3. The Last Light
The Last Light
"You're going to drop that," Thatcher said, watching me wrestle with the wine bottle Sulien had shoved into my arms at the last second.
"I'm not going to—" The bottle slipped, and I caught it against my chest. "Shut up."
He laughed, the bastard. "Want me to carry it?"
"I've got it." I shifted the basket to my other hip, trying to find a grip that didn't make me feel like a pack mule. Around us, other people were making their way down the path toward the caves.
"Jorik's already three sheets to the wind," Thatcher observed, nodding ahead where the fisherman was swaying slightly as he walked.
"Smart man."
The past two weeks had passed in a blur.
I'd gone out with Jorik's crew every day the weather allowed, throwing myself into the work and staying as far away from dry land as possible.
When the boats couldn't go out, I was shucking oysters and mending nets in our own shed rather than venturing into the village proper.
Better to be exhausted than risk being seen .
The path to the caves was packed. It wasn’t just our people. Traders who'd come early for the festival marched along with us.
"There's Marel," Thatcher said, and his tone had me snapping my head up.
"So?"
"So nothing. Just pointing him out."
I caught sight of blonde hair near the front of the group. "Don't start."
"Start what? I'm not starting anything." But he was grinning in that way that meant he was absolutely starting something. "Though he asked about you again."
"When?"
"This morning. Wanted to know if you were coming tonight."
The flush hit me hard and fast. "What did you tell him?"
"That you'd be here. Unless you decided to throw yourself off the cliffs instead."
"Thatcher."
"What? It's accurate." He cocked an eyebrow. "You've been walking around like someone died all week."
"Someone might."
I heard the cold in my words too late, and Thatcher's teasing expression sobered. We walked in silence for a moment, the weight of tomorrow settling between us like fog.
"Hey." His voice was quieter now. "We're going to be fine."
I wanted to believe him. Gods, I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay."
He studied my face for another moment, then nodded. "Good. Now come on, before Lira starts the whole thing without us."
The caves were already half full when we arrived.
Someone had lit the torches early. Their flames whipped and sparked, casting flickers of shadow across the cave walls.
I loved this place—had since I was a kid.
The way the cave curved inward created perfect acoustics, your voice coming back to you changed and richer.
This was where the village came to celebrate everything.
Births, marriages, good harvests, surviving storms.
"Thais!" Lira waved us over to where she'd claimed a spot near the center. "Perfect timing. I need someone to hang these."
She handed me a string of sea glass. For a moment, I froze, staring at the way the glass seemed to pulse with its own rhythm, wondering for a second if it had come from me. But no. Just a normal trick of the light. Thatcher plucked it from my hands.
"I'll do it," he said easily. "Thais is afraid of heights."
"I am not afraid of?—"
"Terrified," he continued, already moving toward the cave wall. And then I realized what he was doing—stepping in to distract from whatever he thought I had done. Always saving me, that one. "Absolutely paralyzed by anything more than three feet off the ground."
"Are you two going to bicker all night?" Lira interrupted, but she was smiling. "Because if so, I need to get more wine."
I settled onto the blanket she'd spread out, finally managing to set down the basket and bottle. The cave was filling up steadily—families finding their usual spots, friends clustering together, kids running between the groups like excited puppies.
"Wine?" Lira offered.
"Gods, yes."
She poured, and I took a grateful sip. It was good stuff—better than what we usually drank at home. "Where did you get this?"
"Trader brought it in yesterday. Said it was from somewhere south." She lowered her voice. "Cost me half a month's pay, but I figured... well. Special occasion."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Around us, the celebration was starting to take shape.
Elder Keth was making his way toward the fire pit with a bundle of kindling while Henrik tuned his fiddle.
I readied my ears for what would undoubtedly be a loud evening of these drunken bastards screaming songs out of key.
Keth crouched beside the cold fire pit, his weathered hands steady as he arranged the kindling just so. The flint and steel had belonged to his grandfather, and his grandfather's grandfather before that.
The fire caught, small flames licking upward. In the growing light, faces emerged from the shadows—some I'd known since birth, others newer to Saltcrest but no less welcome for it.
