84

Once I reached the spot where I'd previously left my shoes, Phelan proceeded to walk through the gate and around the side of the cottage without looking back. With his long strides, he easily rounded the corner and disappeared from my view in a matter of seconds.

Every muscle tightened as I hastily brushed sand from my feet, pulled on my socks, and wrestled my shoes into place. The entire task felt like a lifetime as I continuously glanced up to see if Phelan returned.

"Where in the hell-"

My words were cut short as I heard the jingle of tack and the squeak of wheels as his carriage pulled away. My heart thudded and I cursed my foolishness for thinking he would accompany us for supper. Given his brash demeanor, I should not have expected him to stay.

"Damn it," I muttered to myself as I turned on my heel and started toward the back door.

"What are you going on about, Kire?"

I spun around, greeted by the unexpected sight of my brother briskly walking toward me without Elvira on his shoulder. I exhaled, scarcely able to believe he had not disappeared into the night. "I thought you had left."

"On the contrary," he said as he looked at his pocket watch. "Rather than having my driver sit and curse me all evening long, I sent him to water the horses and feed himself." He paused and met my eye, his gaze narrowed. "You appear quite relieved, little brother."

Despite how I might have felt, my disagreeable nature would not confirm his thoughts. "Alex will be quite pleased you visited longer."

Phelan grunted and followed me inside where the cooks-twin brothers named Marius and Mario-had set the table and served our meal.

My brother said very little for the first few minutes of supper, not that anyone could match Alexandre's exuberance for conversation. Between the three different places we stayed on our holiday and the nine additional days remaining, Alex could not contain himself and I had never been one to silence my son.

"Uncle Phelan, where is your bird?" Alex asked.

"She has been returned for the night with my driver. It is well past her bedtime."

"Birds have a bedtime?" Alex asked, his mouth agape.

"Of course they do."

"Are you staying nearby?"

"A half hour by carriage," Phelan answered.

"Could you travel there by boat?"

"Do you have a boat?" My brother arched a scrutinizing brow.

"No." Alex gave a sigh of disappointment.

"Then I suppose you could not."

"My father is going to teach us how to swim. Did you teach him?"

"Alex, no more questions," Julia warned. "It's been a long day for everyone."

Phelan picked at his meal, which consisted of a delectable flamiche. He had removed many of the leeks in favor of the cheese and cream filling, which he ate in bites suitable for a mouse in between my son's rapid fire questions.

"There was not much need to swim when we were children," my brother answered. "There were plenty of rocks and shells washed up on the shores when the tide went out and your father was quite content gathering as many as I could hold."

"What did you do with the rocks?" Lisette whispered.

Phelan looked across the table at his niece. "Lisette, I am confident you have a much stronger voice than you have used thus far this evening. I will not answer questions I cannot hear."

Lisette looked as though she wished to disappear from sight, but she pursed her lips momentarily and repeated her question, this time using her full voice while blushing profusely.

"I skipped the rocks across the water, sometimes as many as six times, which is quite impressive," Phelan replied. "Your father, on the other hand, plunked them into the water without a bit of grace and they unfortunately sank without skipping a single time." He sighed to emphasize his utter disappointment.

Alex and Lisette exchanged looks. "How do the rocks skip if they do not have legs?" Lisette asked. The second she asked her question, she looked ready to sink into her chair and disappear. "That is a silly question," she said apologetically.

"Not silly at all." Phelan sat back in his chair. "If you toss them just so, they hit the surface of the water in several bounces before they sink. I suppose a demonstration is in order." He took a sip of his wine and looked at me over the edge of his glass, his eyes creased with amusement. "But not from your father. Some things take skill."

Alex and Lisette turned to look at me, both of them aghast. "Father, do you know how to skip rocks?" Alex asked.

I wished to inform them that I was a composer, played multiple instruments, dabbled in both architecture and carpentry, and could create fantastic puzzles and illusions. The ability to skip a rock across water was not a skill that seemed necessary to master.

"I could if I so desired," I answered.

Phelan put down his wine glass harder than necessary. "Really?" he asked quite incredulously.

Far be it from me to back down from a challenge. "Absolutely," I said with greater confidence than I actually felt.

"You absolutely could not."

Julia sighed to herself and muttered something I suspected was less than flattering directed at the two adult males at the table.

Alex climbed to his feet. "Oh, I cannot wait! This will be a contest of skill! May we watch you compete now?"

Phelan motioned for Alex to sit. "Nonsense, Nephew. You haven't finished your supper."

