27. A House of Glass
A House of Glass
M y body feels leaden as I wake. I lie still, listening to the silence that followed the iron wall clock’s chime, signalling morning meal. It rang at least half an hour past, but I know the state of the house—heads aching, stomachs turning, nursing other consequences of last night’s excess.
After Casey collected me from the hallway, I became his reluctant shadow as he continued drinking.
By night’s end, he’d been a prickly bastard, starting a fight with Bran after catching him, stealing a kiss from a rather curvaceous party guest. The dispute reeked of drink and wounded pride.
After that, Casey left me alone, so I’d carted myself to bed.
I didn’t see Finn for the rest of the night. As much as I longed to find him, I thought it wiser to give him space.
An intrusive thought has been playing over in my mind since I left him standing there in that hallway. The thought gnaws at me. Was that look I saw in him as I made a last pass at him regret?
But that kiss.
The memory floods me, searing my cheeks with a heat that defies the morning’s chill.
It consumes my every thought. The press of his lips—firm yet tender—lingers as though he had restrained himself for an eternity, only to surrender after that constraint was broken.
His gaze laid me bare and reached the core of me.
Even now—I can feel him hot between my thighs—his deft fingers playing my body as if I were a tune he’d spent years perfecting.
He moved as if he knew me better than I even knew myself.
I force myself upright, though the weight in my limbs makes it feel as if my emotions have taken root there. My gaze drifts to the bedside table—and a small, startled sound slips from my lips, a quiet mix of excitement and disbelief.
There, nestled in the soft morning light, is a bundle of primrose.
For a moment, I don’t move. The purple petals are tied with a thin piece of twine. Slowly, I reach out, brushing my fingers over the stems.
They are still cool, the dew on them fresh, as if plucked only minutes ago.
The flowers are a stark reminder of my mother, as they will always be. Her quiet grace, unshakable love, and the way she knew what I needed before I did. I reach out to grab the bundle, tears pricking my eyes, and an overwhelming wave of guilt rises.
I clutch the flowers to my chest as though they might vanish, much like the bloom in Da’s garden that day—when life as I knew it turned to ash.
A day I’d wasted away, not knowing it’d be the last in our home.
I’d never again hear my mother’s chiding, which I’d needed more often than I cared to admit.
I’d never feel the warmth of my father’s embrace, arms wrapped around my frame as if he alone could shield me from all. My steely composure completely shatters.
And suddenly, I’m falling.
A sob escapes from between my lips, unbidden and raw. My shoulders shake violently, and I clutch the bundle as if it can anchor me to something no longer present in this realm.
“Triona?” Aunt Amelia’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with concern.
I glance toward her, barely able to meet her pitying gaze before she crosses the room and gathers me into her arms .
“Oh, my love. What is it?” she murmurs as she strokes my hair. “What’s hurting you so?”
I can’t answer. My throat burns, my chest heaves, and the only sounds that escape are broken, guttural cries, echoing all around us.
Aunt Amelia rubs comforting circles on my back, though I can feel her own trembling. “It’s all right, love,” she whispers. “Let it out. Let it all out.”
All I can think of is how much I miss them. How much I miss her . My mother. My father. My home. The life I’ll never have again. How ungrateful, selfish, and foolish I had been.
I’m afraid—afraid that one day I won’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice or the way my father laughed. Afraid they will fade from me entirely, leaving only this aching void in their place.
At last, the torrent of tears subsides, leaving me hollow and spent. Amelia leans back, brushing away the remnants of my grief with a gentleness that cuts through the ache. Her eyes are soft, yet shadowed by her own sorrows.
“You needed this,” she breathes, her voice steady. “You’ve not allowed yourself to grieve, have you?”
I shake my head, the motion weak. My gaze falls to the crushed primrose in my hand, its petals crumpled and bruised—a fitting reflection of the ache that refuses to heal.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, my voice hoarse.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Amelia replies, pressing a kiss to my brow. She takes the flowers from my trembling hands and places them carefully on the bedside table. “Grief is no fault of yours. An absolute burden, but one you need not carry alone. You hear me?”
“But I am sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I’m sorry for not appreciating them more. For not saying the things I ought to have said. For not being… better.”