"To those who came before," Keth raised his cup. "And those who'll come after. And to tonight, which is all we get for sure."
"To tonight," everyone echoed, and drank.
That was it. No grand speeches, no elaborate ceremony. Just acknowledgment of time and mortality and the simple fact that we were here together.
"Cards?" Thatcher appeared at my elbow, already eyeing the traders who'd clustered near one of the side alcoves.
"Go fleece them," I said. "Just don't be too obvious about it."
"I'm never obvious. I'm subtle as a passing breeze.” He was already moving away, that easy charm sliding over his features.
"You're subtle as a brick through a window," I called after him, but he just laughed and kept walking.
"He's going to clean them out," Lira observed.
"Probably." I watched him settle into the group, already dealing cards with the practiced ease of someone who'd been running games since he was sixteen. "They look like they can afford it."
Henrik's fiddle cut through the chatter with the opening notes of a song. The first one was always "Fisher's Dawn," and everyone was expected to sing along whether they could carry a tune or not.
The voices rose around me, blending together into something bigger than the sum of its parts. I found myself singing too.
Salt wind and morning tide, Nets cast upon the foam, Every sailor knows the sea will call him home.
It was a working song, something to keep rhythm when you were hauling nets or mending lines. But here in the caves, with voices echoing off the stone walls, it sounded more like solidarity.
"Dance? "
I looked up to find Marel standing over me, hand extended. He was smiling, but there was caution in it.
"I'm comfortable here," I said, which wasn't entirely a lie.
"Come on. It's tradition."
"Since when?"
"Since right now." His smile deepened. "I'm starting a new tradition. Dancing with stubborn women who pretend they don't want to."
"That's oddly specific."
Lira snorted into her wine. "Just go dance with him, Thais. Before I throw up from all this romance."
I shot her a look, but let Marel pull me to my feet. The space near the fire had already been claimed by other couples, and Henrik's fiddle turned slow.
And intimate. Too intimate.
Marel was a good dancer. His hands were sure on my waist, and he led without being pushy about it.
We moved through the steps, spinning and stepping around each other in the pattern everyone in Saltcrest learned as children.
I found myself watching his face, trying to summon the feelings I should have had after so much time together.
There was affection, certainly—even desire—but the deeper current that should have run beneath it was conspicuously absent.
"You've been avoiding me," he said as we came together for the closer portion of the dance.
"I haven't."
"Really? Because I've been to the oyster beds three times this week and somehow never managed to run into you."
I stepped on his foot, probably harder than necessary. "Sorry."
"You know, most people would consider it rude to step on someone's foot and then lie about being sorry."
"Most people would consider it rude to interrogate someone while they're dancing."
"I'm not interrogating. I'm making conversation. "
"There's a difference?"
"One involves thumbscrews."
I couldn't help it—I laughed. And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop.
Maybe it was the wine, or the stress of the week, or just the sheer absurdity of discussing torture techniques while dancing to Henrik's fiddle.
But I found myself laughing until my sides hurt and I had to lean against Marel's chest to stay upright.
"Better?" he asked when I finally got myself under control.
"Better," I admitted.
The song was winding down, other couples beginning to separate and applaud. But Marel's arms stayed around my waist, and I found I didn't want to move away just yet.
"Thais," he said quietly.
"Don't."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I know that tone. That's your serious conversation tone, and I'm not drunk enough for serious conversations."
He was quiet for a moment, his hands warm against my back. Around us, the celebration continued—more music, more laughter, more stories being told by the fire. But it felt separate somehow, like we were standing in a bubble of stillness.
"At some point," he said finally. "In the future. Will you talk to me? I mean, are we ever going to have the conversation, Thais? You're twenty-six, I'm nearing thirty. I don't see anyone else the way I see you. Are we going to keep dancing around this forever?"
"Marel—" My throat tightened.
"I know your brother is fine spending his life like this, but is it what you really want?"
I stopped, taking a step back. "We're not talking about this here." Because I couldn't bear to see the hurt in his eyes when he realized the truth—that I cared for him deeply but not in the way he wanted, not in the way he deserved. He sighed, eyes going dim as he pulled me back to him.