Disappointed.
It was vile and wrong and ungrateful, but it was true. Something had been taken from her in coming here, a possibility, and in its place had grown a deep and desperate wish, the hopelessness of which closed her throat. Tears came to her eyes as the wish rose up and engulfed her. It was a feeling she could never have imagined the day before. She was lonely for a woman she only knew from her portrait.
She wanted her mother.
“I s’pose—” The words came out as a gasp drowned in tears. She swallowed them down, but the waves kept coming. “I s’pose I really was still hoping.”
Hoping to meet her mother. Her father. Hoping against hope that someone out there cared for her. And they had. But they were gone. So Ilsa sat on the couch in her missing brother’s rooms and felt a grief seventeen years in the making. She cried until she couldn’t see for tears and no lungful of air was enough.
She forgot she wasn’t alone, and when she felt the couch shift, she opened her eyes, startled. Fyfe sat beside her, his handkerchief in his outstretched fingers.
“Gedeon calls me cousin,” he said. “I know technically we’re not related, but Hester’s my blood and she’s yours and Gedeon’s blood. And some would say that makes us family. I would say that, also.” He smiled shyly. “And I’ll do my best to be a friend too, should you want one.”
Ilsa tried to speak but couldn’t find the words. Her tears dried up abruptly, stymied by surprise. Could it be that simple? Someone offered to be your family and you accepted? A cousin who wasn’t a cousin was a thing she’d never thought to want, but her heart was lighter, joyous, even. It was the kindest anyone had ever been to her.
“I… thank you, Fyfe,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He took her hand and placed it in his. “I’m sorry about what you saw happen to your friend. No one should have to see the people they love taken from them like that.”
Ilsa wiped her eyes with Fyfe’s handkerchief as another impossible wave of tears came over her. “She din’t even know why they was hurting her. She was just afraid… and then nothing.”
Fyfe was silent awhile, chewing his lip. “What do you believe in, Ilsa? I mean to say, do you think there’s a, ah…”
“A heaven?” Ilsa tried not to recoil. Devil’s get. He’ll drag you away to hell if I can’t cure you. “I know it don’t say nothing in the Bible ’bout a second universe, so I’m inclined to believe none of it.”
“Well, in the Witherward, all faith starts with the stars,” said Fyfe shyly.
“The stars,” Ilsa echoed, sceptical – though it explained Eliot’s cursing.
“We believe our souls descend from above when we’re born, and when we die, they return to the stars. And the stars see everything. And shape everything. And that would mean that, well, your friend has a hand in the direction of the universe now. So even though it hurts to miss the people we love, we’re fortunate to have them up there, turning fate to point in our favour.”
Ilsa turned it over in her mind. “That mean my parents are there too?”
“Everyone,” said Fyfe. “Equally.”
“And you believe it?”
Fyfe nodded in earnest. “Very much.”
Ilsa wasn’t sure she believed in Fyfe’s faith, but she wanted to in a way she never had with the Bible. That a girl like Martha – poor, homeless, a criminal – was shaping the future alongside people as wealthy and powerful in life as her parents; it had a sort of justice to it.
“I think Martha would like that. She was always really bossy.” Fyfe laughed, the relief at having helped clear in his features. “Fyfe, I think… I think I need to give speaking with Hester another go.”
Yes, her cousin had been cold and dismissive, but Ilsa hadn’t known what she was going through, and she’d been confrontational. If Fyfe could offer up his kinship to a near stranger, Ilsa could be kinder to her own blood.
“Would you like me to come with you?” asked Fyfe, standing and buttoning his jacket.
“No, s’alright. She don’t scare me.” She smiled and handed back the handkerchief. “Thanks again.”
Fyfe smiled his whole-face smile again. “My pleasure.”
* * *
Ilsa got lost in the maze of long corridors, but finally found her way back to Hester’s chambers. It was her cousin’s raised voice and the smash of glass that led her there.
She slowed in the corridor, straining to listen and ready to shift into a mouse if she needed, but she couldn’t make out Hester’s words. Somebody hushed her, their voice low and frantic. Ilsa realised too late that the second speaker was getting closer, and before she could shift or hide, Eliot opened the door.
He was looking back into the room, one hand on the doorknob. “There are worse things than you taking this out on me, Hester,” he said. It was not the cool, uninterested Eliot from the meeting. This one sounded weary, nearly desperate. “To not even try would be one of them. You’re not weak, but if you don’t—”
“I do not need you to tell me I am not weak, you condescending bastard.” Hester’s voice was quiet, but she couldn’t have been more fearsome if she was still shouting.
Eliot took a long breath. “My apologies,” he said tightly, and he stepped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
It was only then he noticed Ilsa.
He stiffened, alarm flashing across his features before he
