Chapter 71
Seventy-One
Neal
Icould not fathom how Sorcha had disappeared so quickly when she could hardly walk from loss of blood. She’d left footprints of it on our front path when she ran.
But for two days we searched. And for two days we couldn’t find her.
Any time I thought maybe we were getting close? Something got in the way. A herd of sheep, flock of pigeons, a seal with pups, an overexuberant livestock guard dog. It was deliberate and directed, which meant she was alive. But she didn’t want to be found.
It was after midnight now on day two. Pouring rain with ripping winds pounding the western coast of the island.
I had argued with Ansel and Da and Cavan—at length—that I should still be out looking.
But eventually they won, convinced me to stay and let a handful of our guards go after her instead, at least until the storm cleared.
Da tried to convince me to sleep. I refused.
It’d been almost a week now since I’d actually laid down and closed my eyes deliberately—instead finding myself dozing off seated, once standing.
Because every time I gave in and tried to rest?
The image of Sorcha bleeding out in my arms, our too-small, now-dead baby cradled against her chest, sprang unbidden into my mind. The thought made me want to vomit.
Avoiding it was more than worth the fatigue.
I slouched at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of strong tea to stay awake and glaring at the bloodstain on the wood-plank floor while trying to figure out how to get a rug to cover it as soon as possible.
Ansel and Cavan were talking by the fire—though I wasn’t following the conversation.
I heard the door creak open, expected it was one of their guards with bad news again—that they’d found a good trail but been accosted by a rogue eagle or a particularly determined and belligerent fox—more of the same.
Chairs scraped back on the rough floor. Cavan gasped. And then the door slammed shut and a pair of bare, sopping feet came into view.
“Neal?” Sorcha’s voice was faint, graveled like her throat was raw from screaming, crying.
My gaze snapped up and I leapt to my feet. Sorcha was still in the nightgown Ansel had dressed her in days before—right after she gave birth—now bloody at the legs, stained with mud, transparent from rainwater and plastered to her skin. But she was here. She’d come back.
I held out a tentative hand, let her come to me.
I didn’t want her bolting again. The ache in my chest eased as Sorcha rushed to me, pressed herself into my arms, face in my chest. In that moment, it didn’t matter that she was dripping wet and pouring blood.
It didn’t matter that she’d disappeared and deliberately avoided me for days.
It didn’t matter that Lucy was in the ground instead of there safe in my arms. Because my wife was alive.
And she was back. So at least my entire world wasn’t ending. Not today.
“Neal,” Sorcha said, pulling away just enough to look up at me, “I can’t see right.”
“Kadish!” Ansel shouted up the loft steps. “We have a problem!”
I coaxed Sorcha out of her dripping clothes, checking her over for injury as I went.
She was still pouring blood from delivering and her skin was alarmingly pale.
But there was no sign of harm, no sign of infection.
She didn’t have a fever. She didn’t speak as I undressed her, bathed her, brushed out her wet hair and wrapped her in a clean nightgown. She didn’t look at me either.
She’d respond to direct instructions but seemed even more detached from the conversations around her than I felt. Sorcha let Kadish examine her without complaint. But wouldn’t respond to anything he said. Only me.
That was worrying.
“Her left pupil isn’t reacting,” Kadish said after he’d finished.
“So she’s blind now?” Ansel asked bluntly.
“Right eye seems fine. She likely can’t see as well as before,” Kadish replied. “No way to know how bad the damage is if she won’t tell us.”
“Any idea why she isn’t talking?” Ansel pressed.
“Give her time,” I snapped.
“It’s likely related to trauma.” Kadish shrugged. “Try and make her sleep. I’ll check again in the morning. Keep her warm. Give her sage tea if she’ll take it for the bleeding.”
I curled in bed with Sorcha, holding her close to try and stop her trembling. It didn’t work, but at least it was something that felt like it could help. She slept—eventually—fingers tangled in the front of my shirt and head on my shoulder. And after a while I did too—harder than I had in days.
But when I woke I found Sorcha already up, limp in my arms, her right eye fixed on the ceiling, her left roving pointlessly in an incongruous direction.
