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B yrgir gave no indication of our conversation the next morning, just an easy, genuine smile when he found me sipping tea in the sitting room. I was nestled in a deep armchair by the fire, enjoying the glow and warmth before venturing into the impending cold and damp yet again.

“You sure you want to leave today? You look so cozy there that it feels like a crime to make you go outside,” he said.

“I am so cozy here,” I agreed. “But Eilith is still trapped in some dungeon or something under that monstrosity of a Temple. And it seems like my family secrets might be important to her release, so we need to go.”

“Then I’ll ready the horses, Little Lamb,” he said. “Meet you there.” He headed out the door.

I packed food, my bedroll, clothes, and a waxed canvas tent, then met Byrgir at the stables, where he had already saddled our horses.

We rode into the morning mist and followed the road across meadows out of the coastal valley, Vardir and Garmr trotting behind.

The clouds lifted and swirled, dancing across mountain peaks and over ridges as we rode; the sun flashed through as they moved, blue becoming more and more dominant in the sky above.

The sunlight illuminated the stark white and deep blue of ancient glaciers high above, the dramatic peaks and sheer cliffs.

I glanced over my shoulder for one last look at Rhyanaes before we descended the ridge.

Our first day was uneventful, despite Byrgir’s constant surveillance of our surroundings, keeping an eye out for any pursuers.

We camped off the road in the woods and awoke to a gentle spring rain, which only grew heavier as we rode north.

By the time we reached Skeioholm, we were being welcomed with ocean gales and the familiar blustery, drenching sheets of sleet.

Winter may have melted in Rhyanaes, but it clung to northern Seonaid with a death grip.

The horses’ hooves squished through slushy streets to the inn, where Byrgir rented us two separate rooms. I slept well, comforted by the sounds of the storm.

The storm continued the following morning as we trotted down the road to my childhood steading. The sea roared against the cliffs below the bluffs. The wind whipped my wet hair. I took a deep breath of salt air. Exhaled.

And there it was. Hunched in the rain and low clouds amongst its network of stone and wood fences and little buildings. My family home.

“Hal?” Noirin called from the doorway of the house as we rode through the front gate.

“Hey, Noir,” I answered, smiling. I dismounted and hugged her hard. She smelled like lanolin, dust, and straw. She must have been picking and carding wool.

“Gods, Hal, where have you been?” she asked. Before I could answer, she looked at Byrgir and said, “And who is this?”

“Byrgir Ulfarsson.” Byrgir dismounted and held a tattooed hand out to her with one of his warm, charming smiles.

She shook it. “Welcome to our home, Byrgir. I’m Noirin, Hal’s sister.”

I was surprised by her confidence. She’d always been a shy child, and I figured a man like Byrgir would be intimidating to her, just like he was to me when we met. But she seemed like much less of a child than she once was.

Her eyes fell on the two massive wolves waiting outside the gate. “Are those yours?”

“Yes. They’ll stay in the stable with the horses if there’s space.”

“There should be. As long as they don’t bother ours,” she said skeptically.

“They’ll behave,” I said, and whistled for Vardir and Garmr.

“Mother’s inside,” Noirin said as she took the reins of Byrgir’s big black Friesan and led her toward the stables. “Father’s out back, working on something. I can take care of these two if you want to go in and get dry.”

“Thanks, Noir.” I brought our motley ensemble of animals to the stable with her and then headed toward the house.

I pushed the door open and hung my cloak on my usual empty hook, then pulled off my boots and damp sweater before stepping into the warm house.

A fire crackled in the hearth at one end of the living room.

I hung our sweaters over the drying racks suspended from the ceiling above it.

Piles of raw wool––some picked and cleaned, others still dusty and full of straw and bits of sticky seeds––sat near the chair Noirin always worked in.

Our spinning wheel awaited the wool she had been preparing with an empty bobbin.

I could hear my mother moving around in the kitchen.

“Noir, who was it?” she called.

I didn’t know how to answer, a flood of words rose in my throat but none made it into the world, perhaps all as afraid as I was. The brown tabby climbed out of a basket of wool and rubbed against my legs, purring. I picked her up. She smelled exactly the same as she used to: Warm, clean, and alive.

“Noirin? Who was outside?”

“It’s not Noirin, Mother,” I said. “It’s me.”

