Page 79 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“Um, hi. I’m Willow. Killian sent me to check on you.”

Running a hand over her brown ponytail, the woman’s olive-skinned face brightens into a grateful smile. She looks to be a similar age to me, with deep almond-shaped eyes the colour of unfiltered sunlight and full, pillowy lips.

“Thank you for coming. I’m Aalia.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Are you all okay?”

“We’re fine, but the children… they…” Pausing in her broken English, she huffs. “How do you say? This… noise?”

“Crying?” I suggest.

She clicks her tongue. “Yes, crying. All day long.”

“Want me to give you a hand?”

Quickly ushering me inside, she speaks fast in a beautiful, vibrant language. A small boy appears from another room, cradling a tiny, wailing baby to his chest.

He has his mother’s dark hair, but with curious, aquamarine eyes that contrast the rich tone of his skin. I’d say he’s around Arianna’s age. The baby can’t be older than a few months, her cheeks stained red from screaming so loudly.

“Mama!”

“Johan, no shouting,” Aalia exclaims.

Chastised, he falls silent, still cuddling the baby close. I kneel in front of him, sticking out my hand for him to shake. With a blossoming grin, he balances the baby and shakes.

“What’s your name?”

“Johan,” he answers shyly.

“Hi, Johan. Are you happy the rain stopped?”

Nodding back, he adjusts the weight of the baby in his arms. I hold out my hands, reassuring him with a smile. There’s a cheeky wink in his eyes, despite his shyness.

“Want me to try?”

“Yes, please,” he whispers. “She’s so loud.”

“Babies cry a lot, but when she gets older, you’ll have someone to play with. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Johan summons a tiny smile. “I’d like that.”

“You know, my daughter is new in town as well. She would love someone to play with too, if you fancied it.”

“A girl?” He wrinkles his nose.

“I’m guessing girls are yucky, huh?”

“Yeah. They are.”

“Well, have a think about it.”

Nodding to himself, he surrenders the baby to me. I take her into my arms, cradling the tiny bundle. Johan watches closely for a moment, as if assessing whether to trust me with his sister or not.

I must pass the test, because he turns away and races back the way he came. Repositioning the baby to get her comfortable, I stand back up and find Aalia watching with a bright, grateful smile.

“He’s a good boy, but not when he’s cooped up inside.”

“Trust me, I know. My six year old has been a nightmare during the storm as well. What’s this little one’s name?”

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