"I will!"

Before Alex could shove the rest of his supper into his mouth or slide it off his plate and onto the floor for Bessie, Phelan gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Settle down, child. There is no need for a contest of skill."

Alex pursed his lips and looked warily at me before he leaned into my brother and whispered quite loudly, "Because you would win, wouldn't you?"

Phelan offered a smile of satisfaction. "Without a doubt. I am glad you are a sensible boy, Alexandre."

"I think Papa would win," Lisette said quietly. Quite unfortunately she seemed far more confident in me than I felt in myself.

"The house is split, I see," Phelan said. "I suppose the deciding vote is down to-"

"Bessie!" Alex exclaimed.

Phelan furrowed his brow. "What about your mother?"

Julia inhaled. "I politely decline." Her gaze flashed to me and she shook her head as though she could not believe she was completely surrounded by children.

"Now Bessie can vote!" Alex said, giddy with the joy of voting. "But she will probably vote for Father because he gives her food under the table."

"Well, then I suppose it remains a tie," Phelan said. "Until a proper contest can take place by the light of day and a true champion crowned."

"Does that mean we will see you tomorrow? And the next day?" Alex asked.

"I make no guarantees of my whereabouts," Phelan told him.

"I hope you do return tomorrow," Alex said. "And every day that we are here."

Alex soon exhausted himself, as did Lisette, who could barely keep her eyes open once dessert was served. Julia ushered both children away from the table for baths and bedtime, but not before Alex managed to tug on his uncle's sleeve.

"You could stay with us in the cottage," he offered. "That way you will know your whereabouts for tomorrow."

Phelan genuinely smiled. "I do appreciate the offer, but I cannot stay."

Julia put her hand on Alex's shoulder and led him out the back door and around to the second cottage. The last I heard was Lisette excited to run her own household where Alex had to listen to her because she was the oldest.

Phelan looked at his timepiece again and abruptly stood. "My carriage should be around soon. I believe I shall wait outside."

"Where are you staying, if I may ask?" I questioned. One of the twins smoothly walked into the dining area and silently cleared the table while Phelan stepped out the back door and I followed behind him. Bessie decided not to accompany me and instead followed the servant into the kitchen, most likely to beg for food from an unsuspecting stranger unable to resist the baleful look of a basset hound.

"A half hour east of here," Phelan answered enigmatically.

"Forgive me, but I am not familiar with this part of the country," I said.

"No?

"No," I replied.

Phelan inhaled and continued down the short stone path and toward the beach. "Conforeit," he answered over his shoulder.

My breath hitched as I had not realized how close Calais was to Conforeit or that my brother would choose to stay in the small village where we had once lived as children.

"Does my answer surprise you?" he asked when I said nothing.

"Do you return there often?" I asked.

Phelan shrugged and crouched down, picking up a flat stone from the sand. "Off and on, depending on my mood."

His mood seemed quite disagreeable, which did nothing to offer a guess as to how frequently he stopped in the village.

"How is it?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed, and in the moments of silence that followed I expected a snide remark rather than a true answer to my inquiry.

Phelan collected a second stone and turned it over in his hand. "How is it?" he said as he ran his thumb along the edge. "Rather dull." Sharp, grey eyes met mine, the fondness and mirth he had reserved at the dinner table replaced by scrutiny. "What do you remember of Conforeit?"

Pain, I thought. It was the first feeling that came to mind. Physical, emotional, mental...every imaginable type of grief and frustration had been unleashed. I had known nothing else. The lack of torment had been foreign to me, the first days of safety beneath the Opera House filled with anxiety as I waited for something terrible to befall me. It took months for the lack of punishment to truly feel like relief.

"I do not recall much," I said.

Phelan waited for me to elaborate. He stared at me, his expression unreadable.

"I vaguely recall a tavern that had music in the summer," I said. I remembered meals set outside on the back steps for vagrants to enjoy a warm supper as well as the smell of ale and urine in the darkened streets. There was the sound of music from inside some buildings and lust from others filling the night.

Still, Phelan said nothing. I searched my memories, brushed past the time I had spent in the cellar and attempted to recall the moments I ventured outside. I scurried like a feral animal between one shadow and the next, darting closer and closer to the tavern as the summer stretched on. Some nights I stayed until nearly dawn and managed to return to the cellar unnoticed. Many more times than I could count, my freedom was cut short by the gut-wrenching thud of a heavy hand on my shoulder and the snap of my body being dragged back to my parents' home.

The thought made me shiver. "Nothing significant."

