Page 81 of Blackwicket
“That was my favorite when I was your age.”
“I like it too.” With the ease of a boy moving within his own home, he settled in the high-backed chair near the fireplace, which I’d brought to life, and leafed through the pages, his touch respectful of their delicate state.
“You’ve read it?” I asked, sitting in the chair opposite, so as not to hover.
“Lots.” His reply was distant, his attention already on the pages in front of him.
We sat in silence, and I watched the flames dancing behind the bronze grate, marveling at how this moment reduced me to a ten-year-old girl again, sitting in this same chair next to my sister while our mother unwove curses at the window.
Jack began to hum absentmindedly, disjointed fragments of parting songs and ballads he’d encountered here and there. At last he assembled one I recognized. I waited, expecting him to move on from it as he had with the others, but it lingered, and he kept repeating the first few seconds of the tune, drawing my childhood in too close.
“I know that song.”
The boy brightened, his book forgotten.
“Want to hear it? I’ve been practicing.”
I laughed, appreciating his exuberance, turning my palm up in invitation.
He closed the book, tucking it by his leg, sitting straight in preparation for his performance. Then, he sang, clear and confident, the high tenor of his boyish tone not yet robbed of him by age.
‘Oh, Moira, my love, I meant not to stray
But the sea it was calling that clear summer’s day
I didn’t have the heart to stop him, though my chest squeezed tight.
And the sea, as you know, it takes lovers away
But call me back with your sorrows,
And in spirit, I’ll stay.
I’ll stay, I’ll stay, ‘till you meet me across
And discover in death that our love wasn’t lost
It was fickle time only that kept us apart
Until then, I’ll be near
In both dreams and your heart.
I hadn’t known there was a second verse, always singing the one in repetition like a prayer. When the song ended, his face was full of youthful pride, bright eyes, and a crooked smile, over a job he’d known he’d done well.
“Did Fiona teach you that?” I asked. Regardless of what she’d done, the deep well of love for my sister spilled over, and I was overcome with the agony of missing her.
“Yeah. She loved that song.” He collapsed onto the cushions, picking the book up again without opening it. “Eleanora, what’s a Narthex?”
The sudden change in topic startled me out of my grief, and I grew suspicious.
“What makes you interested in Narthex?”
“I just want to know what it is.”
“Well, there aren’t anymore. They’ve all been closed by the Authority.”
Understanding I wasn’t eager to talk about it, he quieted, but not for long.
