He didn’t have time to respond. The front door swung open as Mirin returned from the garden. Their mother draped her shawl by the door and then glanced at them.
“What happened to the fire?” she asked, setting her harvest basket on the table.
“I think the kindling and wood might be bad,” Jack said, straightening.
Mirin arched a dark brow, noticing the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth. She and Frae had just gathered it two days earlier from the Aithwood. And it had never refused to burn before.
“I’ll go gather some fresh wood from the forest,” Jack offered.
Frae’s heart stuttered in her chest. She reached out to snag Jack’s sleeve. “But it’s almost night! You shouldn’t go into the Aithwood when it’s dark.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
Frae almost rolled her eyes at him. Sometimes Jack didn’t listen very well, especially when he was wrapped up in his music and seemed to forget which realm he lived in.
“Your sister’s right,” Mirin said. “Save it for tomorrow, Jack. We can eat cold soup by candlelight tonight.”
Frae watched as Mirin attempted to light the tapers. The sun had fully set now, and darkness was blooming in the cottage. But Frae could see how her mother struggled with the flint. Her fingers were stiff from all the magical weaving she had been doing lately. Not even Sidra’s salves could help with the inflammation, and Frae shivered when Mirin handed the flint to Jack in defeat.
But when Jack tried to light the candles, the fire wouldn’t take to the wicks. In the dimness, Frae could see her brother’s deep scowl and the gleam of worry in his eyes.
“What are we going to do?” Frae asked.
“Come, both of you sit at the table!” Jack said in an unusually sprightly voice, setting the flint aside.
When Mirin and Frae continued to stand, shocked by his bright tone, he took their arms and guided them. He sat Mirin down first, then Frae, before he turned to the kitchen cupboard and rummaged through it.
“What are you doing, Jack?” Frae asked, rising from her seat. He was acting like nothing was wrong, and it puzzled her.
“I’m bringing you dinner. Please sit down, Frae.”
“But the fire!”
“We don’t need it tonight,” Jack said over his shoulder. Again, the blithe tone of his voice didn’t quite match his personality. But Frae couldn’t deny that his cheerfulness made her feel better about their situation.
If Jack wasn’t worried, then she shouldn’t be either.
Frae resumed her seat, glancing at Mirin. Her mother was watching her, and she seemed sad until their gazes met. Then Mirin smiled, reassuringly, but Frae felt a twinge of worry again. Her mother had been weaving too much lately, and that made her sick from the magic she spun. Frae needed to help her more. But if the fire refused to light in the hearth, they wouldn’t be able to work in the evenings. . . .
Frae was distracted by Jack, who finally delivered dinner to the table.
He brought them a sliced bannock, fresh-churned butter, a pot of honey, smoked herring, and a wheel of cheese. Frae could hardly see it spread along the table, but her stomach growled when she smelled it.
“Who needs warm soup anyways?” Jack said, pouring each of them a small cup of milk, since the tea had never been brewed. “This here is true tavern fare, where stories and ballads are born.”
“Tavern fare?” Frae echoed.
“Yes. Fill your plate and begin to eat, and I’ll tell you a story,” Jack said, sitting in his chair. “A story that has never been spoken on this isle before tonight.”
Frae was intrigued. She quickly filled her plate and began to eat, listening as Jack regaled them with a story from the mainland. Or, he claimed it was from there, but Frae wondered if he was making it up as he went.
Either way, it was a good story, and she didn’t notice how dark it was until she had eaten her fill.
“Come, Frae,” Mirin said, rising from the table. “I think we should retire for bed early tonight. The fire has told us that we need rest. Thank your brother for dinner and come with me.”
Frae stood with her empty plate. She was going to set it in the wash barrel, but Jack took it from her hands.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Go with Mum, little sister.”
Frae hugged him and thanked him for the story. When Mirin took her hand and guided her through the darkness to their bedroom, she followed.
Frae couldn’t see anything as she removed her boots. She found her oaken chest, though, and reached into it for her nightgown. By the time she had managed to dress herself in the dark, Mirin was waiting in bed.
“Why didn’t the fire light, Mum?” Frae asked, settling close to Mirin’s side.
Her mother drew the blankets up to their shoulders. “I’m not sure, Frae. But it’s something we’ll tend to tomorrow. Go to sleep, darling.”
Frae didn’t think she would ever be able to sleep that night. She lay awake for a long while, eyes open to the darkness, full of thoughts and questions. Eventually, though, she drifted off. And she dreamt of the Breccan again. The one she had seen dragged into their cottage weeks ago. A prisoner who had wept Mirin’s name.
The man with red hair. The same color as Frae’s.
She was never afraid when she saw him, even though he was her enemy. She sensed he was in trouble, and that was why he was reaching out to her in her dreams. He would say her name and then fade away before she could reply, every single time.
But she didn’t know who he was or how to help him, not in the real world and not in her dream world either.
She didn’t know how to save him.
Jack quietly cleaned the kitchen in the dark. With Frae and Mirin retired to bed, he could finally let down his guard. He sighed as he sat at the kitchen table, buried his face in his hands, and wondered what he was supposed to do about the fire.
Without it, they would slowly die. They would have no choice but to leave this cottage and croft, and he knew Mirin would refuse because of the loom. It was her livelihood and she wouldn’t abandon it, but Jack also knew it wasn’t the wood or the kindling or even the flint that was causing problems. It was fire itself, and it angered him. To know whatever fire spirit guarded his mother’s hearth had turned malevolent, refusing to ignite.
He stood up from the table and felt his way to his bedroom.
The shutters were still open, and he could see the night sky beyond the hills. The stars had gathered like crystals spilled across dark wool, and the moon was rising behind a wisp of clouds. Jack stood at his desk, wondering if he could continue his composition by celestial light, but he could hardly see the notes he had inked earlier.
He should go to sleep then. What else was there to do in the dark?