“Sorcha, love,” I said gently, fingers brushing over her cheek. “How are you feeling?”
She didn’t reply. Didn’t even look at me.
“Do you want me to help you get up and get dressed?”
No response. Not even a glance.
“Okay come here,” I said softly, pulling her closer and sitting her up. Sorcha didn’t resist. She was limp in my arms like a rag doll.
“Do you need water? Kadish said sage tea would help the bleeding,” I pressed.
Still no reaction.
I sighed, realizing the real fight might just be beginning.
I grabbed a cup of water from our bedside table, held it to her lips. She drank. But didn’t comment, didn’t react otherwise at all. I brushed out her hair and braided it clumsily, pulled off her nightdress and got her into clothes then held out a hand, hoping she’d get up and follow me.
She stared at my outstretched palm for a long moment, and I worried she’d just lay back down, fix her eyes on the plaster ceiling like she had for God knew how long before I’d woken. But she put her hand in mine, still not looking at me directly, and let me lead her out into the kitchen.
Cavan was stirring a pot of porridge over the fire, Da was making tea, and Ansel was at the kitchen table going over reports.
Everyone was feigning normalcy, casting uncertain glances at the two of us.
I led Sorcha to a chair, put an extra cushion on it for good measure, and pressed her shoulders until she sat.
“You want food?” I asked gently, trying to get in her line of sight.
Predictably, there was no response.
So I got a bowl of porridge anyways, sat it in front of her. And when that failed I picked up the spoon and brought it to her mouth.
That finally prompted a reaction. Sorcha shook her head decisively, folded her arms, and put her head down on the table.
It went on like that for days. She’d drink if I held a cup to her lips, sit where I put her.
She was refusing food outright. Not speaking to anyone.
Cats from all over the island turned up to curl around her legs, drape themselves in her lap and on her shoulder.
Our sheep and donkey abandoned their barn and spent hours every day just outside the window, bleating and braying like they were begging her to come back to them, back to reality.
But nothing helped.
Then one night woke I to Sorcha curling up with me in bed, clinging, shaking, finally crying.
“Neal,” she sobbed into my shoulder.
“Love?” I murmured, shaking off sleep. “Sorcha? Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”
“Neal, I tried so hard.” Sorcha hiccuped, tears soaking into the fabric of my shirt. “I tried so hard. I did everything. And it didn’t work. Neal, she still died!”
I should have responded. I knew that. But I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t figure out how to tell her that I felt the same way, felt like I’d failed them both. So I just held her tighter and let her cry.
“And she died because I got sick,” Sorcha said after a time, breath hitching. “She died because I had some stupid infection and my fever spiked and you all worried about me vomiting blood and then Irene . . .”
“We’re not going to talk about Irene right now, love,” I said gently. “Don’t blame yourself for getting sick. Don’t blame yourself for any of this.”
“But it’s my fault,” Sorcha insisted. “I was supposed to take care of her.”
“And you did, love. I promise. You did.”
The next day it was like our midnight conversation had never happened. Sorcha was distant, nonverbal, refusing food and eye contact, only taking water or moving when I physically instructed her.
Meanwhile, the mood in the cottage grew worse.
We got word that Iksura had executed Irene, but no further details, no indication if it was independent or a conspiracy, nothing.
Cavan sobbed for hours when he read the missive, long enough that even Sorcha took note, and in her first unprompted action since she’d come home in the storm, picked up one of the cats congregating at her feet and put it in Cavan’s lap.
Ansel wanted to talk politics. But Sorcha still wasn’t speaking at all.
I knew it was only a matter of time before the situation escalated.
The next night, she cried in my arms again.
And the one after that, we talked again.
I told her about picking the name Lucy—honoring another child killed by a would-be tyrant.
Sorcha murmured about all the stories she’d wanted to tell her, all the things she’d wanted to show her, how she’d hoped that maybe Lucy would have healing like her father did.
Then she fell back asleep in tears on my shoulder and woke up nonverbal and distant as usual.
“Lass, you need to process what you’re feeling,” Ansel said, sitting down across from Sorcha at the dining table.