"The chapel?" Phelan asked, lifting a brow.

I looked from him to the moonlit calm waters and thought back to my childhood and the town I had explored long after dark. An alley across from the tavern and the beach were the only two places I frequented. Everything in between was an insignifcant blur.

"No, I don't remember a chapel."

Phelan flipped his watch open again and looked at the time. He grunted before turning his attention back to me. "The chapel burned to the ground not long ago, but the house still stands," he said. "The roof leaks, there are floorboards missing and holes in the wall, but it is still there."

Heaviness filled my chest, an indescribable dread for a place I desperately wished to forget existed. I knew my parents had died over a decade earlier, but part of me still expected my brother to say that our mother resided in her broken down, leaking little house, rocking in her chair as she muttered to herself. Despite how she had ignored me, I hoped for one last moment to see her again, to offer to fix the roof or repair the floor, to do something that may have made her look at me and smile. There would always be that longing, I knew, the desire for approval.

"Have you been there?" I asked. "To the house?"

"I've been there the last two days."

My eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Phelan plucked several more rocks from the sand, examining them for several seconds before he tossed one back and kept the rest. "It's still in the family."

"You...you own it?"

Phelan ignored me. He walked closer to the edge of the water, placed all but one of the rocks in his trouser pocket, and proceeded to roll up his right sleeve before he drew his arm out sideways and cast the stone at the sea. It impressively hopped several times, creating tiny ripples against the waves before the stone sank. The slightest of smiles tipped his lips and he gave himself a nod of approval.

"Do you stay there?" I asked.

My brother pulled a stone from his pocket and handed it to me. "Your turn, little brother."

I looked from the stone in my palm to him. "You expect me to throw this?"

"Put it in your pocket or throw it. Whatever you find more desirable."

"I asked if you stay at the house," I said quite impatiently.

"I heard you."

His insolence irritated me to no end. I closed my fist, drew my arm back and hurled the stone at the water where it immediately sank with a less than satisfying splash.

Phelan gave me a sideways look of utter annoyance. "You possess the skill of a three-year-old," he muttered. "And yes, I have stayed at the house."

"Surely there is lodging in town that you would find more comfortable."

"There is," he agreed.

"But you prefer a broken down shack?"

"I said no such thing, Kire." Again he fished a stone from his pocket and elegantly drew back for a sidearm throw before releasing it with a flick of his wrist. His actions had the same effect; the stone dashed across the water several times before the waves claimed it. I hadn't been counting, but I was certain the stone hit the water's surface at least a half-dozen times.

Phelan extended his hand, palm up, and offered me another stone. With a bit of hesitation I accepted and imitated his movements, reaching out to the side rather than hurling the rock into the water where it had no chance of skipping along the surface. Phelan took a step back and stroked his beard as he looked me over head to toe.

"Scrutinizing my every move?" I groused.

"Hardly." Phelan sighed. "You've done nothing worth examining so far."

I lowered my arm down to my side. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, for God's sake, throw it. We both already know what happens."

How one person could be so maddening was beyond me. I pulled my arm back and threw the rock much higher than I had anticipated, which meant it arced through the air and landed quite far, but without a single skip.

I scowled and stared out at the dark waters, unwilling to look my brother in the eye. Damnable rocks in the damnable sea with my irritating, damnable brother, I thought to myself.

"The house went up for auction," Phelan said. "You were gone, Bjorn had finally died, and no one else wanted it, so it became mine. The paper for the deed is most likely worth more than the price I paid."

"How long have you owned it?"

Phelan squinted. He looked at me briefly and shrugged. "Years."

"How very specific."

"Fourteen years now, I believe," Phelan answered.

"Do you paint there?" I asked, thinking of his gallery show.

"Frequently."

I could not imagine stepping foot inside the house and having my muse follow me. I expected my creativity would have been vanquished the moment I stepped foot on the property.

"Bjorn took his last breath in April of '74. Gyda died two years earlier in October, I believe. The house went up for auction in the fall once Bjorn was buried all of the furniture was removed. I was the only one mad enough to bid."

My heart ached. I had known of my father's death, but had not known my mother had died until I'd seen my father's obituary in the newspaper. There was no mention of children-surviving or not-no acknowledgement of other relatives aside from the words preceded in death by his wife.

I had been twenty-six at the time and news of their demise had made me officially an orphan. Despite what I had left behind in the nameless town of my birth, I mourned them in solitude.

"Say whatever you wish," Phelan said impatiently.

