Page 118 of Fall of a Kingdom
“Hey, it takes a village to raise a clan, doesn’t it?” Ash said with a trifling smile.
“It does,” Barrett said quietly.
Something somber moved through the air, something that had nothing to do with our men or the fires they were putting out.
A gaggle of children ran out of the kitchen.
“Hi, Quinn!” Hawk yelled with a wave as he headed for the stairs. “Bye, Quinn!”
“Quinn!” Iain screeched, but then he too, was gone.
Noah, who was far shyer than the others smiled at me, but then bashfully hid his chin in his shoulder as he trailed after his brothers.
The nannies followed at a slower pace, carrying the younger children in their arms. Carys walked on her own. She was at the age where she was asserting her boundaries.
“You good?” Ash asked Barrett, her tone pitched low.
Barrett nodded.
Ash reached out and squeezed Barrett’s arm.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded. “You guys are acting like someone’s dying.”
Barrett froze and then she let out a raspy chuckle. “Someoneisdying, Quinn.”
“Who?”
Barrett looked me in the eyes and said calmly, “Me.”
“What?” I whispered.
“Not here,” Ash commanded. “Little ears. Study. Now.”
Barrett took my hand, clasping it in hers and pulled me in the direction of the study. She closed the door once we were inside and flipped on the light. Old dark wood walls greeted me, along with oil paintings of landscapes and a portrait of Malcolm Buchanan.
I’d never met the man, but looking at his painting, it was clear to see his lineage stamped upon his two sons. He was gone, but through them he lived on.
I turned away from the portrait and glanced at Barrett as she stood by the window, staring out at the rain.
“What the hell do you mean you’re dying? You can’t be dying,” I protested.
“I can’t?” she asked softly.
The great Barrett Campbell, the woman I’d always viewed as larger than life, seemed to shrink and shrivel before my very eyes. Once, she’d taken up space, her breath and voice filling every crevice in every room she occupied, as though each one was custom designed for her presence alone. She was a force. The human equivalent of dynamite. She lived life like it was all supposed to be one giantboom.
But now she looked like a shell of her former self, and I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. There was something about her mannerism, her retreating against my line of questioning that just wasn’ther.
My mind refused to believe her words, but my body knew. I felt the truth of her statement in my gut, and it felt like I’d swallowed gravel.
“I’ve been diagnosed with a glioblastoma—an aggressive brain tumor,” she said.
I paused a moment, but she offered nothing more. “Brain tumors don’t have to be fatal, do they? I mean, surgery? Can’t you have surgery?”
“I can. But even if I have the surgery, I’m probably only going to get twelve to eighteen months. Only twenty-five percent of glioblastoma patients live past the year mark, and only five percent of patients live past the five-year mark. Glioblastomas aren’t curable, either. Surgery, chemo, radiation tempers them.”
She gave me the prognosis without any inflection or emotion.
“Jesus, I sound like a medical journal,” she muttered.
