Emotions flooded him as he thought of the woman he loved, one he would never see again. “She gave her heart to her family, and she was curious about everything.” He shoved to his feet, walked over to a small case filled with books. He withdrew a thick tomb, the hand-tooled leather worn from often use. He stroked his thumb along the aged spine. “I had forgotten about his volume.”
The quiet pad of steps sounded, then Alesone paused at his side.
Damning the burn of tears, he didna look at her.
“Tell me about this book,” she said softly.
His fingers trembled as he flipped open the cover. Framed by the neatly penned prose, familiar drawings crowded the page, a bit of whimsy as several of the fey peeked out beneath blooms of heather.
She gasped with delight. “They are beautiful!”
“Aye. She enjoyed her time setting ink to paper. Claimed ’twas nae her, but the fey who guided her hand. Here.” A smile curved his mouth as he flipped through the pages, paused. “See this?”
Alesone studied the wisps of powder shimmering upon the parchment. “It sparkles.”
“Fairy dust she claimed, conjured from the mist of the fey when they’d sneak in at night to look over her stories and drawings. As a child I believed her.” He shrugged. “’Tis foolish that I was so naive.”
Her expression softened. “’Tis a special memory, one you are blessed to have.”
Thomas nodded, wishing back the time with his mother. With a hard swallow, he traced his finger over the neatly written words and the sparkles scattered upon the page. “When I was young, she made up these stories for my siblings and me. When she read them, she’d nae recite a simple telling of a tale, but like a seasoned bard, she’d whisper when the story grew tense so we would be leaning closer, then she’d shout with the arrival of the villain. The lot of us would jump.” With a chuckle, he shook his head. “You think we would have learned of her methods to lure us in until lost in the story, we awaited her each word and forgot her penchant for fun. At times I think we realized her intent, but if you could have seen the happiness in my mother’s eyes.” He smiled. “The stories were as important to us as to her.” The joy of the moment faded. “Never would we take that away from her, and now…”
Throat tight, Thomas flipped through the pages, then closed the cover.
“Can I see it?”
“Aye.” He handed her the tome.
With reverence, Alesone leafed through the book, pausing to smile, and then continued. Tears misted her eyes as she returned the book to him. “What a precious gift. When you have children, you can retell her stories, and share a piece of your mother with each and every tale.”
Moved by Alesone’s heartfelt words, he nodded. Until this moment all he’d considered was the devastating loss “Aye, ’twill be her legacy of sorts. As much as I wish it,” he said, sliding his thumb lovingly along the aged leather, “neither is this book nor the others mine. They belongs to my father. When the time comes to pass her drawings and her stories down, as the eldest, they will go to Donnchadh.”
“I would think that your brother would honor your request for at least one volume of something so personal.”
Thomas gave a cold laugh, replaced the volume. “I doubt Donnchadh cares what I wish. If ’twas his decision, I wouldna be here.”
She hesitated. “What happened to cause the rift between the two of you?”
Hurt poured through him, the angry shouts, the accusations. He ran his fingers along the top of the leather binding, then let his hand fall away.
“Once we’d buried Léod, everyone left but me. Alone, I stared at the newly turned earth and wept until nay more tears would come, haunted by memories of my mother’s sobs and my father’s face shattered with grief. There was naught I could do to repair the travesty I had caused.”
The old ache shuddered through him, and he faced the hearth, the flames charring the wood like the scars upon his soul. “As the sun began to set,” he said, his words unsteady, “Donnchadh hauled me up. Eyes red with tears, he accused me of murdering our brother, told me I was unfit to breathe.”
Alesone’s eyes widened with horror. “’Tis a terrible thing to say.”
Thomas grunted. “Anything he said was naught compared to what I had told myself in the hours that I had lain beside my brother’s grave. Distraught, I told him that I would leave. Donnchadh cursed me, swore that regardless of where I went, never would I find a place that would bring me peace.” The memories ripe, the words uttered all those years before scorched deep in his heart. “And he was right.”
“’Twas an accident.”
He met her gaze. “Mayhap, but in some things you are never able to find forgiveness for yourself.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “Like the guilt I bear for Grisel’s death?”
Bedamned. “Alesone, I didna mean—”
“I know what you meant,” she said, her voice raising a notch. “You think teasing your youngest brother makes you guiltier than my aiding a wounded man, but you are wrong. Innocent to the ramifications, each of us made choices, decisions that in the end led to the death of someone we loved.”
Her voice broke at the last, and he damned himself. He reached out, but she stepped back.
