The first time his fingers held a piece of charcoal, it was a burnt stick from the bottom of a cold fireplace.
It was pouring outside. A heavy storm had settled on the town for days on end, with nothing with gloomy clouds and howling wind for company. His father was off drinking in the tavern most evenings unless he had deadlines to meet for work. Liam was either busy with chores or poring over his schoolbooks.
He was but a lad then, too young to care for reading and too old for naps. He recalls how bored he was, unable to play in the fields or even the dirty yard their slovenly cabin stood on.
After building his wooden blocks again, he toddled over to his studious brother.
"Play with me, Liam," he whined, tugging on his sleeve. "There's nothing to do."
Liam was usually patient and considerate. Today, he was cross. His eyes didn't leave the pages of his book. "Not now, little brother."
"Younger brother," he called back. Killian was determined even at that age. "But I'm bored!"
"Go play with your blocks."
"I did. Three times. I can count to ten now, 'member."
"Well, have something to eat, then."
He shook his head furiously. "Not hungry."
"A nap—"
"Liam!"
He shut the book closed with a loud snap. "Can't you bloody see I have work to do here, Killian? I don't have all the time in the world to play with you! So stop being a nuisance!"
He was a brave boy. And he tried to be brave in the face of his big brother's temper, but his eyes still welled up with tears.
Where was his mother now? He needed a mother — Liam always had said how wonderful she was and how much she would have loved Killian — but she was gone. Father was gone, too. Liam didn't want to stay with him either. Killian didn't know what nuisance meant, but it sounded bad. His brother looked quite angry.
Scurrying back to his blocks, he sat down on his haunches and pretended he was in a cave, all alone and free to cry as much as he wished. He hated for anyone to see him cry, especially Liam. He wanted to be as strong as Liam was. He never cried.
Muttering about loud little boys, Liam went into the kitchen and started preparing supper. Killian crawled up to the window and peeked out, desperate to see the sun. Outdoors, he could be an explorer or a pirate or a prince or whatever he wished to be, and no one could order him about.
Heavy raindrops began to rattle the thin glass. The sky looked as angry as his brother's face.
There was no chance of escape.
Sighing, he started poking about the fireplace, looking for twigs and branches that hadn't burned. Maybe he could use some leftover twine to build a fort and play soldiers — well, one soldier defending it from attack. He would show Liam he could play all by himself.
When he went to the table, there were blank pieces of paper lying on it. His brother had left them behind. Oh well. He could play on top of them.
The moment he dropped the sticks he had collected, what happened next must have been fate.
One dark edge of a stick rolled across the paper, forming a line. Curious, he picked the stick up and pressed the edge again. More thick lines appeared. When he turned the stick a certain way, the lines became thinner. Hah, it was like the piece of chalk Liam used to write on his slate!
Since he was learning the alphabet, he wrote his name. Then he drew the sun. He made a face. His sun didn't look like the real sun at all. It was babyish.
A single apple sat in the middle of the table. Liam had said he won it in class after he spelled all his words right. Biting down on his lower lip, Killian wondered if he could get an apple on paper to look exactly like that apple.
He didn't realize it at the time, but that was his first drawing.
Killian takes his time to stir the teapot. Steam rises and dissipates with each slow turn of the spoon.
Meanwhile, Emma waits for him to be ready. After all she has heard so far, she cannot decide if anticipation or dread is affecting her nerves more. He interrupted his own narrative as a way to calm himself — she knows, remembering instances in the Locksley household — and the resulting silence is suffocating.
He silently brings a teacup with a saucer and hands it to her before sitting down again. She is about to ask about his own cup of tea when he pulls out a flask from the back pocket of his trousers.
"Do you mind if I...?"
She quickly shakes her head. Peering sideways, she watches how his throat muscles contract as he tilts his head back and takes a long sip. One wince later, he is tucking the flask away and his eyes focus on her.
"I suppose," he starts hesitantly, "it repulses you to find I'm a drinking man."
Her hands cling to the cup with an iron grip so she won't reach out to him. "I think it is not my place to judge you."
"The preacher's very words." He scoffs at that. "I think we can agree it is a despicable habit. I endured the bloody Navy but I cannot control my feelings now without rum? Ridiculous."
"Perhaps you should stop judging yourself. Please, Killian. Tell me what happened to you and your brother. And Milah. I would like to know."
"Very well, then." He sighs before continuing. "The ship was pristine, but during one of our stops, a crewman caught typhoid fever. Once his symptoms showed, there were no means to stop the contagion. It spread like a wildfire among the rest of the men. When I became sick, Liam tended to me as often as he could since the doctor had no time. I recovered thanks to his care."