Her eyes were fixed on the wood grain in front of her, half a dozen of the island’s cats pawing at her ankles and climbing on her for attention.
There was a particularly persistent sheep at the door, yelling.
“Ansel, don’t push her,” I warned from my place by the fire. It was just the three of us. Da had gone to the docks for supplies and Cavan was out at the barn—saying he’d found some solace in the animals after his loss. I envied him that—solace. Thus far, I’d found none.
“I’m not pushing, lad,” Ansel assured me, then turned back to Sorcha. “So how have you felt since Iksura killed your baby?”
Sorcha stood bolt upright in an instant, swaying on her feet. Then made for the door again. I caught her with an arm around the waist.
“Love, you can’t run off again,” I said gently. “It’s not safe. Just stay. Sorcha, please just stay.”
“Neal?” Sorcha looked up at me, her good eye focusing on my face.
“What is it, love?” I asked softly.
“I want to see her grave.”
Sorcha sat by the patch of upturned earth for hours.
“You held her the whole time?” Sorcha asked.
“Every second,” I said. “Gave her to my da once we got back to the house after she’d passed, so I could come sit with you.”
“You think she was happy?” Sorcha murmured, fingers raking through the soil. “I know she wasn’t here long. But was she scared?”
“I don’t think so, love,” I said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “I think she knew we cared. I think she knew we’d tried. And I think she knew we were keeping her as safe as we could.”
“Even though the world had other plans,” Sorcha said.
“Even though,” I agreed.
At sunset, I insisted we go home. The last thing we needed was Sorcha getting sick again. And the temperature dropped precipitously after dark here.
She still didn’t speak to Ansel, Da, Cavan, or Kadish when we got back. But she made eye contact. She ate what Da put in front of her. And she talked to me. Not much. Not like she had when it was just the two of us in the churchyard. But she spoke.
And that was enough for now.
The days blurred as Ansel dutifully ran the Court, trying to keep Sorcha’s incapacity from stirring up concern and unrest. Cavan still spent every morning at the barn, cried each night at dinner, but also sweetly tried to find small, insignificant ways to improve everyone’s inevitably awful day.
Sorcha was still weak from blood loss, sleeping half the day, clinging to me even while she was fully awake now.
I couldn’t fault her. I didn’t mind. It was certainly an improvement.
Then one morning Sorcha stumbled out of bed before I could help her, eyes scrunched closed, hands trembling—from fear, rage, grief, or pain, I couldn’t be sure—finding the door by feel. She made for the kitchen in just her nightdress, fabric clinging to her still-swollen belly. I hurried after.
Sorcha planted both hands on the table, straightened up, then looked Kadish dead in the face and said, “I can’t see out of my left eye at all today. And since I woke up my head feels like someone’s driving a spike through it. Fix it.”
Kadish spent days documenting symptom patterns, asking Sorcha dozens of questions every hour.
The vision in her left eye was variable.
Some days she could barely make out light and shadow, on others things were just blurry.
And still others? Her vision flickered. That was usually a harbinger of pain.
And the pain was debilitating.
I’d watched Sorcha fight ghosts through a hundred and five fever, but this struck her down like a bolt from the heavens.
She’d curl up with me in bed, blankets slung over the windows to block out the light, and stay like that for hours.
Any attempt at food came immediately back up.
So I just rubbed her back and stayed with her.
She said the pressure along her spine helped, if only a little.
After a week of trial and error, Kadish finally gave us his official prognosis.
“Any damage to your optic nerve is likely permanent,” he said. “From the oleander.”
“And the pain?” Sorcha asked, curled against my side on one of the dining room benches, thick blanket around her shoulders, nursing a mug of sage and lavender tea Cavan had handed her earlier. Today, she’d told me, wasn’t a bad one. She had some colors, not all of them, and nothing was flickering.
“We’ll find a treatment,” Kadish said.
“So that’s staying too?” Sorcha asked.
“You did survive what I’m fairly sure was an assassination attempt,” Kadish put in, “so these being the only negative ramifications is actually rather impressive.”