Amelia’s sigh is soft. “You were loved as you are, Triona,” her Irish lilt curling around my name. “Not for things said or unsaid. You need not be anything but yourself. And I’d wager now they’d be telling me to knock sense into you for thinking otherwise.”
A weak laugh escapes me, and I know she’s right. Even in the darkest moments, our family always found humour—sometimes sharp, sometimes absurd, but always there. It was how we endured, how we remained whole.
She brushes a strand of hair from my face and stands. “Think you’re ready to face the day?” She asks as she moves about the room.
I go to answer, but my focus goes to the crushed primrose. For a moment, I consider tossing it away, but I pick it up, smoothing the petals as best I can. They’re so very broken, yes, but still so beautiful.
Who left these here?
Through muddled thought, I had not considered before.
“Auntie,” I ask softly.
She turns, pausing in her tidying to look at me. “Did Deidre leave these, or was it you?”
She tilts her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Not I, my dear girl, though it seems the type of gesture Deidre would offer. She said not a word to me about it.”
Deidre spent hours learning proper primrose care from my father.
I can still see her crouched in the garden beside him, her sharp focus softened by the gentleness of her hands.
She’d listen with rapt attention as he explained how to cut the stems just right, how to keep the flowers vibrant for as long as possible.
“I’ll say,” Amelia continues, smiling fondly. “Sometimes, folks can’t always say what they mean with words. Sometimes they use gestures, minor acts of kindness, to say what they feel. It’s an awfully lovely gesture, if you ask me.”
Her words hang between us, and I study her carefully, noticing the way her expression softens. There’s something in the way she speaks, the way her voice dips slightly when she mentions Deidre, that feels significant.
She eyes me as if she’s deciding how much to say.
“You talk about her,” I begin slowly, “in a way that suggests…” My words trail off, the weight of the unfinished thought sitting heavily in the room.
Amelia’s breath hitches, just barely, but it’s enough. She looks at me, her gaze steady but filled with vulnerability, and without a single word, I know.
My chest tightens, and a soft, breathless laugh escapes me. The realisation crashes over me, bright and undeniable, filling me with a warmth so intense it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“You and Deidre,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You’re…”
“She’s my heart, Triona.”
The pieces fall into place—the seamless way they move together, the reverence in Amelia’s voice whenever she speaks her name .
The confirmation sends a wave of emotion through me—shock, curiosity, and something deeper, something softer. “How long?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly.
A bittersweet smile tugs at her lips. “Long enough to know what it means to love someone with your whole heart and still be afraid of what the world might do to you for it.”
My throat tightens as her words settle into me, heavy and raw. “And you have given her up—for months, every year, for six years—just for me?”
Amelia moves to cup my face. Her eyes meet mine, filled with a fierce, unshakable love. “And I’d do it again a thousand times over.”
Tears blur my vision, spilling over faster than I can wipe them away. “None of you asked for this. You should have lived your lives freely. None of this is worth the cost.”
“Hush now,” she whispers, her thumbs sweeping tears from my cheeks. “You may not understand it yet, but you will. I would walk through fire for you. And Deidre—she would too. You are worth all of it, every sacrifice. Never think otherwise.”
Her hands tighten, holding my face as if she can force her conviction into me through touch alone.
Her eyes burn with a fierce, unyielding love.
“ You did not ask for this life. The life you live now—it was never a choice you made, but one of destiny’s making.
Whatever guilt you carry, what blame you place on yourself, let it go.
Not a single word is accurate. The world may take much from you—it may strip away comfort, joy, and even the ones you hold dearest—but it can never take this. ”
“I don’t deserve that,” I choke out, shaking my head. “I don’t deserve you. Or her. Or them…”
Her grip never wavers. She leans closer, her voice dropping to a low, determined murmur. “Deserving has nothing to do with it. Love can never be won like some prize. Love—genuine love—is given freely. Fierce and unrelenting, not caring a whit for what you think you deserve. It simply is .”
She holds me close, her arms a fortress. “Not love like this. Love that burns eternal, brighter than the darkest night, hotter than the fiercest fire. It will not fade, it refuses to falter, no matter what storm rages against it.”