep.”

  “I was up already. This little one was fussy, and I didnae want Glenna to wake,” she says. “You used to come out here when you had bad dreams. Is that what’s happened?”

  I nod. After Da died, I spent many nights out here. I wanted to be close to him, to hear his voice again. I clung to the pieces of his memories like a blanket. The bones in the barrow gave me comfort. My family was always with me even if they weren’t living anymore.

  She takes my hand and leads me back to the house. “Let’s get you somethin’ other than mountain air to fortify you.”

  A low fire burns in the fireplace as we step inside, and she hands Craig to me. He fusses, his face scrunched up as he fights sleep. I swallow the twinge of panic. He’s so small in my arms as I sit in one of the chairs and rock him.

  Ma returns from the kitchen with two cups of warm milk and a rag. She hands them to me, setting the second cup on the table between the rocking chairs. When my brothers and Glenna were little and got fussy, she’d let them suck on a milk-soaked cloth until they calmed down.

  I dip the rag and let Craig take it, his cries quieting. He smells like soap and milk and something soft I can’t quite place. Tiny fingers grasp mine, and my heart’s pressed beneath a warm fluttering.

  Ma sinks into the other chair. “What dreams are keepin’ you awake?” she asks.

  “I keep seeing our house burning. Percy dying. Anstice being captured,” I whisper and stare at the baby’s face. “So much death, and I cannae do anything but watch.”

  “Does Percy know about your dreams?”

  “Yes…but it’s hard to talk about some of it with him. I know he struggles like I do, but I feel everything so much more. It’s like a wound, and those memories that aren’t mine live in me. My friend, Anstice, was the only one who could truly relate. She is…was a boneweaver too.”

  Ma nods, the fire crackling. The sadness shadowing her face makes my eyes sting.

  “Did you and Da…” I lick my dry lips. “Did you regret that I was born a boneweaver?”

  Ma sits up, the chair creaking. “No. We were never afraid of your gift, Morana,” she says and shakes her head. “We knew when you were a wee bairn. You could always sense when one of the animals was close to death, and you’d go out to comfort it. You were always findin’ animal bones and tellin’ these stories about them we thought you’d made up, but we soon learned you were tellin’ us stories about our relatives in the barrow. You also stopped eatin’ meat once you turned five, said it didnae feel right.”

  She leans forward, touching the metal pendant of a bear with antlers around her neck. The symbol of Artair, the God of Beasts. Da’s pendant. There were so many nights I wished that I’d been born a beastcharmer like him or something other than what I was. Percy’s told me before that bloodgifts aren’t necessarily passed down through blood but that we’re given our abilities however the gods see fit. I still don’t know why Arianrhod decided to make me a boneweaver. I probably never will.

  “When you were three, you asked about the baby buried beneath the willow tree by the barrow,” Ma goes on. “No one told you about the child I lost. About Moina. But you found out when there was no way you could have.”

  She lost a child? How did I forget that? The sorrow I’d seen on the hill the other day had been deeper because she knew what it was like to lose a child. I look at my feet and take a sip of milk, the buttery taste sliding down my throat.

  “When…when did you have Moina?” I ask.

  “She was born years before you and only lived a few days. When I lost her, I didnae think I’d have love again for another. When I was pregnant with you, I was so scared I’d lose you too. But Beathag watched over you and brought you into this world healthy and strong.”

  “I’m sorry I didnae ken.”

  She clenches her hand around the pendant. “Children aren’t meant to ken everythin’ about their parents. But maybe if I’d told you sooner, you could have felt less alone when you lost yours.”

  Regret cracks Ma’s voice as she goes to a shelf next to the fireplace mantle and opens a dark chest. A tattered journal rests in her hand, and she runs a hand across the cover. She takes Craig from me and sets the book in my lap. She sits again with a sad smile on her face.