My gaze snapped up to meet his. "How did they die?" I asked without a second of hesitation.

Unexpected sadness weighed upon my brother's visage. He removed another stone from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. "I have no idea how Gyda died," he answered. "She'd broken her ribs a year or two earlier and I don't believe they ever healed correctly."

My jaw clenched, nostrils flared as I wondered if my father, our father, had been behind our mother's untimely demise. They had fought frequently, arguments turned physical day and night.

Phelan's lips twiched and he grunted. "I saw her once before she was injured and she had no idea who I was. Looked me right in the eye and asked what I was staring at. I suppose that was not much of a surprise as I don't think she knew who she was half the time." He offered a humorless laugh and tossed the stone into the air before he caught it again. "You knew she was not well, correct? An affliction of the mind."

I nodded. "She never spoke to me."

"If you think that her silence toward you was unique, you are mistaken," Phelan gruffly replied. "She should have been committed."

The thought saddened me, though I couldn't decide why. Perhaps she would have been safer in an asylum, free from the constant wrath of the man she had married. Perhaps she would have still been alive and selfishly I would be able to see her one last time. Perhaps if she had been taken away as a young girl of unsound mind, there would not have been two sons who grew up without their mother's affection.

"And our father?"

"Bjorn finally succumbed to the bottle," Phelan said. The inflection in his voice sounded as though he had forced himself to speak jovially, but his expression was distant. "Good riddance to the bastard."

"Did you see him...before?"

"Before what?"

"Before he passed."

Phelan started to draw his arm back, but didn't throw the stone. He stared at the water, his eyes searching the night. "I was beside him when he drew his last breath," he said.

Involuntarily I shuddered at the thought. Phelan drew his scarred left arm up toward his chest, cradling it against his body momentarily before he lowered it again. His fist clenched, his jaw tightened, and as he kept his eyes trained on the water, he faltered at keeping his emotions masked.

"It took him two days to die," Phelan said, the same forced inflection in his voice. "No one came to see him or say farewell and the physician knew nothing else could be done, so they left him in the house alone. I was told he had been confined to bed with no assistance for nearly a week before I arrived. Quite honestly I am amazed he didn't die before I arrived."

My skin prickled at the thought of being at my father's side while he was on his deathbed. Even in his weakened state, I wondered if I would have been able to look him in the eye or stand inside the same room without being consumed by fear.

"It was as much as he deserved," Phelan added with a shrug.

"Did he ask you to stay with him?"

He looked at me from the corner of his eye. "No."

I inhaled sharply, the image of my uncle dying at the forefront of my thoughts. My hands flexed and I ran my thumb over my nails, half-expecting to feel the grit of dirt embedded beneath. I had wanted desperately to stay with him and I wished I had been more capable of providing comfort in his last moments.

"I was notified via post that Bjorn was dying," Phelan said. "He was penniless and not expected to live for more than a few days, but the priest suggested I attempt to visit one last time. I suppose his motives were more financially driven than anything considering Bjorn was not a Godly man."

The devil's son, I thought. The banners did not depict my father, but they were quite correct. He had been the incarnation of the devil in my youth.

"I left that afternoon and arrived the following morning to find Bjorn confined to his bed, wallowing in his own filth. I brought him water, changed his soiled linens, and watched him around the clock as he faded. He barely acknowledged my presence until the very end when he thanked me."

Phelan visibly swallowed and turned his attention back to the stone in his hand. As much as he wished to pretend our father's death meant nothing to him, I felt his melancholy lingering between us, a heaviness of losing someone who had been cruel toward the two of us, but who was still by name our father.

"He did not ask for forgiveness for what he had done to you or to me, but I suppose it was for the best. I would not have given him the satisfaction."

"Why did you volunteer to be with him?" I asked quietly.

Phelan grunted. "To watch him die," he said, but the bitterness he intended fell flat.

I stared at my brother, willing him to look me in the eye and confirm that he had wanted to see our father perish. Phelan was short-tempered, and gruff, but I silently hoped he had not inherited our father's cruel demeanor.

"He did not deserve my company," Phelan said. His gaze briefly found mine, and the turbulence of mourning and loathing gave me pause. "He deserved little more than dying alone in a gutter, forgotten by everyone, but he died with me at his bedside. I watched him take his last breath well after dark, and when I was certain he was gone, I called upon the priest to see to the burial.

"The priest walked out of his front door, barefoot and with a nightcap on, and said he thought I was Bjorn for a half a moment." Phelan snorted, his mouth twisted into a snarl. "An insult if there ever was one. I did not mourn the loss of his chapel when it burned to the ground last year."

