Page 112 of Echoes of the Banshee

He doesn’t say anything more, lets me take my time to process what he said.

“No one has ever told me that,” I admit at last.

“What part?”

“That they love me,” I confess, my heart pounding. “Any of it.”

“Then they’re fools,” he says with conviction.

A wave of something other than despair washes over me for the first time in days. Hope. In the stillness, we begin to dream, of the day we leave this hellhole behind, when we’re free. Lazlo talks about a picnic, something we’ll do together once we’re out.

“We’ll go to a lake,” he says, his voice light and teasing again. “Bring an outlandish checkered blanket.”

“A blanket?” I laugh and someone screams. We ignore it.

“Why not?” he says. “We’ll spread it out by the water and just… be. Also, a blanket is a must for laying and watching the clouds.”

I let the image form in my mind.

“Fine,” I agree. “But no soggy sandwiches.”

He chuckles. “If I take ya on a picnic, it will be an Irish picnic, meat pies and some colcannon, maybe an apple tart for dessert.”

“What’s colcannon?” I ask, my voice light as the pain in my leg spikes again.

“Potatoes of course!” I hear the grin in his voice.

“Why not just say potatoes?”

“Aye,” he says, his voice full of pride. “Because it’s colcannon, potatoes with cabbage and scallion. Delicious.”

“You put cabbage in potatoes?”

“Love,” he says like that answers the question. “And maybe we can bring some cider, too. You can never go wrong with cider.”

“You can bring whatever you want,” I relent. “But only if you promise not to talk about food the entire time.”

He laughs softly, the sound so warm and comforting. “No promises.”

“No promises about anything.”

The conversation shifts, and we argue over the most ridiculous things, like what season is best for the picnic, how the lake should look, what we’ll do first. But it’s all fantasy; sweet and warm, like a dream we know is too far from reality. Yet we keep talking, keep planning.

“Ya know I’ll kiss ya when we’re there, don’t ya?” My chest tightens as I think about it.

“Maybe I’ll let you.”

“Oh, you’ll let me,” he teases. “And there’s no way in hell I’m stoppin’ there, love.”

My heart races, and heat I’d thought forgotten blooms in my gut. For a moment, it’s just the space between us and nothing else.

“When you kiss me—”

The hammer on my hand forces me to the present as I fail at biting down on the scream. I take the pain and channel it inside me. Trying to force my way back to the picnic.

***

My eyes blink open and I’m surprised that I’m not crying. I should’ve told him sooner. Told him more. Every day, every moment I had. I knew we’d never get that picnic. Never be free.