9. Memories Worn by Time #2
His voice grows quieter. “And the moment he came back with you in his arms, the sky just… flipped. Darkened so fast we thought we’d lose our way.
It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.
Ma and Da said it was the worst storm they’d ever witnessed—rain hammerin’ down in sheets, lightning crackin’ across the sky like it was splittin’ the world in two. ”
A cold unease coils in my chest.
Then Casey’s lips twitch slightly, easing the weight. “Finn watched over you the rest of the night. Callan and I thought it odd at the time, but once we learned how rough his life had been…”
Dealla leans in again, brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
I glance at Casey, then speak up before he can. “Finn’s father used to beat him black and blue. And often.” I pause, swallowing hard. “For someone who’s been through so much, he’s one of the kindest souls I’ve ever known.”
Casey nods, his expression softening. “Protectin’ you just felt right to him. Hell, you were the only person he spoke to for days after that. He was such a timid thing back then. It’s a shame you dinnae remember that day. I’m certain it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Callan cry.”
“Callan cried? And I missed it?” I exclaim, feigning disappointment.
“Aye… we were terrified. All of us.”
I can feel the impact of that statement—of a memory I don’t have, but one that clearly shaped them all. I watch him lean back slightly, as if the memory presses too close and he needs to breathe again.
“Well,” he finally says, exhaling, “I’ve talked enough for now. Ye ken where to find me if you want more stories.”
He glances at Dealla. “You keep Triona out of trouble, all right? It’s a full-time job.”
Dealla smirks. “I’m not sure anyone can manage that.”
Casey strides over to me in a few easy steps.
“C’mere, you daft thing,” he mutters fondly, and leans down to press a quick, warm kiss to my forehead.
I roll my eyes, but I don’t pull away.
“Oh, and before I forget,” he adds, straightening again, “Ma’s looking for you. Said to meet her in her bedchamber.”
He tosses a wink toward Dealla, whose cheeks flush instantly pink, and then strolls off with that smug Sinclair swagger—as if he isn’t the embodiment of mayhem.
The second he’s out of earshot, I turn to her, eyebrows raised. “Did Casey just make you blush?”
“Oh, shut it! He did not!” she protests, even as she presses her fingers to her flaming cheeks. “My cheeks are naturally rosy.”
I smile, letting the silence stretch long enough to make her squirm. She groans and hides her face in her hands.
“Stop staring at me like that!” she mumbles.
“What? I’m just admiring that sudden complex change of colour you’ve got.” I bite back a laugh.
Dealla peeks out from between her fingers, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “I swear, Caitríona, one more word, and I’ll throttle you.”
Looping my arm with hers, I grin. “Come on, before you start daydreaming about my brother.”
Dealla’s jaw drops, and she pulls away, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Caitríona éireann Sinclair, stop while you’re ahead!”
I double over, laughing, clutching my side. “I’ll take it back when you stop blushing like a lovesick bairn!”
“I’ll have you know I could never indulge in such thoughts about your brother,” she huffs, crossing her arms but failing to hide her smirk.
“Good. Keep it that way. I couldn’t look you in the eye ever again if you fell for Casey,” I say, still laughing.
“You and me both,” she mutters, rolling her eyes as we walk off, the sound of our laughter echoing behind us.
I pause at the door, one hand braced on the frame, and for a moment, I think about not going in. About turning around, walking back out into the fresh air and pretending Casey hadn’t told me to come and see her.
But I relent. Because I know there’s no avoiding the inevitable.
The door to my mother’s bedchamber creaks open, revealing her silhouette by the hearth.
Her face is half-shrouded by the dim light of the fire, and her eyes seem unfocused, as though she’s somewhere else in her mind.
For a moment, I linger in the doorway, watching her fingers tugging at the loose threads of her shawl.
She’s carrying a quiet, unshakable worry that colours her every move.
As I step closer, she glances up, her eyes sharpening slightly—but not enough to conceal the lingering shadows that shroud her.
This is so unlike my mother—a woman whose steady hands seem to hold the world together. Always so sure, always composed, with practical answers at the ready, even when they aren’t the ones I want to hear.
Now, there’s a fragility in her I don’t recognise. As if something inside her has quietly come undone. Her eyes are shadowed with a sorrow I can’t name, as if she’s burdened by memories too heavy to speak aloud.
She has avoided my every attempt to speak with her—each time I’m met with a smile too thin to be real and a well-orchestrated deflection
‘Dinnae fash, mo nighean bheag’ she says, brushing off my concern as if it’s a leaf on her shoulder.
Her expression changes, hardening into the calm and commanding presence I often relied on as a child. I can see right through it now, though, and it’s disorienting. It feels like trying to hold water. Every lingering glance, every evasive answer deepens the chasm between us .
Finally, she speaks, her voice breaking the silence. “Triona,” she says, almost cautiously. “I’ve been meanin’ to speak with ye about Marcus.”
Of course it’s about Marcus. The irritation flares, but it’s not just him. It’s her evasion, her dismissal of the things I’m desperate to understand. I feel my body tense, an instinctive prick of annoyance rising. “What about him?” I ask, keeping my voice measured.
