8. Night Calls My Name #3
“Your confidence is growin’, Triona,” Eamon murmurs, his voice steady. “And it suits ye. Never doubt that.”
I glance down at my practice sword, still feeling the weight of the match in my hands. But also the truth in his words. The unease from earlier has entirely faded, replaced by something stronger.
Resilience .
“Many thanks, Eamon. It means a lot to hear that.” I nod, hoping the sincerity in my voice carries the weight of my gratitude. He holds my gaze for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile, one that says he understands the true meaning to me.
“Now, go find your Mum. I’m sure this’ll throw her for one. ”
With one last look at Callan, still at the mercy of our father and Casey, I can’t help but feel a sense of peace settling over me.
Each step back toward home feels different, as if the earth beneath my feet recognises the shift within me. The weight of doubt lingers, but it no longer defines me. The girl who once questioned her place drifts further away with every stride, replaced by something steadying.
Beneath my skin, something hums—low and unfamiliar, a pulse just beneath the surface of my awareness. It’s something reaching, and it pulls at me in ways I cannot name. Whispering of something just beyond my grasp.
As I walk beneath the sun’s golden light, I know this truth—there is no turning back.
As I bound into the kitchen, my mother stands at the worn wooden counter, crooning softly to herself. Her hands move rhythmically as she kneads dough with practiced ease.
The kitchen hums with the warmth of home—fire crackling in the hearth, the mingling scents of fresh bread and wildflowers, no doubt my father’s contribution, creating a gentle, familiar symphony of comfort.
“I come bearing great news!” I exclaim, my voice tumbling over itself in excitement. “I bested Callan! Finally knocked that smug look clean off his face.”
My mother lets out a low chuckle, the kind that starts deep in her chest and rolls out slowly as she keeps kneading the dough. “Aye, aye. Ye’re always full of grand stories.”
I cross my arms. “No, Ma. I’m serious.”
She hums, still smiling faintly, not looking up.
I lean in, voice firmer now. “Ask Da when he comes in.”
That gets her attention. She freezes, the rhythm of her work faltering. Slowly, she meets my gaze and studies me. After a long pause, she tilts her head. “How?”
I beam, rocking on my heels. “Wild, right? ”
She wipes her hands on her apron, still staring at me like I’ve just told her the sky turned green. “How did ye manage that ?”
I cross my arms, near fit to burst with satisfaction. “I used my brains . And speed. He got cocky, and I found the perfect opening to catch him in the flank. Sent him toppling.” I spread my hands dramatically. “The great Callan Sinclair, flat on his—.”
“Language, Triona.”
I huff.
Her mouth parts, then closes without a word. For a long moment, she simply looks at me, a quiet storm flickering behind her eyes—pride, astonishment, and the faintest shadow of concern.
Then, with an exhale, she shakes her head, a slow, wry smile creeping onto her lips. “Yer brother willnae let that lie,” she says, her voice laced with amusement. “He’ll go until he’s clawed back every bit of that lost pride.”
“He can try, but I’m the strongest Sinclair now,” I declare, throwing my arms out dramatically. “Da’s not what he once was, Callan’s too soft, and Casey…well, we both know he’s better with a bow than he’ll ever be with a sword.”
Her gaze softens as she rakes over my form, tracing the lines of my new leathers.
“Yer Da wouldnae let me look at those,” she claims, her voice catching in her throat.
I fidget under her gaze, my fingers brushing absentmindedly over the reinforced seams. “It made me cry, seeing them,” I admit, my voice quieter.
“It just felt like…” My words trail off as I search for the right ones.
“It felt like he might have been more excited to give them than even I was to receive them. And I adore them.”
A small silence settles between us, warm and weighted. Then I clear my throat, trying to shake the emotion from my voice.
“Still,” I say, forcing a smile, “Part of me still can’t believe I outmanoeuvred Callan. Especially after the sleep I lost last night. Woke up in a panic—ended up flat on the floor.”