There was the clatter of her abruptly setting down––or dropping––something in the kitchen. Her hurried footsteps.

She appeared in the archway that joined the two rooms.

“Hal? Oh gods above, Hal!”

She crossed the room and pulled me into a deep hug.

I hugged her back, tightly. She was exactly as I had last seen her, not a day older than when I left.

Lavender and the smell of warm oats. Long, wild blond hair in a mix of braids and thick waves, just like mine.

Eyes as black as the lightless depths of the sea. Black as my own.

She held me at arm’s length and looked me over, touching my long hair. “You look good. All grown up.” She hugged me again, until her eyes fell on the tall stranger warming his hands by the fire.

“Welcome to our home,” she said to Byrgir. “I’m Istra.”

“Byrgir Ulfarsson,” he said with another charming smile.

“Make yourself comfortable, please. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Are you hungry? Can I make you tea?” She asked us both.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Byrgir said.

I followed her into the kitchen while Byrgir found a seat near the fire.

“Where have you been, Halja? Your letter, the first one, said you were in Skeioholm. I went to the market every month. I looked for you there.”

“You did?” I asked.

“Of course I did. I wanted to know you were alright. But I never saw you. And the last couple of times I went were… difficult. Folks there aren’t so friendly to fae-touched people anymore. I didn’t want to go back.”

“It’s getting worse for us by the day, it feels like. I’m sorry, Mother,” I said.

Sorry for what, I wasn’t sure. All of it perhaps. The leaving, the staying away, the lack of communication. Guilt flooded my body at the thought of her wandering the market alone, looking for me.

“It’s alright, nothing I’m not used to,” she said, her eyes on the kettle. “But it is getting worse. Have you been staying safe? Where are you living?”

“Yes, I’m not in Skeioholm anymore. I was living outside of it, actually, on a steading with a woman who was teaching me… healing. But I had to leave a few weeks ago. I moved south, still along the coast.”

“South where?” she asked.

“Rhyanaes. An old fae city.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard of it. And this Byrgir, is he your boyfriend?” she asked.

I felt the heat rise to my face and I blushed.

“No, just a good friend. He helped me get to Rhyanaes.” I kept my head down and my eyes on the tea I prepared, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

Nothing like my mother asking about boys to bring back the shame and embarrassment with the bitter intensity of my teenage years.

She didn’t acknowledge my obvious reaction to his name. “And you have a home in Rhyanaes now?”

“We’re staying with a friend of his for the time. Lots of questions, Mother,” I said.

“Sorry, I’ve just been so worried about you, Hal. You’ve been gone a long time.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for that. But things have gotten more complicated since I left. I’m not just here for a visit. I have a lot of questions of my own.”

She looked up at me and opened her mouth to respond. No doubt to brush it off, act like she didn’t know what I was talking about. But she closed it again when she saw the look of determination on my face. There would be no more avoidance.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you do.” My mother sighed. She poured boiling water into the teapot and placed the lid on it, then carried it into the living room. I followed with the mugs. Seemed like I’d still have to wrestle it out of her.

“You have a beautiful home,” Byrgir said as we entered.

The tabby was now curled happily in his lap, purring as he stroked her.

No doubt he had heard our conversation from the kitchen.

Another trait of my family: Talking about others while they were within earshot as if they couldn’t hear you.

At least she hadn’t said anything negative.

“Thank you,” my mother said, setting the teapot down on the table. I set an empty mug next to Byrgir, and he smiled at me in thanks.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked. “Must have taken years to build all this.”

Once again, I envied his confidence. His usual cool social grace, even amongst strangers in new places.

“Oh, twenty-three years now, I suppose. Just before Halja was born.”

“You’ve done beautiful work,” he said, looking around the house.

“Thank you.” She smiled kindly at him. “Feel free to have a look around once you’ve warmed up. And help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I’m sure Noirin will be in soon and can help you. But, if you don’t mind, I need to talk with my daughter.”

“Of course. Would you like me to leave?” He began to scoop the cat from his lap to stand.

“No, no, I’d rather take a walk.”

She then retrieved a wool sweater for herself and another dry one for me.

One she had knit for me years ago, charcoal-gray with a lazuli and white pattern around the yolk.

I loved that sweater. Byrgir made eye contact with me, a questioning look, asking without words if I was alright.

I gave a small nod and followed my mother toward the door.