“He’s quite taken with ye.”
“You’ve only seen us together once , Ma,” I reply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
Her gaze is steady, her eyes intent as she crosses the room to stand closer to me. “He’s a good man, Triona. Strong, respectable. Ye’d have stability with him, someone to depend on.”
“I hear what you're saying, Ma, but what I cannot see is the point?”
“I think ye need him,” she says, her voice steady but firm. “It’s high time to consider that.”
“That’s what you think I need? A man to ‘ depend on ’?” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t bring myself to soften them.
Her sigh carries more weight than usual, a flicker of weariness crossing her face. “It’s no’ jus about stability, Triona. It’s about safety. Protection. Marcus could be that for ye.” Her insistence only fans the flames of my growing frustration.
“Why are you really pushing this on me? I’m not some helpless damsel, Ma. I don’t need Marcus—or any man—to protect me,” I snap, crossing my arms. The space between us feels insurmountable now. “And don’t I deserve the choice?”
“Of course, but that stubbornness wellin’ inside might keep ye from makin’ the right one.
” Her brow furrows as she studies me, her mouth opening and closing as though she’s struggling to find the right words.
“It’s not about control, Triona. Things are changin’ for this family.
Ye’ll want someone like Marcus by yer side. ”
“I want freedom!” The words tear from my throat like an escape.
“That’s what I want, Ma. Not Marcus, not your notion of stability, not your safety—just my freedom!
To go where I please, without eyes following me.
To make my own choices without whispers in the hallway.
To see the world, to chase something bigger than duty or tradition.
To live a life that’s mine , far beyond the walls of this house. ”
Her face tightens, shock flickering across her features. I press on, unwilling to stop now that the words are pouring out .
“You say you’re trying to protect me, but it feels as if you’re locking me away. And if that makes me petulant, so be it. I’ll not apologise for wanting more.”
“Triona, that’s enough,” my mother snaps, her voice trembling—equal parts anger and something far more fragile. “Ye speak as if this is all some foolish game—as if I enjoy seein’ ye this way, as if I take pleasure in bein’ cast the villain in yer tale.”
She shakes her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Everything I do—every choice I make—is to shield ye. To keep this family from failin’ into ruin. Ye think ye understand, but you’re still so young. Ye dinnae see the weight of the world beyond these walls—cannae understand the cost of choice.”
“I’m old enough to make decisions about my life,” I snap, “even if they’re the wrong ones. I’ve earned the right to choose my path, even if I stumble down it.”
“Ye dinnae see the bigger picture,” she retorts, her hands balling into fists. “There are forces—people—who would take everything from us if they could. Marryin’ Marcus could bring the kind o’ strength ye need. It could be the only way to keep our kin safe. To keep ye safe.”
“Safe?” I scoff, the word bitter on my tongue. “By selling me off like chattel? That’s not protection, Ma. That’s control. That’s a blood prison wrapped in lace.”
“Caitríona Sinclair.”
My father’s voice booms from the doorway, sharp enough to cut through the air and steal the breath from my lungs. I whirl toward him, startled.
His face is hard as granite, his eyes boring into mine with the weight of his authority. “Ye will not speak to yer mother that way.”
My frustration is too hot to hold.
“So now you’re defending her?” I demand. “Just the perfect wife, doing what needs to be done, aye? And I’m just the ungrateful daughter who understands nothing!”
“Enough!” he roars, stepping deeper into the room like a storm in human form. “Ye dinnae ken what ye’re sayin’, lass. She’s sacrificed more for this family than is fair. Show her the respect owed under this roof.”
My chest heaves, each breath feeling sharper than the last. The room feels smaller by the second; the walls pressing in. I can barely get the words out.
“Respect?” I choke. “Is that what you call it? Obedience, masked as respect?”
There’s a beat of silence—sharp, aching—before my mother steps forward. Her voice is quieter now, but no less firm .
“Triona… please. Ye dinnae understand. Not yet. But someday, you will.”
I stare at her. At both of them.
And then I break a little.
“Da… you’ve always made me believe I could live differently— be different.
From the moment I was old enough to understand the world, you were the one who told me I didn’t have to follow the path laid out for me.
You never put limits on me, never tried to clip my wings.
You let me run wild through the woods, taught me to track and fight when others said I shouldn’t even lift a blade.
You gave me a weapon and told me that my strength was something to wield , not fear. ”
“And now?” My voice breaks. “Now it feels as if you’re trying to unmake all of that. As if everything you helped me become is suddenly… inconvenient. As if you’re asking me to shrink back into something I can’t be anymore.”
Neither of them says a word.
I turn and storm out of the room, my boots striking the floor with each step. My vision blurs as I make my way down the corridor, but I don’t stop. I need air, space—anything but the stifling confines of this house and the weight of their expectations.
Out in the corridor, I nearly collide with Casey. He stands there, frozen, his face etched with something between sympathy and dread. He heard everything.
“Triona—” he starts.
But I shake my head. The lump in my throat won’t let me speak.
I push past him and keep walking, the sting in my eyes burning hotter with every step.
Just wishing I was anywhere but here.