2. Chapter 2
Isla had left Vera with more willowbark, as well as what little mint and oregano she had in her satchel to help fight the infection that had taken root in Neve’s lungs.
The dread still clung to her like a wet blanket, but as she approached her own cottage, she did her best to tamp it down — she had a different battle to fight right now.
She slipped her shoes off and dropped her satchel near the door, the comforting scents of worn timber and drying herbs wafting over her as she stifled a yawn.
She pulled up short in the doorway to the sitting room, her jaw ticking as she took in her younger brother’s form.
He was sprawled across the couch, an arm cast lazily over his eyes.
Nostrils flaring, Isla pulled back the curtains, letting the late afternoon light spill into the cottage.
Cael grimaced, cursing under his breath as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyelids.
She crossed her arms. “I didn't arrange for you to work at the forge to make more work for Oren and Blake. My intention was for you to be helpful.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t want to work there?” he drawled thickly, glaring at her as he dragged a hand across his forehead. His brown hair was the same shade as hers, but his eyes were more hazel — more like their father’s.
“You don't want to do anything but drink,” Isla replied sharply.
“I’m a grown man, Isla —”
“Then act like it!”
He shook his head, eyes flashing. “Why do you even care?”
“Because you're my responsibility. And if I don’t, who will?”
“I’m not a child,” he snapped back, “and you're not our mother!”
She flinched and his face fell. “Shit. Isla…” he began, his expression flickering with guilt and regret, but she had already turned on her heel.
She made her way into the kitchen, running a hand through her tangled hair as if trying to physically untangle the conflict.
She knew she hovered, knew that Cael was by all accounts a grown man, only a few years younger than herself.
How he spent his evenings was none of her business.
Yet, she couldn’t shake the fierce need to cling to him, desperate to avoid losing anyone else she loved - especially with Lyra now well out of reach.
It had been two years since her parents’ deaths at the hands of the fae that had forced them back into military service, long after their retirement.
And still, Isla found herself swallowing back the persistent lump in her throat that seemed to rise unbidden randomly throughout the day, a dull ache beneath the surface of her skin.
By the time the news had been delivered to Isla and her siblings, their parents had been dead for weeks.
The loss had fractured their family. Lyra had buried herself in her studies, fleeing to Dunovar to study among the Scholars.
Cael had simply taken to drinking to numb his grief.
For her own part, Isla had thrown herself into her work, determined to be everything to everyone, and to need no one in return.
Isla knew Cael chased the numbness he found at the bottom of his cup to outrun his grief, the same way she threw herself into the distraction of her work, the same way Lyra had buried herself in her studies, fleeing to Dunovar to study among the Scholars almost a year ago.
But she’d be damned if she allowed Cael to slowly slip away before her eyes.
Isla plucked her apron from its usual place on the wall hook, her gaze snagging on the one that hung beside hers.
She brushed her fingers almost reverently over the stained and worn fabric.
She couldn’t remember a day her mother hadn’t worn it.
Her mother’s familiar voice floated through her memory then.
”It’s just Cael's nature," she’d say, as she watched him drift between apprenticeships, hobbies, lovers…
"Some people just aren't meant to stay still." Isla had never understood what she’d meant. She still didn’t.
Where Cael had always strayed, flowing unmoored from one place to the next, Isla had trailed her mother like an eager shadow.
She had learned to prepare and mix remedies, to work with what the earth provided them, entrenching herself in the practice of healing.
My little island.
She turned away abruptly, reaching for the old kettle and dried herbs by the window as her mother’s voice floated back to her. The old endearment had once laid on her shoulders like a warm blanket. Now, it was a ghostly whisper, heavy with loss.
“I’m sorry.”
Cael’s voice pulled her from her memories. She didn’t turn, blinking away the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes.
“I didn’t mean it,” he continued. “I’m just… tired of feeling so useless.”
She stayed quiet, mechanically stirring the crushed herbs into the kettle as the water began to heat.
“I know that’s not an excuse,” he said. “But between Lyra being a genius, and you being a healing prodigy…”
Isla snorted, wiping her hands on her apron, “Oh please.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You had all mother’s herbal remedies memorized by the age of eleven and were basically taking house calls at thirteen.”
Isla sighed. Behind her, the kettle whistled, and she turned, moving it off the heat with perhaps more force than necessary as she let her frustration bleed through her. She paused before saying over her shoulder, “I’m not trying to replace her, Cael. I just… I worry about you.”
“I know.” He moved towards her, wrapping an arm around her from behind and dropping a kiss on the side of her brow.
