Page 36 of Chasing Never
“Oh,” she shrugs, “then I’m sure whatever is stolen—whether it’s an apothecary’s guide on poisons or what have you—the thieves probably live out whatever illnesses are contained within the book.”
“That sounds dreadful,” I say. “So, what you’re telling me is to only steal romances from the library?”
She laughs, her smile just as genuine in her eyes. “That would be wise. Though, an even wiser woman would avoid the island entirely. Even to dock there presents a risk.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the island is the library, and its power to alter its visitors’ perception of time is not limited to where the books are kept. It extends as far as the roots of the tree run under the ground. Under the sand. Entire crews have been known to fall under its spell simply from docking there.”
My face must drain of color, because the vendor wrinkles her brows. “Are you quite alright? You’re looking faint. Might I recommend?—”
She goes to shuffle through her supply, but I shake my head. “No, no, I’m fine. Actually, is there a listing of events taking place in town nearby?”
“Ah, so you are staying then. Excellent. You can find a monthly itinerary on the notice board,” she says, pointing to the other side of the market path.
As I race away toward the notice board, the paper lanterns of the marketplace no longer look so appealing. Dread pulls in my gut as I think of the book I stole—the book of the Youngest Sister.
Whose fate is lost to history.
The notice board provides no comfort, for on the itinerary is the current month. My stomach drops as the truth sets in.
We didn’t spend a day on the island of Yggdrasil.
We spent five months.
CHAPTER 16
By the time I return to the inn, I expect Michael to be asleep—though I’m not sure why. It’s not like he sleeps well when I’m not around, though I will admit, his habits have improved since his time at Lady Whittaker’s school. Still, when I arrive, it’s late, and Nolan is sitting on the floor with him in our inn room, playing.
On the walk back to the inn, my mind raced with how to explain to Nolan that our excursion to Yggdrasil had wasted yet another five months of his life. My only relief is that the magic of the island at least seemed to keep him healthy during that time. Now that we’re no longer under its protection, will the time we spent on Yggdrasil catch up with him? Part of me wants to burst into the room and confess my mistake, but now that I’m in the doorway, I realize I need a moment—just one—not to feel rushed.
There’s a warmth in my heart, watching them, but there’s a gentle ache too, a quiet tug as I observe from the doorway. Neither notices me, and I’m reminded of a time when I watched from a distance as Peter played with Michael. That had been the first occasion I witnessed something good in Peter—a concept that still haunts me even now. It’s difficult to reconcile thatthe same man who abused me and murdered John could have also loved Michael so well. Could have played with him so effortlessly, so naturally, understanding Michael’s little world as if it were his own.
It’s terrifying when I think about it. What makes Peter so frightening isn’t his wickedness; it’s his goodness. He fit in with Michael so naturally. Michael warmed to him so easily. Maybe that’s what bothers me—the thought that, without me, Michael will be vulnerable in this world. It reminds me that my brother and I share a similar difficulty in navigating our emotions. And right now, I’m watching that same situation unfold as Nolan tries to engage with my little brother.
They’re both sitting on the floor. Nolan, kneeling, seems amused, though poised to jump up at any sign of intrusion. He’s playing with the toy train Michael brought with him from the Whittakers’. Michael pushes the train back and forth occasionally, but right now he’s more focused on assembling and disassembling the wheels.
Nolan tries to show Michael how to assemble the train correctly, but Michael isn’t having it. He pushes Nolan’s hand away, humming to himself, as Nolan encourages him gently. “You see, those wheels go on the caboose,” my husband says, but Michael continues spinning the wheels, undeterred.
I smile softly, watching the scene unfold. Michael knows how to assemble the train. He has his own way of doing things, and just because he can do it “correctly” doesn’t mean that’s how he wants to play. Instead, he holds the wheels close to his face, letting the edges of the wooden wheels graze his cheek. I imagine he finds the sensation comforting, or at least soothing, while I’m gone.
As I step into the room, I wonder if Michael will go back to playing with the train as other children might, but I’ve learnedby now that predicting his behavior is impossible. And I’m okay with that.
Nolan continues patiently, explaining how the wheels make the train move. “See, these wheels allow it to travel on the tracks. It’s like the faerie dust that powers it,” he says. I wonder if moving trains will become a rare sight in our continent, a casualty of the shortages.
But Michael hums, absorbed in his own world. For the first time, I notice frustration cross Nolan’s brow. At first, I think it’s directed at Michael, but then I realize, as he speaks softly, that the frustration is with himself. “If you put the wheels on the train, we can play together. We can build tracks and make it go in circles around the room.”
Nolan reaches for the wheels in Michael’s hand, but as soon as he touches them, Michael yanks them away. The dowel between the two wheels snaps in half, and the wheels scatter across the floor. One rolls toward me. I stop it with my foot. Nolan, following the wheel with his eyes, glances up and finally notices me. His face flushes, though not with anger.
Michael scurries over, snatching the wheel from beneath my foot, clutching it to his chest. Nolan’s face falls, and my heart aches at the sight.
“It takes time to understand Michael’s play patterns,” I say, my voice gentle. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Nolan’s gaze is distant, focused on the broken dowel in his hands. “Did it takehimtime to figure it out?” he asks, the question hanging between us. I know who he’s referring to—the shadow that haunts both our pasts.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice quiet.
Nolan looks up, his eyelashes flicking as his gaze meets mine. “Does it not?”
