Page 2 of The Ascended
The weight of making sure everything ran smoothly had settled onto my shoulders years ago—a mantle I'd never asked for but couldn't seem to put down. Every decision, every choice, required careful consideration of consequences. What if the oysters weren't sorted properly? What if we didn't make enough at market? What if I failed at the one thing Sulien still expected of me—this simple reliability, this quiet competence that seemed to be the only currency I had left to offer him? The constant mental calculations exhausted me more than any physical labor ever could.
I lined up another oyster. This one yielded to my blade, revealing glistening meat within the pearlescent shell.
I tossed it into the basket for market and reached for another from the pile, establishing a rhythm despite the throbbing in my head. Briden always reserved two baskets of pre-shucked for his earlier patrons. We prepared those first thing, packed them in seaweed and ice, and delivered them before the regular market even opened. The rest we'd bring live and shuck to order throughout the day. A pain in the ass, but it kept the oysters at their best and earned us a premium.
Eventually, the shed door creaked open, spilling harsh morning light across the worn wooden floors.
"You look like shit warmed over," I said, not bothering to glance up. "Twice-warmed, actually."
Thatcher laughed, the sound bouncing painfully between my temples. "And you look positively radiant, sister dear. That special glow that comes from pure spite." He swaggered in, an hour late and looking entirely too pleased with himself. The linen shirt he wore was misbuttoned and wrinkled, the deep forest green fabric askew across his broad shoulders, and his hair stuck up in several creativedirections, bearing the unmistakable evidence of fingers that weren't his own.
My own clothes were practical and well-worn—a simple, cream-colored blouse tucked into dark brown trousers that had been patched more times than I could count, sturdy leather boots scuffed from years of beach walking, and an old fishing vest that had belonged to Sulien, the pockets still holding bits of net and shell fragments.
I had the same black hair as Thatcher's, though mine fell in salt-stiffened waves past my shoulders while his was cropped short. We both had the same square jaw, dimpled cheeks, and freckles scattered across fair skin tanned from years under the coastal sun. Our indigo eyes were a trait from our mother, much like our stubbornness and affinity for trouble, according to Sulien.
"Nice of you to grace me with your presence," I said, tossing an empty shell into the discard pile and tucking a strand of hair behind the point of my ear. "Did your newest escapade finally kick you out, or did you leave before her father discovered you?"
Thatcher picked up a knife and settled beside me at the sorting table, reaching for an oyster. "The latter," he replied with that infuriating grin. "Keth's daughter says hello, by the way."
"Which one?" I asked, though I already knew. The elder's youngest had been making eyes at my brother all summer, poor fool.
"The pretty one." His grin widened as he effortlessly shucked an oyster. Always frustrating how the work came so naturally to his hands, even half-drunk and barely awake. He had that ease about everything—the kind of charmed existence where things just worked out, where doors opened without pushing, where smiles appeared without effort. “You know I prefer women with fair hair.”
"They're both pretty." I tossed another oyster into the market basket. "And both too good for you. I hope she knows you're just adding her to your collection."
"Oh, she knew exactly what she was going to get." Thatcher wiggled his eyebrows, looking so ridiculous I almost forgave him forleaving me alone all morning. "And what she was getting, repeatedly, until about an hour ago. Although she did most of her talking with other parts."
I elbowed him hard in the ribs.
"Weak constitution," he teased.
I flicked my knife, sending a spray of oyster brine directly into his face. He spluttered, coughing dramatically.
"Trying to drown me now? I thought you’d be in better spirits after your midnight swim with lover boy."
"I walked the cove after leaving the tavern. Alone." I shrugged.
"Alone, huh?" The single word carried a weight of implication.
"Unlike some people, I don't need company every hour of the day."
My brother's shoulder bumped against mine. "Liar. You were with Marel. I can always tell when you've been with him—you get this smug look, like a cat that's found the cream." He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Also, you have a bite mark just below your ear that you missed when you were getting dressed."
My hand flew to my neck, face burning. Thatcher burst out laughing.
"You self-satisfied jackass," I hissed, flicking more brine at him, but couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. "Why am I cursed with you for a brother?"
"Because you'd be bored without me," he replied, deftly shucking three oysters in quick succession, showing off. He glanced at me sideways, sincerity creeping into his voice. "When are you finally going to give in and properly let him court you? Marel's been mooning after you for what, two years now?"
I kept my eyes on my work, my rhythm unbroken. "It's not like that."
"It could be."
"It won't be," I said firmly. "You know that."
Thatcher sighed but didn't press further. He knew me too well to argue when my mind was set. Better yet, he was far too aware how Ifelt about this particular topic. It was better to keep things casual. Better that Marel think of me as nothing more than an occasional pleasure, a wild spirit impossible to tame. Even if he wanted more. Eventually, he’d move on.
Thatcher's hand briefly covered mine, stilling my knife. When I looked up, his expression held no teasing. Just understanding. He might chase every eligible woman in the village, but deep down, he carried the same burden. Me.