Then his voice darkens and turns bitter. "Then he fell ill. He got typhoid — from me. I was barely walking again when he was at death's door, delirious, too weak to speak. I woke up the next morning, and he was gone. The doctor said he had passed in the night in his sleep. He died in an instant. I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye. He was given a seaman's burial, and that was it. His life and memory were over."
She hears his self-loathing, the despair and wretchedness. It doesn't stop him. Instead, it seems to encourage a frantic confession. "So I started drinking. I hated it but I drank until my senses were numb and I couldn't taste the alcohol anymore. I drank to taste its power. To exploit its ability to consume me. I wanted nothing more than to forget. Our past, our dreams, our lives. Since our childhood, Liam had suffered for no bloody purpose. But here I was, ready to take his place. It was selfish and pathetic, but rum became my best friend. I needed it. I still need it, sometimes."
She has no advice to give, no words to offer. She can only share comfort. Her fingers finally caress his maimed arm. "Is that when this happened?"
"My unfortunate accident, you mean? Aye. I was drunk out of my mind. The Navy had discharged me — thrown me out on my arse for repeated 'disorderly conduct.' I was in a pub, spending the last of my wages on as much rum as I could get. A brute there, equally sober, picked a fight with me. I do not even recall what started it. But by the end, my hands were bloody. My left was covered in cuts after the idiot smashed a bottle on it. I was tossed into the alley behind the pub and passed out."
"The police didn't find you?"
His smile is tight and mirthless. "Oh, they did. But I must have looked quite the sight, because they escorted me straight to the nearest hospital. Blood poisoning is what the doctor diagnosed. My left hand must have gotten infected while I was lying in that muck. I was delirious, wracked with chills, my heart beating out of my bloody chest, while they strapped me to the operating table and cut my hand off. Said it was the only way to save my life. Well, they were right. But I didn't want to be saved. As I lay in that hospital bed, staring at my arm and screaming myself hoarse, I prayed for death. I prayed to be with Liam."
"That's when you turned to art," she whispered sadly. The motivation behind his drawings, the locked studio, his isolation. He needed a reason to live. No one person would be enough support after all Killian had been through. "It gave you the strength to go on."
"It was my beacon when I was a child and became so again." His gaze is bright and soft at the same time. "Milah gave me hope. But it all ended badly. She...passed, and then I came here. That's all."
"That's it? That is the end of your story?" For someone who is rather desperate herself at the moment, Emma is surprised how offensive that conclusion is. "You have no hope for the future."
He stands up and laughs. It sounds cruel, as if he's mocking himself. "Hope for the future? Haven't you heard enough of my sorry tale? I became a poor artist barely scraping by. Milah was a lovely woman who deserved a better life — a life I could never give her. She was married to a high society man, who had no scruples in killing her and destroying me once he discovered our affair. He was never punished. I lost everything I had scrummaged together after Liam. I was in the streets. Then I saw this job advertisement. I needed to survive, so I turned my back on any chance of a future and dragged myself here. The rest, you know."
His gaze hardens. "I'm the town pariah, the cripple in the lighthouse. I'm chained to this bloody place forever because I'm a coward and a drunk."
She rises to her feet as well. "That's not true—"
"Isn't it?" he answers heatedly. "George Spencer is a powerful man. If I stand against him, I will lose this post. And you've seen me drink. I have to struggle every day for the rest of my sodding life thanks to my bloody handless arm. I made choices, Emma. I caused all this."
"You caused this? You didn't ask to lose your brother or your hand or any of it!" The idea that he's taking all the blame, even for circumstances, makes her blood boil. "You're hiding behind your pain, Killian — like I do. I've been an orphan since I was born. My parents didn't want me. I had to beg and steal to live when all I wanted was to die. But we were both stronger than our misfortunes. We are survivors. We pulled ourselves up and yes, here we are. I'm here, with you."
Those last words are gentle, far from how she feels. But they seem to affect him. His entire expression changes, from angry to questioning, and his eyes widen as if seeing her for the first time.
"Aye, you're here, and you're not running away," he murmurs. "The one good thing that's happened to me in a long, long time."
Her breath catches in her throat when he steps closer and leans forward. "Don't forget about David and Ruth, now. They're goodness itself."
His one hand, trembling and hesitant, reaches out to stroke her cheek. "They are. But so are you."
"Nonsense," she says weakly, warmed by his touch. "You're flattering me. Don't think for a moment that I'll flatter you back."
He truly smiles now — the breathtaking, broken smile that almost cost her her heart on several occasions. She has no space to think before his contemplative stare transforms into resolve.
"Don't you know, lass? There's no need to win a man's heart when he's already in love with you."
When his lips meet hers, she knows he's not lying.