Her laughter cracks right through me. I can’t bear it. Ever since we came back, we’ve been pretending that nothing happened, that everything is the same between us, but it’s not.
“What happened in Scotia, Jaime?” she says as if she knows that’s what I’m thinking about. I can’t help feeling that’s the real reason she’s brought me up here: to ask me that question. It’s not the first time she’s asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Maybe it would do you good. I know it’s hard, but it might help.”
“Sorry, Aileen. I . . . I just can’t right now.”
“I only want to help. I’m supposed to be your best friend. But since we’ve come back — ”
“I said no.”
We sit in a silence as thick as cold stew. I want to talk to her about it. I do. But I can’t. There’s no room in my head for it all. If I tell her what happened to me, she’ll tell me what happened to her, and I can’t face hearing about that, either. The reality of everything she suffered would engulf all the happiness of the rescue.
“It’s getting cold. Are you ready to head back down?” she asks after a while.
“You go.”
“I don’t mind waiting with you.”
“I’d rather be on my own.”
She’s staring at me. I know if I turn to her I’ll see the hurt etched into her face. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions.
“Things are better than they were,” she says, giving my hand a slight squeeze.
“I know.”
She lowers herself down. The leaves whisper to one another as she descends.
Why am I being so unreasonable? She’s only trying to help, to be a good friend. All I wanted — through all those weeks of torment — was to find her alive and bring her home again. So why isn’t that enough now?
I spin the metal bracelet around my wrist. It’s the one Aileen gave me on the day I married Lileas. I wondered that morning if Aileen felt jealous. Not of the fact that I was being coupled with someone else — Aileen and I have never felt that way about each other — but because there was a stranger entering our lives who had the potential to threaten our relationship. The thought was laughable at the time; my friendship with Aileen was all that mattered to me, and I couldn’t imagine anything ever changing that. Now Lileas is dead and Aileen and I . . . Well, it’s not the same.
The tree smells damp, of fresh rain and old earth. Above me, a spider is making a web between two branches. It scurries back and forth with intricate precision. How much simpler life would be if we could all create a new home that quickly, and whenever someone came along and destroyed it, we’d just move on and make another. I reach up toward the web, attracted by its fragility. I’m careful not to touch it; I don’t want to undo the spider’s work.
There was a time when everything felt great. When I saw my clan walk into the mountain chamber after the battle and realized that they were free — the elation I felt in that moment was real. And the whole journey back was a blur of happiness and celebration. It’s since returning to Skye that the darkness has crept in, like something’s not quite right, or like what we achieved wasn’t enough.
But we’re here, back on Skye. I succeeded. We succeeded, Agatha and I. Our clan is alive. Aileen is alive. Konge Grímr and the mountain deamhain were defeated. I should feel proud and full of joy, grateful for everything and everyone around me, yet I feel nothing. What’s wrong with me?
It doesn’t help that we can’t return to our own enclave. We’re in limbo here, unsettled and uncertain. After the traumas in the mountain, everyone’s craving the stability that only our own walls can grant us. I can see it in the eyes of my clan. No one’s happy; we’re all just pretending.
The spider has gone. I stare at the half-finished web, waiting for the spider to reappear, but it doesn’t come back. I swipe up, tearing the weightless threads from their moorings. The destroyed web clings to my fingertips. I immediately regret doing it. I wipe the guilt away on my trousers and hurry down the tree before the spider returns and realizes what I’ve done.
It’s a lot darker now, and quiet too; most people have already gone to bed. My stomach growls. The reduction in food portions has done nothing to improve tensions in the enclave. As I make my way to the communal bothan I now sleep in, I try not to jump at every shadow that moves. The sgàilean are gone, I remind myself. They’re trapped in Nathara’s necklace, lost somewhere in Norveg, far away. It doesn’t stop them from haunting my dreams, though. Them, and the deamhain, and the wildwolves . . . There isn’t a single night that I haven’t woken up drenched in sweat. I’m sure I’m not the only person in our clan suffering, but no one seems inclined to talk about it.
A group of people emerge from behind a low-walled bothan. From the way they’re stumbling and supporting one another, it’s clear they’ve been drinking. People from Clann-na-Bruthaich drink a lot. Either their elders were more relaxed about it than ours were, or they’ve started drinking more since returning.
“Hey, you’re Jaime, right?” one of them says.
“Yes.”
He plonks an arm on my shoulder. “Our rescuer. Our hero.” He says the words too loud in my ear, accompanied by flecks of spit. “I’ve never thanked you . . . thank you.” He belches, smothering my face with the smell of sour fruit.
“I don’t want your thanks,” I say.
“Leave him alone,” says a woman, tugging at his other arm.
“We’ve been talking about you.” His tone sharpens, edging toward hostility.
“Have you?” I ask.
The woman gives up trying to pull him away. The rest of his friends loiter around us.
“Rumor has it the room was evenly split at the meeting this evening,” says a different woman. “And that the only person who didn’t speak up was you.”
I can’t deny that.
“So we’re thinking your vote is going to be an important one,” says the man. “Maybe the most important one.” He lifts his arm and grips my shoulder, a little too hard. His drunkenness disappears, replaced by an intense clarity. “You need to vote against the attack.” Is he threatening me? “We’ve been through enough. I’m sorry about what’s happened to your enclave — we all are — and we’re grateful to you for rescuing us, but our clan has lost too many already. Stay here if you like, or don’t. I don’t care. But either way, we’re not about to fight your battles for you. Whatever Kenrick might be promising, if it comes down to it, and you vote to fight those meirlich in your enclave, we won’t be by your side. You hear me?” He looks me dead in the eye. “You and your clan are on your own.”
Granpa Halvor turns over a piece of bark.
“Snow,” he says, lookin at the picture on it. His hand hovers over the other barks what are laid out on the rug.
“Come on, Granpa,” I say. “We just had that one.”
The barks are facedown and cut square so they all look the same. He should know where the other snow is; I turned it over two turns ago. He chooses the bark next to it and flips it over.