My heart ached in a way I did not think was possible for a man who had hated and hurt me so often in my childhood. Phelan looked away and I studied him in silence, this broken and miserable man who greatly resembled our father. He would not have wanted my pity or commiseration, but I felt deeply for him, for my brother who had suffered but not sought revenge against our father when he could have very well made him suffer.

"Does it give you closure knowing they are gone?" Phelan asked, his tone edging on mockery. "Comfort knowing Bjorn is dead and buried?"

More than likely, I suspected our conversation would unleash a stream of nightmares that would quite possibly last for days.

"I don't know what it brings me," I said.

"I apologize if I have given you more than you can process," Phelan said.

We stood for a long moment in silence, neither acknowledging the other's presence. I wondered if I would have been able to stay at my father's side in his last moments or if he would have told me to leave so that he could die in peace without ever seeing me again. I wondered if my father would have known who I was when I walked into the house or if he had ever known how greatly I had wished to please him, even when he struck me without mercy. And I wondered about my mother, the woman who was a mystery I had longed to solve, who had died without ever speaking to me.

"Give me another rock," I said suddenly.

Phelan turned to face me, eye wide at my unexpected request. He handed me the stone in his hand without a word and waited.

"Are you returning to the house tonight?" I asked. The small stone was oval-shaped, smooth, and warmed from my brother's grasp. I squeezed it tightly in my fist, surprised by its lack of sharp edges.

"I might."

"You will show me where the house is located," I said firmly. "Tomorrow at noon."

Phelan eyed me, his gaze drawn to the stone in my hand at first before he looked at me, his eyes creased with amusement. "Will I?"

"If I skip this stone twice," I said. "Do you accept the wager? Yes or no?"

My brother inhaled. "Bargaining, Kire?"

"Yes or no," I growled.

"Yes," Phelan said tersely. He folded his arms over his chest and lifted his chin, looking precisely like an angry bear.

Taking a deep breath, I secured my rolled up sleeve at the crease in my arm and stared out at the water. I pulled my right arm back, balanced myself on my left foot, and released the stone with a snap of my wrist as I stepped forward. In one fluid motion, I sent the small stone hurdling across the water in three consecutive, elegant skips.

I blinked at the last ripple in the water, grateful that the moon shone brightly and the sky was clear enough to capture the full magnifcence of my feat and the ribbon of silvery light wavering from the stone's final descent.

"I'll be damned," Phelan said under his breath.

I raised both of my arms in triumph and chuckled, feeling as surprised as my brother sounded.

"My tutelage has paid off," Phelan said as he unrolled his sleeve.

"You take credit?" I asked incredulously.

"Of course." Phelan genuinely laughed and placed his hand on my shoulder. He gave a firm, brotherly squeeze and I watched him from the corner of my eye, my breath stilled, afraid that if I turned my head to acknowledge his gesture, he would step away and the moment would be lost.

I imagined we had stood in similar fashion as children, side-by-side at the edge of the ocean with my brother's hand protectively on my shoulder. How I wished my memory would unfurl and allow me a glimpse of the life I could not recall.

All too soon my brother pulled away and pretended to brush sand from his trousers despite his impeccable appearance. We stood side by side a moment longer and I dared to look at him, my last living blood relative. His lips no longer twisted in a scowl, his eyes and forehead no longer pinched with tension. The similarities between Phelan and our father diminished.

"Lan," I said suddenly.

Phelan's lips quirked into a smile. "Kire."

"The priest was incorrect," I said. "You do not resemble our father."

His eyes shifted, the flicker of annoyance in his gaze. "Is this your attempt at flattery?"

"I flatter no one," I assured him.

"Quite clearly my nephew takes after you with his blunt observations."

I raised a brow and shrugged. "Perhaps he does."

"I resemble Bjorn more than I wish to admit," he muttered before turning away from me.

"I see less of him," I said before my brother stormed off. "I see more of you."

"And who the hell am I?" Phelan grumbled. His pace slowed, his head cast down.

I waited until he met my eye before I spoke. "Someone I sincerely wish to know better."

Taking a breath, Phelan straightened, his stern demeanor returning at once. "Noon, little brother," he said.

"That was our wager," I reminded him.

Phelan smirked, his attempt at appearing brash no longer an effective front. "I would have invited you regardless of your newfound skill."

"I know."

He bristled at my word. "You most certainly did not."

"Of course I did," I lied. "I simply enjoy a bit of showmanship."