Chapter 16
B y the time I return to the inn, I expect Michael to be asleep—though I’m not sure why.
It’s not like he sleeps well when I’m not around, though I will admit, his habits have improved since his time at Lady Whittaker’s school.
Still, when I arrive, it’s late, and Nolan is sitting on the floor with him in our inn room, playing.
On the walk back to the inn, my mind raced with how to explain to Nolan that our excursion to Yggdrasil had wasted yet another five months of his life.
My only relief is that the magic of the island at least seemed to keep him healthy during that time.
Now that we’re no longer under its protection, will the time we spent on Yggdrasil catch up with him?
Part of me wants to burst into the room and confess my mistake, but now that I’m in the doorway, I realize I need a moment—just one—not to feel rushed.
There’s a warmth in my heart, watching them, but there’s a gentle ache too, a quiet tug as I observe from the doorway.
Neither notices me, and I’m reminded of a time when I watched from a distance as Peter played with Michael.
That had been the first occasion I witnessed something good in Peter—a concept that still haunts me even now.
It’s difficult to reconcile that the same man who abused me and murdered John could have also loved Michael so well.
Could have played with him so effortlessly, so naturally, understanding Michael’s little world as if it were his own.
It’s terrifying when I think about it. What makes Peter so frightening isn’t his wickedness; it’s his goodness.
He fit in with Michael so naturally. Michael warmed to him so easily.
Maybe that’s what bothers me—the thought that, without me, Michael will be vulnerable in this world.
It reminds me that my brother and I share a similar difficulty in navigating our emotions.
And right now, I’m watching that same situation unfold as Nolan tries to engage with my little brother.
They’re both sitting on the floor. Nolan, kneeling, seems amused, though poised to jump up at any sign of intrusion.
He’s playing with the toy train Michael brought with him from the Whittakers’.
Michael pushes the train back and forth occasionally, but right now he’s more focused on assembling and disassembling the wheels.
Nolan tries to show Michael how to assemble the train correctly, but Michael isn’t having it. He pushes Nolan’s hand away, humming to himself, as Nolan encourages him gently. “You see, those wheels go on the caboose,” my husband says, but Michael continues spinning the wheels, undeterred.
I smile softly, watching the scene unfold.
Michael knows how to assemble the train.
He has his own way of doing things, and just because he can do it “correctly” doesn’t mean that’s how he wants to play.
Instead, he holds the wheels close to his face, letting the edges of the wooden wheels graze his cheek.
I imagine he finds the sensation comforting, or at least soothing, while I’m gone.
As I step into the room, I wonder if Michael will go back to playing with the train as other children might, but I’ve learned by now that predicting his behavior is impossible. And I’m okay with that.
Nolan continues patiently, explaining how the wheels make the train move. “See, these wheels allow it to travel on the tracks. It’s like the faerie dust that powers it,” he says. I wonder if moving trains will become a rare sight in our continent, a casualty of the shortages.
But Michael hums, absorbed in his own world.
For the first time, I notice frustration cross Nolan’s brow.
At first, I think it’s directed at Michael, but then I realize, as he speaks softly, that the frustration is with himself.
“If you put the wheels on the train, we can play together. We can build tracks and make it go in circles around the room.”
Nolan reaches for the wheels in Michael’s hand, but as soon as he touches them, Michael yanks them away.
The dowel between the two wheels snaps in half, and the wheels scatter across the floor.
One rolls toward me. I stop it with my foot.
Nolan, following the wheel with his eyes, glances up and finally notices me.
His face flushes, though not with anger.
Michael scurries over, snatching the wheel from beneath my foot, clutching it to his chest. Nolan’s face falls, and my heart aches at the sight.
“It takes time to understand Michael’s play patterns,” I say, my voice gentle. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Nolan’s gaze is distant, focused on the broken dowel in his hands. “Did it take him time to figure it out?” he asks, the question hanging between us. I know who he’s referring to—the shadow that haunts both our pasts.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice quiet.
Nolan looks up, his eyelashes flicking as his gaze meets mine. “Does it not?”
Michael returns to spinning the wheels, ignoring us once more. I move across the room, sitting beside Nolan, taking his hand. He scratches the back of his head with his hook, the motion awkward but endearing.
“He was always better with the children,” Nolan says.
“When we were at the orphanage, Peter had this energy, especially with the younger boys. He knew how to comfort them when the warden abused them. He gave them hope, even though we all knew our futures were bleak. We’d be cast out on the streets, no jobs, no skills.
“I tried to be kind to them,” Nolan continues, “but I think there was something about me that scared them.” He pauses, looking away. “I always wondered if they knew.”
“Knew what?” I whisper.
Nolan exhales, and his voice drops. “The reason my mother was so easily convinced to send me to the orphanage. I didn’t know how to play with my siblings.
I tried, but I’d get angry too quickly. Once, my younger sister won at a board game.
I swept all the pieces off the board and pelted her with them. ” He looks down in shame.
“That’s not all that abnormal, for a child,” I say.
Nolan’s face is stricken with guilt. “When she cried, I covered her mouth so our mother wouldn’t hear.”
His hand, the one that once held the dowel, trembles as he recalls the memory. I reach out, squeezing his hand gently. I don’t say anything for a moment, letting his words settle.
“I don’t think they could sense that in you,” I say softly.
Nolan raises an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, they didn’t sense it in Peter, did they?” I reply, my voice firm.
Nolan’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure either of us were capable of the violence he became. It’s an unanswered question, isn’t it?”
“When did the kind boy turn cruel?” I ask, my words hanging in the stale air.
Nolan nods, lost in thought.
“Nolan,” I whisper.
“Yes?”
“I messed up.”
Nolan glances at me, concern written in the way he presses his lips together.
“I thought the library only manipulated time within its walls. But I was wrong. Its power extends to all who dock on the island.”
“Ah,” says Nolan. “Well, that explains the surprising change in climate. Have you ascertained how long we were there?”
I take the crumpled itinerary I ripped from the notice board and hand it to my husband. He unfolds it carefully and whistles. “Five months. That’s…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I don’t finish it for him. Instead, we sit together in the quiet for a while, until Michael crawls into the bed and falls asleep. Slowly, we follow, the shadows of the past lingering just out of reach.