Part 21 (2/2)
”And that's enough of that,” he said firmly.
She swallowed. He could see her slender throat work around it. ”I a.s.sume she did what she felt she needed to do,” she said stiffly, as if he hadn't spoken. ”The...taking care of things. One takes care of things. One manages them.”
”Is that so?” He stared at her. ”Ye call it managing managing?”
”I most certainly do.”
A sad pride filled her voice, which under normal circ.u.mstances he would have heard. But just now he barely noticed it, because anger was foaming so high against his own sh.o.r.es.
”Tell me, Senna,” he asked in a low, steel voice. ”What do you think of yer masterful managing now, sitting here on the Irish marches?”
She yanked her head up, a jerky movement. ”An error.” Her lips barely moved. ”A terrible mistake.”
And as he stared longer into her beautiful, staring eyes, sense finally routed anger. He muttered a curse. ”That was wrong of me, Senna-”
”No. You're right. Absolutely correct.” She gave a brittle, bright smile. Each of her words had a precise point, and her voice was hard like stone. He could climb all over it and never find a way in. ”We both had mothers who left. How peculiar. And sad. And, as I observed about your mother, so it must be true of mine: they had their reasons. Your mother left for pennies. Mine for pa.s.sion. Reasons, nevertheless. How old were you when yours left? I was five. My brother Will was but a year. My”-she gave a tight little laugh-”was he heavy. To me, at least. But we managed.”
She looked over. Her eyes had turned into bright, staring gold stones. ”Although, as you've pointed out, not so verily well.”
”Senna,” he said slowly in a voice he hardly even recognized.
”But then, one does what one can.”
”Senna.”
”Did your mother ever return? Mine did not.”
”Senna.”
”Did she, Finian?”
He crouched down in front of her and pressed his fingers under her chin, turning her face up. Small tendrils of coiled curls s.h.i.+vered by her cheeks; she was shaking, very slightly. Her eyes were staring straight ahead, bright, s.h.i.+mmering.
”Senna, heed me.”
The s.h.i.+vering coil of amber stilled. Her hard gemstone eyes slid to his.
”Did she, Finian?” she asked, but though her words were as brittle as before, he heard the plea inside them now: she very greatly wanted to hear a tale different from hers. ”Did your mother ever come back?”
Something heavy dropped off a cliff inside him. ”Aye. She came back, and killed herself. I found her hanging from an oak tree.”
Everything went still.
”Oh, this accursed world,” she whispered. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and he dropped to his knees before her, their heads bent close, pocketed by her outstretched arm and falling hair. For a while, they just breathed together.
”She oughtn't to have done that,” she whispered.
”Nay.” He cupped the nape of her neck and, in the small pocket of s.p.a.ce between them, felt their heat mingling together. ”I'm told she's paying for it now.”
”Do not say such things. She is not.”
”Ye think not?”
She rested her forehead against his. ”I have a heresy in my heart, Finian,” she confessed quietly. ”I have met ever so many priests and abbots in my travels. Some have been gentle hearts, others with a brutality to depths I cannot fathom. At times, I was of the opinion they must wors.h.i.+p different G.o.ds, because they have told me such different things.”
He smiled faintly. Senna would have an opinion about dirt. ”They all said the same to me,” he said. ”Ye think some of them may be wrong?”
”I think,” she replied slowly, ”if there is a place in Heaven for each of them, how could there not be a place for each of us?”
He scooped up her free hand as it dangled off her knee in the small pocket of s.p.a.ce between them. ”Ahh,” was all he could say, surprised to hear his voice had gone hoa.r.s.e.
Her free hand, the one he wasn't holding, scuffed and dirty, rested on her knees. Her braid fell over her shoulder, trailing into the s.p.a.ce between them like a rope lowered down the side of a castle.
She was succoring him, and all he wanted was to rescue her. It was enough to make you weep. He, who was filled with so many holes he didn't know why his s.h.i.+p hadn't sunk thus far, he he wanted to rescue wanted to rescue her. her. A woman who shone like the sun. He'd bared his deepest shame, the horror in his dreams, and all he could think was, A woman who shone like the sun. He'd bared his deepest shame, the horror in his dreams, and all he could think was, How could your mother have left you behind? How could your mother have left you behind?
”You see?” she asked.
”I see.” Lifting her delicate hand in his callused one, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then let her go.
”Finian-”
He got to his feet. ”Ready, Senna?”
She had her mouth open, as if to say something more, then she closed it and got to her feet. Wise woman. ”I am ready.”
”Just another hour or so.”
He turned and began trekking a path into the woods. He heard her swing the pack over her shoulder and follow behind. They didn't speak of missing mothers again. They didn't need to.
Chapter 28.
Battered, weary, and waterlogged from crossing yet another river-”Stream, whichever,” she'd snapped when Finian tried explaining the difference-Senna would have praised him as a G.o.d, if it were required, when he halted them after another two hours of hiking. She was literally stumbling from exhaustion.
They came to a small clearing, he stopped moving forward, and her knees slowly buckled. She looked up at him.
”We're done for the night, Senna.” His tone was gentle.
She half smiled, rubbed her shoulders wearily, then threw her bag on the ground and slumped on top of it. She cried out briefly as her fingers took some of the impact, then was asleep before she could finish the cry.
Finian watched her, curled around the satchel-a pack full of k.n.o.bbly objects and sharp edges-like a nestling cat. Her knees were by her chin, her arms clutched around the bag, hair tugging free from the braid and spilling over her face until only the profile of a small, delicate chin could be seen.
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