Fynn was asleep on the sofa, his head buried in the cushion as though he couldn’t stand his surroundings. Whatever concoction Mally had given him must have been powerful. Da’s trousers looked baggy belted around the lad’s waist, while my cloak covered his chest and most of his bandaged stomach.
I perched on a bit of cushion near his head, fighting the impulse to wake him. He hadn’t seemed too friendly on the walk home, but, then, he’d been hurting. I’d broken my arm rolling down a hill when I was Grayse’s age, and I’d howled and raged for hours afterward. Gashes like Fynn’s were bound to hurt even more.
I studied his dark curls and the tips of his ears, which were slender and sharper-looking than any I’d seen before. Gently pointed, like the leaves of an ash tree. Part of me wanted him to stay asleep so I could look at him for hours in the quiet, but another part wanted to wake him. To hear his voice again. To feel the unsettling swooping sensation that overtook me every time his eyes met mine.
Finally, here was someone new. Someone who was more than just a tourist, eager for a quick look around the island before taking the next boat to the mainland. Even if he was a tourist before, he was bound to stay a while now.
I wanted to keep vigil at his side, but my eyelids grew heavier by the minute. I didn’t bother covering my mouth to hide a huge yawn.
I had only taken a few steps back toward my bed when a rustling made me pause. Fynn was tossing and turning, kicking at the edge of the sofa. I thought a story might soothe his slumber. That always helped when I didn’t feel well.
I grabbed the paraffin lamp Mam kept near the door and lifted the glass chimney to light the wick. While I waited for the lamp to warm to full brightness, I carried it to the shelf that held Da’s mess of maps.
Beneath crumpled papers documenting his best fishing grounds, a treasure waited: Non-native Birds of the British Isles. A tourist had left it on the dock one day, and Lugh had claimed it, wrapping it in white paper and giving it to me on my fourteenth birthday. He thought the gift was clever because of my nickname, Bridey-bird.
I considered it special because it was the only book I owned. The scent of its yellowing pages and the crinkle they made when turned were a constant reminder of why I needed to leave the island.
The lamp flared like a small sun, revealing the corner of Non-native Birds. I picked it up and reclaimed my spot on the sofa, setting the lamp at my feet. If I angled the book toward the light, the words were fuzzy but readable.
I flipped to a random page and began in a low voice, “The Barnacle Goose was first introduced to Great Britain in …” I yawned, but Fynn had stopped shifting, so I continued on. “It is dis … dis-tin-guished by its white face and black plumage….”
The black-and-white sketch of the goose blurred as my eyes drifted shut. I curled up, clutching the book to my chest, Fynn’s hair tickling my feet. Somewhere in the distance—or perhaps on the fringes of the dream world—someone played a tune as soft as a lullaby. A small voice in the back of my mind wondered who would be fiddling at this hour, and urged me toward the nearest window, but sleep claimed me before I could turn thought into action.
CHAPTER SIX
“Bridey Reynylt Corkill!” Mam’s sharp voice shattered my dreamless sleep.
Panic coursed through me as I opened my eyes. Had someone else been attacked? Or disappeared?
“What is it?” I sat upright, displacing Fynn’s head from my lap in the process.
He continued to snore softly, content as a babe. How had he gotten so close without waking me?
Mam loomed over the sofa, an ominous crease between her brows. The paraffin lamp dangled from her hand, its wick charred. One of her feet tapped my book on the floor. “What on earth are you doing? Liss said you never came to bed last night!”
“I was reading to Fynn like you do when I’m sick, and fell asleep.” I risked a glance at Fynn, whose eyes were still closed. It was a wonder he could sleep through all this commotion.
Mam’s expression softened. “Oh. Of course you were reading, bird.”
Her words had an odd lilt to them. Did I seem so innocent it was impossible to imagine me doing anything more with a lad in the wee hours than reading? Finding Fynn yesterday had certainly given me new ideas to contemplate, but I’d considered lads as something to be desired before now. There was Lugh, for one. The lad I hadn’t thought of since Fynn’s rescue.
Mam interrupted my thoughts. “You should change your dress and be off to Morag’s.”
Guilt twisted my insides in agreement. Though I wasn’t supposed to work today, I ought to go see Morag and explain why I’d never finished my errand. Hopefully, she’d agree that saving a life was a reasonable excuse for not bringing her any snigs.
“And you best—”
“Ask if I can work extra to make up the time.” I sighed heavily as Mam turned away.
My gaze traveled to Fynn, who shifted restlessly again. Maybe he’d had a nightmare about his attack. I wanted to reach out to him, to rest my fingers on his arm, perhaps, or to find a cool cloth to place on his forehead. One glance at Mam, though, told me I’d better leave the matter of Fynn’s health to her.