“Ah, found her on her arse, I did,” Saoirse chimes in, her voice ringing out from the doorway like a welcomed breeze.
She leans casually against the frame, her lips curling into a mischievous grin.
“Not her finest moment!” Her laughter bubbles up, light and infectious, effortlessly brightening the room.
“Mind yer tongue, Saoirse.” Though her tone is sharp, there’s a a lively glint in my mother’s eye .
“Sorry, Mum.” Saoirse steps forward, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, the gesture so full of affection that it softens even the faintest trace of irritation. My mother’s lips twitch into a reluctant smile as she turns back to her work.
Saoirse and Eamon had taken to calling her ‘Mum’ not long after my father brought them into our lives.
Though we never speak of the hardships they endured before, I can see the shadows of their past in fleeting moments—in the way Eamon’s shoulders tense at loud noises, or how Saoirse sometimes glances at the door, as if expecting it to slam shut without warning.
Hearing them call her ‘ Mum ’ stirs something deep in me. It’s just another symbol of the love that binds our patchwork family together.
Saoirse’s playful demeanour shifts. Her brow furrows as she steps closer, her gaze searching my face. “What’s wrong then? Ya look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”
I swallow, the vivid images of the dream flashing behind my eyes.
“Ma used to tell us a story about a glen untouched by turmoil, but last night, my dream twisted it. At first, the glen was a paradise. The air was sweet, and the river glistened with purity. But then something dark crept in, like an ink stain spreading across a page. Everything that had been vibrant and alive became poisoned, consumed by darkness. Then this headless… being appeared. It stopped right in front of me and called me ériu , as if speaking to someone else through me.”
The steady rhythm of my mother’s hands kneading the dough falters. The warmth of the kitchen seems to drain away, replaced by a cold, creeping tension.
“What d’ye say?” She turns toward me, worry etched into every line of her face.
“What is it?” I ask, confusion knotting my stomach.
Her expression hardens, shifting from uncertainty to an almost fierce intensity. “What else did it say?”
“It said…” I falter, the memory of the words chilling me all over again. “Well, the last thing it said was ‘ You cannot run. You cannot hide. The end is written, and I will be there when it comes .’”
My mother’s knuckles whiten as she grips the counter, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak, her thoughts clearly racing.
“Another oddity,” I add quietly, “was that it spoke in the old tongue. But I understood it, as if it spoke directly into my mind. ”
Saoirse throws her arm around my shoulders. “Och, what’s got ya dreaming of The Dullahan, then? Who’d ye piss off to earn a visit like that?” She grins, her lighthearted tone coaxing a small, reluctant laugh out of me.
I glance at my mother, ready to jest along, but her expression remains unchanged. Her eyes brim with an anguish so raw that it steals the air from my lungs. I see something there I can’t unsee: fear, tangled with a pain she’s trying to hide.
“Ma, are you all right?”
She shakes her head, as if trying to dispel whatever thoughts have taken hold.
“Ye ken how I feel about dreams, Triona,” she says, her voice measured and careful.
Her eyes flick up, meeting mine for just a heartbeat before she looks away again.
She wipes her hands on her apron and sighs.
“Dreams can be tricky things. But ye’ve always had a vivid mind, aye? ”
Saoirse pulls me into a tight, reassuring embrace. Her warmth and the scent of wildflowers wraps around me. “Ach, don’t fret too much, Triona. Headless horsemen, magic dreams—whatever comes’ll have to get through me to ya.”
My mother clears her throat, smoothing her hands over her apron as if brushing away more than just flour.
When she speaks, her voice is just a touch too light, too casual.
“Change out of that before dinner,” she says, nodding toward my dust-riddled leathers.
“Ye’re much too pretty to be trouncin’ about smellin’ like a boggin laddie. ”
Just then, heavy boots thud against the ground outside, followed by the creak of the back door swinging open. Laughter and deep voices spill in, my father and brother stepping inside with easy familiarity. My mother, still tense from our conversation, straightens at the sound of my father’s voice.