  “The day after Valan died, I found you at his bedside talkin’ with him. You’d reanimated him. I was startled, but I told you to let him sleep. I dinnae think you knew what you were doin’, but he was still again. Then the next day, you gave me this.”

  I leaf through the journal’s yellowed pages filled with childish scrawl. Da’s story rests on the paper, and my eyes sting. I flip to a section of the journal where I wrote about Da and Ma meeting. I’d forgotten about doing this, forgotten the night I reanimated him. I was young I didn’t understand that he was gone. I only wanted to see him smile again, and he did, eyes glowing purple in the dark room. Now, the memories rise from the silt of my mind.

  “I’m so sorry, Ma. I didnae mean to.” My words are too big for my mouth, getting stuck behind my teeth.

  Ma pats Craig’s back as he sucks on the cloth. “You dinnae need to apologize, Morana. You gave me one of the greatest gifts,” she says, taking my hand. Her callused fingers are warm and strong, smaller versions of Da’s—as if the years they spent intertwined shaped them into matching pairs. “Your da’s story helped me through my grief. I learned so much about him I didnae ken. It’s filled with all his love for us, for you. He never despised your gift. We only told you to hide it so you’d be safe from those who wouldnae understand, not because we hated that part of you.”

  I hear the familiar voice, deep and rumbling like laughter in my chest. Da speaks in the memories of wandering fields, hands holding mine as I whittle a cow out of wood, embraces when my body hurt too much to stand. That’s why his voice has always been so clear, why I remember certain things about him. They weren’t my memories but his. He’s been with me this whole time, and I didn’t realize it.

  “Your gift isnae a curse. You hear what so many cannae and give back somethin’ precious—the stories of our loved ones that we wouldnae have otherwise,” Ma tells me.

  A fresh wave of sadness rises in me, bringing to the surface old shame and guilt. “Are you upset with me for leaving all those years ago? I didnae explain why I left, and I’m sorry. I didnae mean to hurt you and leave you to take care of my siblings alone.”

  She straightens, facing me. “When you left, I was upset. Not at you for leavin’ but because I couldnae create a place where you felt safe enough to be yourself. It took a while to get your brothers and sister to understand because they were hurt. I know why you had to leave, and now I see that it was good. You found Percy and created a life for yourself. But I still worried, even when I got your letters. I prayed for years for you to come home, even though I knew you might be too afraid to.”

  The words run together until I can’t read them anymore. Layer by layer, I’m being pulled apart until I’m a pile of frayed nerves. Through it all, the sense of pride wraps around me like Da’s strong arms holding me.

  “I’ve never loved you any less because of your gift. No one in this family thinks of you differently because you’re a boneweaver. I cannae make the nightmares go away or stop the Failinis, but you have a place here, Morana,” Ma says. “Always.”

  I squeeze her hand, unable to get any words out. The knot in my chest loosens.

  “Everything alright here?” Percy’s quiet voice comes up behind me. He walks over and crouches beside me. “Was my snoring that bad?”

  “I’m fine, Percy,” I say, drying my eyes and holding the journal closer. I take his hand and kiss his knuckles. “Just bad dreams.”

  Percy presses his forehead against mine. “Lettuce see if we can do something about that. I don’t know if thistle help, but I can sing you the song my mother sang to me when I couldn’t sleep. It might give you peas of mind.”

  Ma smiles at us as she continues to rock Craig. My cheeks warm as I get up from the chair. “I think your puns are going to give me more nightmares.”

  Summer leaves its mark with sun-soaked fields and green hillsides. Several calves were born, which has kept us busy. Saoirse’s already named all of them, and they follow her around like she’s their mother. Morhenna’s gotten prouder since she’s assumed the role of overseer of the byre and has been following Percy around as he tends to the garden. Ma insists that I stay in the house and have nettle soup, but walking helps keep my mind off the nervousness growing in me. I want to believe this calm will last, but even as the weeks turn into three months with no whisper of Failinis, Captain MacAdoh’s shadow looms over me.

 

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