Page 69 of The Source of Storms

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 mybody 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.

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