“Gods, get off me,” Isla said, squirming away from him, but a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “And drink this — I can hear your liver begging for mercy from here.” She thrust a mug of tea at him and he raised it in mock cheers.
Cael stared into the steaming mug, his grin slipping. “Sometimes,” he said, voice quiet, “I’m so angry at them. For dying. For leaving in the first place.”
Quietly, she murmured, “They didn’t have a choice, Cael.” She took a deep breath, “But… me too.”
Their green eyes met, both holding back a renewed wave of grief.
“She always knew what to do with me,” Cael said quietly.
“Cael —” she moved to reach for him, but he shook his head, a false grin cracking his face. “No, it’s okay. I’m going to run over to the forge and see if I can help out with evening orders.”
Before she could get another word in, he had placed his cup on the kitchen counter with a clatter and left, the cottage door snapping shut behind him. Isla closed her eyes, sighing.
The light in their Grandmother’s east-facing room was dim in the late afternoon, curtains fluttering gently as a light breeze curled into the room. The old woman smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, when she saw Isla in the doorway.
“How are you feeling today, Gran?” Isla asked, crossing the room and setting a mug of tea down on the bedside table.
“Oh, fine, dear,” the matron answered, waving a frail hand dismissively, “Don’t worry about me.”
Isla smiled, pushing down the pang that pulled at her heart. Despite her positive attitude, Gran had just passed her ninetieth year, and time had begun to steal more than just her body’s strength. Recently, the matriarch’s nonsensical mumblings had reached an urgency that had made even Isla wary.
She sank into the armchair next to the bed, frowning as she recalled the moment yesterday evening when Gran had demanded in a sudden panic, “Where is your mother's ring?" her frail, withered hands clutching Isla’s wrist with surprising strength.
"It's here, Gran. I never take it off,” she had soothed.
“What’s got you worried, dear?” Gran asked, her stare shrewd despite her eyes’ cloudy appearance.
Isla told her of Neve, and of the illness that seemed to be creeping through the village, noting its resistance to her usual remedies and her worry that it was more than it seemed.
Her grandmother hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps the fae healers might have some insights?”
Isla scoffed doubtfully, thinking of the fae she’d seen purchasing a blade from Oren this morning. “I doubt it,” she said dryly.
“Not all fae are monsters, Isla,” her grandmother chided.
Isla murmured her dutiful assent, but pursed her lips.
Her grandmother’s gently disapproving gaze drifted from Isla to the maple outside her window. “Are those leaves beginning to turn already, or is that my eyesight failing, too?”
Isla followed her grandmother’s gaze, noting the slightly yellowed leaves, their edges beginning to curl. Isla’s brow furrowed, “They are,” she agreed. “I was telling Oren some of the herbs seem to be reaching the end of their harvest season as well, despite the heat.”
Her grandmother shook her head slowly, “It’s early. Much too early for that.”
Finally, they spoke briefly of Cael, and the spat their grandmother had overheard. She patted Isla’s hand affectionately. “He’ll find his way. We must all wade through our grief in our own way.” Isla bit the inside of her lip. They had lost their parents, but Gran had also lost a daughter.
Quietly, Isla rose from her chair, “You should rest, Gran. I have a few more rounds to complete before the sun sets.”
Her grandmother narrowed her eyes. “You must rest, too. You pour and pour from an empty cup, child. But who will refill yours?”
Isla smiled tightly as a pang of ignored exhaustion thrummed through her as if in response to those words. She kissed Gran’s weathered cheek, and turned to leave. Her grandmother’s voice drifted back to her.
“He needs you, and you him.”
Isla turned. “Cael?” The curtain fluttered gently, sending ghostly shadows dancing through the small room.
But Gran continued as though she hadn’t heard her. She hadn’t moved, but her eyes were glassy, unseeing, the muscles in her neck straining. Alarmed, Isla stepped forward and Gran spoke again, her voice rough as though it was being scraped over gravel, and tinged with urgency.
“The winds bend to his will, more than he yet knows. You are determined to be an island, but are the eye of the storm. Only together can you stop the cycle and end what began so long ago.”
Not Cael. Isla dropped to her knees next to the bed, gripping her Gran’s forearm gently as she soothed, “Who are you talking about, Gran?”
Her grandmother blinked rapidly and turned her head, her eyes refocusing on Isla. A small, tired smile curved her lips as she asked, “Did you say something dear?”
Another episode. Isla suppressed a shiver and forced a false smile. “No, nothing.”