Chapter Twenty-One Kit #2
“I think,” he says, brushing away my tears with his knuckles, “the point maybe isn’t so much … who is hurt and how long and how badly, but who stands by us before and through and after. The secret is to not try to do it alone.”
“You’ve grown wise in the past hour,” I say, gently teasing.
He nods toward Abram and King Hugh. “I had good teachers.”
But though he nods toward the yole, his gaze remains fixed on me. I feel my cheeks heating and look away.
“Kit,” he says, soft as a whisper, “I—if it would help, if you wanted—I wish I could be with you in the after.”
My heart pounds. I stare at the sand, braced for nausea to follow.
But it doesn’t.
He pauses, then adds, “Which will probably turn into the before and the through and the after all over again, given the way life seems to work. But … would you let me? Be with you, I mean?”
The wounded part of me clamors, Curl up, hide, flee! If I encourage him, I’ll enter uncertain ground. I would be safer alone.
But I am not my wounds. Taking a deep breath, I make myself look him in the face, make myself meet his eyes. His mouth quirks in an uncertain smile, but his eyes shine with sincerity. And a new feeling burns through my fear and my ghosts. It steals my breath, painful but good.
My fate isn’t set by Byrne. It isn’t even set by my own warped bones.
I can claim the future I want. And I want a bright one.
Joy bubbles in my stomach. Catharine is going to love this part of the story.
I open my mouth to answer, but King Hugh’s voice cuts across my thoughts.
“We’re ready!” he calls. “Just needed some minor repairs. Let’s go.”
Startled, I scramble to my feet. I’d nearly forgotten we weren’t alone. When Idris struggles to rise, I give him my hand. He takes my arm instead, to avoid putting pressure on my fingers, and gets to his feet. Even after he does, he doesn’t let me go.
I guide him toward the water. Every step lessens my doubt, and a new, shining certainty bubbles up inside me. I can claim the future I want.
King Hugh leans over the yole’s gunwale to help Idris board. “Kit, it occurs to me you haven’t asked for a reward for this third trip to the Hidden Lands.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“You asked for silver the first night, gold the next.” He passes Idris to Abram as Idris makes his way to the bow of the yole. “But this time you’ve helped save my son’s life. What can I give you for that?”
I consider his question, my skirt in my hand as I climb over the side. My pulse turns to fire. Suddenly, I know exactly what I want.
Abram and Hugh help me in, but before I can follow Idris to a seat, I gulp a breath and turn to the king.
“I would ask for Idris.”
Behind King Hugh, I see Idris break into a wide grin.
King Hugh lifts his eyebrows, clearly surprised.
“I mean,” I blurt, my face hot, “I would ask you don’t engage him to Catharine, and perhaps you’ll allow us to court, and maybe in a little while we—I mean, it would be up to him, and we’d have to see how it goes—but … I suppose I’m asking for the chance to try.”
King Hugh takes one look at Idris and then dips his head. “Very well. Take him, with my blessing, and whenever you are both ready.”
While Abram and King Hugh bring the yole about, I join Idris near the bow. I’m almost shaking with giddiness and embarrassment.
“Well, then,” he says with a grin. “I suppose that answers my question.”
I can’t help but grin back. Idris takes my hand and lightly kisses my fingers. I tighten my grip on him. We emerge from the cave. A rush of cold wind brings color to our cheeks, and we watch as the sun rises with the gale. Together.
The sky is still pink-tinged when we come to Stromwell harbor. Men rush to help secure the boat, questions radiating from their glances at King Hugh, Idris, Abram, and me.
“I think the word is out, Father,” Idris says. He and I are standing shoulder to shoulder, but I edge back a little to make some distance between myself and the men’s hungry curiosity.
King Hugh huffs a sigh and steps onto the dock.
He announces, “Yes, we have been to the Hidden Lands, and yes, you’ll all get to hear the tale.
But you’ll hear it faster if there’s a warm breakfast waiting for us at the hotel.
” Singling out a boy, he says, “Could you please go and let the cook know we are coming and we are hungry.”
The boy races toward the Stromwell Hotel. The crowd keeps growing, their murmurs getting louder. Abram disembarks and joins his father in conversation with a uniformed man—the dockmaster, I think.
Watching the king, I ask Idris, “What version do you think he’ll tell?”
Idris rests a hand on True’s head, thoughtful. “I’m not sure, but I hope he’ll tell the truth.”
In the distance, where even more people are gathering in the city square, a young woman catches my attention. Catharine. She had been sitting on the bench beside Mr. Muir, but now she rises. She waves to me, a relieved smile breaking across her face.
My heart lifts at the sight of her. And then swoops down all at once.
King Byrne has not returned.
I chart her gaze as she takes us all in: King Hugh, Idris, Abram. Me.
The word is out, Idris had said. Word that included her father boarding this boat.
Her smile fades, and her eyes widen. We are across the crowd from each other.
There are too many people, and more and more arriving.
Their words buzz and rise and already I hear snatches of the stories they’re telling each other.
The way they’re already weaving the last few minutes into something new.
“Can you get me to Catharine?” I ask Idris, grabbing his sleeve and pointing.
Idris nods and pushes ahead of me. The people make way reluctantly, some trying to stop him to talk, but he waves them aside with jokes about breakfast. True stays close by me, forcing the crowd back a little more.
My chest squeezes as I try to think through what to say, how to tell her.
Byrne was a monster, but he wasn’t a monster to her.
I know what it is to lose a father. And soon the tale will be everywhere—the king of Aberloche, trapped in the Hidden Lands as a servant.
Everyone will be adding their own slant, their own twist. It will be their retelling, but I am the original. It is my story, at least to begin with.
Do I tell her my version—about a man cowardly and cruel, who tricked himself into his fate? Or do I tell her another version—about a man who traded himself for his child?
At last, we reach Catharine where she stands by the bench. Mr. Muir has vanished, and in the sea of movement and noise, she is a lone, still island. But when I come in reach, she grabs my hands and studies me.
“None of that, Kit,” she says before I can find the right words. “I can see you thinking. You don’t need to shield me anymore.”
I’m caught off guard and simply blink at her. I’m vaguely aware of Idris turning away from us, engaging nearby people in conversation to give at least the illusion of privacy.
“My father went with you, and he has not come back?” Catharine reads the answer in my face and nods to herself. Her lip trembles, just for a moment, and then she schools her expression into brave determination. “Don’t hide it from me, please. I want to know.”
I exhale, relieved and grateful. I have been so used to protecting her, I did not realize I was already twisting my words to find the kindest ones. “It might be painful,” I warn her.
“You’ve carried the pain long enough.” She presses her thumb against my palm. “Let me take a turn.”
“Very well,” I say, closing my fingers round Catharine’s. “Let me tell you my story.”