“Ellen! Where are ye?” My father calls out, his voice warm and rich with affection.
My mother’s entire demeanour shifts. Without even washing the flour from her hands, she hurries toward him. The moment their eyes meet, his face brightens, but as he catches the worry etched into her features, his smile falters. He steps closer, slipping an arm around her waist.
He quickly tries to mask it, his voice dropping as he leans in. “Come here, mo luaidh,” he murmurs, guiding her gently toward the door. “Let’s have a word before ye cover me head to toe in flour, aye?”
My mother chuckles softly, not resisting as he leads her away .
Saoirse and I exchange a glance, both of us feigning indifference as they slip into the next room.
Meanwhile, Callan and Casey exchange their own curious glances before turning toward me. Callan’s ever-present scowl deepens.
“Triona,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, “What’ve ye done this time, then?” he asks, his tone gruff, laced with mild accusation.
I scoff, mirroring his stance. “Why do you assume it’s my fault?” I hurl back, raising an eyebrow, daring him to push the issue.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Saoirse suppressing her laugh.
Casey’s lips twitch, but he hides it well, rubbing the back of his neck as if the ceiling has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room.
They both know exactly why Callan assumes it’s me—my mother and I have been bickering with the energy of warring clans in legendary fashion since I learned how to talk back.
Callan tilts his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over me as if he is trying to read something just beneath the surface. I roll my eyes, unwilling to let him dig any deeper.
“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “She’s upset because she heard how her oldest son got his arse handed to him by his wee sister. In front of witnesses .”
Saoirse snorts, trying to stifle her laughter. “Ah, stop it—ye’re takin’ the absolute piss.”
Casey laughs outright, shaking his head. “Oh, she is not ,” he says, clearly delighted. “I saw his downfall with my own eyes, and I’m makin’ it my personal mission to herald the news.”
“Wait— what ?” Saoirse’s eyes dart between us. “Ya ain’t pullin’ my leg?”
She stares at me, jaw slack. Then slowly, her expression shifts. Her brows raise. Her mouth curves into a wide, gleeful grin.
“Holy shite, Triona. Ye flattened Callan ?” she says, voice thick with disbelief and awe. “You glorious bitch.”
“Many thanks,” I reply with a mock curtsy. “I take coin, compliments, and I expect a toast in my honour tonight at the dinner table.”
Saoirse laughs, slapping my arm. “I’d’ve paid good coin to see that. You must’ve hit him like a feckin’ cart horse.”
Callan mutters something dark and Gaelic under his breath, scowl locked in place like it’s carved from stone .
Still grinning, Saoirse saunters over and rubs Callan’s arm—a touch he doesn’t pull away from. “Ya all right there, sweetheart? Should we fetch a mirror so ya can come to terms with yer defeat?”
With a glint in her eye, she glances down at his backside and back up at him with a smirk. “Ye’ve a fine plump arse, Cal. Not quite as plump as yer sister’s, but almost. Bet it caught most of your fall!”
Saoirse looks over at Casey. “Shame about yers. This gift,” Saoirse says as she taps Callan on his bottom—a gesture he jumps at—,”must have skipped right over ya and into yer sister. She has twice as much in the rear.”
Casey scoffs, looking genuinely offended. “I am perfectly proportioned.”
Callan and I both chuckle—heartfelt laughter this time, the kind that catches in your chest and pulls the sting out of the day. The teasing, the warmth in their voices—it untangles the knot in my chest just enough to let me breathe.
As I feel that settling in my chest, the sound of low voices murmuring from the next room catches my ear.
I glance toward the door.
My father and mother’s tones are hushed, too hushed, the warmth of their earlier embrace replaced by something taut and weighted.
The knot in my chest returns.
Whatever had unsettled my mother—whatever flickered in her eyes—it was so much more than the contents of a lingering dream.
It was the look of someone hearing pieces of a story they already knew.
And she seemed haunted by the familiarity.