Finn reaches out, taking both my hands in his, and sets his chin down on my shoulder as he instructs me. I can feel his cheek rubbing against mine, the stubble of the slight beard he has here. I have to remember to breathe.
I don’t remember much about the wounding, other than I was very young, and it was a dagger. When I cried out, mother held my chin in her hand, squeezing hard, and told me I would end up dead if I didn’t learn to hush.
She was afraid.
Even though her own death was a sure thing, unalterable, she was afraid.
“. . . or so he thinks. He wants vengeance.”
“So do I.” My voice is cold and hard and I mean every one of those three words.
“Silent as the grave” doesn’t seem to apply to Brin. You’d think a ghost as old as him would be tired of his own voice by now.
His life was out there, and he reveled in it. Nothing could
match the freedom of the open sea and the sun on his sails.
But every slight noise, every bump, every whistle of wind
skitters across my frazzled nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
It’s a story outline with plot points and a clear beginning, and I know how I want it to end. I’m just missing the middle.
The story of my life.