The morning shone pale but clear, as though the heavens themselves wished to give us courage. The lane before our cottage stretched damp and narrow, bordered by nettles that caught at skirts, puddles still lingering from the last rain. The ocean's voice was steady and grave beyond the trees, a low rumour that carried across every field, as though it sought to remind us we were small and would remain so. Mother walked us at nine o'clock, her shawl drawn tight about her shoulders, her step brisk and unswerving. Arabella tripped alongside her with ribbons fluttering, Heath strode ahead with his stick as though it were a weapon, and I kept between them, my hand cold despite the spring air.
Papa had sent word. We were to come, and he would receive us. Too many times had such tidings proved false, and yet hope is a stubborn tenant in a child's breast. I felt it beating beneath my ribs even as I told myself to distrust it.
As we passed the chapel, Mother's jaw stiffened, her eyes fixed forward. I saw in her face the whole burden of our day, and I feared the burden would soon be ours alone. At the little bridge, she paused, took in a long breath, and pressed us onward. Her silence weighed heavier than words.
When at last we reached the lodgings Papa shared with Uncle Oliver, the crooked door opened straight onto a steep stair. No smoke marked the air, only the faint smell of fish and damp rising from the boards. The windows above were small and clouded, and the whole place looked borrowed, as though it had never quite been mended.
Papa opened, hair dishevelled but eyes still clear. For once there was no bottle in his hand, no slackness in his gaze. Mother fixed him with a look sharp enough to still his tongue before he could speak.
"You sent for them," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Remember it. Let it be their day. Do not drink, not while they are here."
For a moment he looked like the man she once described from long ago, before grief and the bottle claimed him. Shoulders broad, smile quick, eyes lit with careless brightness. He answered with that smile, careless but tender. "I will not. Not today. It is their time."
He bent to kiss Arabella's cheek, clapped Heath upon the arm, pressed his rough palm against my hair. His hand smelled of wood and sea-salt, not of sourness, and the difference made my chest ache.
Mother's shoulders softened. She bent, kissed each of us upon the forehead, and turned away. We watched her go, her figure growing smaller against the lane, the shawl drawn close, her pace brisk as though she must leave before her strength failed.
Inside the door the kitchen pressed upon us at once, its beams smoke-darkened and low, its table scarred by knives and cups. The air carried the tang of salt and tar, as though the sea had followed him in. To the right opened a narrow parlour where Uncle Oliver sat with his round ruddy face already smiling. His brown hair curled about his ears, his brown eyes were kind, and his body carried its weight with good humour, as though flesh itself could be cheerful. He rose, patted Heath's shoulder, tousled Arabella's ribbon, and greeted me with a nod that said he saw me as more than a shadow. "Come in, come in. You will find this place brighter for your company."
Beyond the kitchen stretched a hallway, narrow and dim. On its left a small room held only a basin and rusted jug. Farther down stood Uncle Oliver's chamber, boots already flung aside at the threshold. Opposite lay Papa's room, the blanket slipping from his bed, the door ajar as though the place itself had nothing left to guard. Two bedrooms only, set face to face, the whole lodging little more than a corridor with corners, yet it was all the home they had claimed between them.
And for a while, it was enough.
Papa cut bread with solemnity, dividing the loaf as though it were an offering. He set a cup of water for each of us, steady-handed. He showed Heath how to knot rope the way fishermen do, his fingers deft and certain. He laughed when Arabella smoothed the cloth upon the table, calling her his little queen, and she beamed as though crowned. To me he said I had grown into my eyes, like honey catching the sun. I blushed and looked down, but I tucked the words away like a jewel against my heart. For a time laughter filled the rooms, simple and true, and I almost believed Mother's warning had power.
The hours before noon passed with an ease that felt like a miracle. Papa's voice was clear, his hand steady, Uncle Oliver humming while he mended a stool. Arabella sang in scraps, Heath boasted of firewood he would cut for the hearth, and I, sitting near the window, let myself imagine we were like any family in the town, with nothing heavier upon us than a loaf to divide.
But noon is a treacherous hour, and it brought with it the shadow we knew too well. The bottle appeared.
"Just one," Papa said, with the same promise he had uttered in so many forms before. His hand knew the cork as if it were a companion, his wrist poured with practised ease. At the first swallow his laugh grew wider, his eyes brighter. At the second, his voice rose. By the third, his words spilled into a flood of promises that had no coin behind them.
"A walk to the shore. Cakes from the market. A horse for Heath one day, a silken dress for Arabella, paints and fine paper for Clara."
Arabella clapped politely, her smile trembling. Her blue eyes searched his face, looking for a sign that this time he meant it. Heath grew still, jaw clenched, his stick forgotten at his feet. I sat quiet, my heart sinking with each swallow, listening as the bright morning bent beneath the weight of his cup.
Uncle Oliver busied himself, carrying kindling, fussing over the broken stool, speaking little. His silence was a shield, meant to spare us from what he could not prevent. I saw his eyes, full of pity, glancing toward us but never resting too long.
The cheer grew loud but hollow. Papa's words tangled together, promises tripped over each other, his step grew unsteady. The morning's hope, so newly born, was already gasping for breath.
Then came the knock at the door.
Light, expectant, too swift. Papa leapt up too eagerly, stumbling. He flung the door wide. A woman entered. Her bonnet was in her hand, her hair spilling in waves I had only seen by tavern doors, her cheeks bright, her smile unkind only in its direction. For it was not for us, but for him.
He placed his hand upon her back, led her in, seated her in his chair, poured her a drink with clumsy gallantry. She accepted, eyes lowered, a little smile upon her lips that made my chest burn.
We stared. Arabella's laughter faltered, her ribbon drooping. Heath's face hardened, the muscle in his jaw leaping. My chest burned with shame. This was our day. He had sent for us. He had promised. And yet here she sat, her presence stealing what little of him was left to us.
The words burst from me before I could stop them. "Why is she here?" My voice cracked, shrill with grief. "Papa, this is our time. You sent for us. You knew we were coming. Why does she get you when we do not?"
The room froze. The woman flushed, shifting in her seat. Uncle Oliver turned his gaze downward, lips pressed tight, his hands restless. Arabella broke into sobs and clung to me, her ribbon slipping from her hair. Heath's silence was sharper than any blade, his eyes locked upon Papa with a glare that accused him of every promise broken.
Papa's face crumpled. The cup trembled in his hand. "Clara," he said, my name ragged upon his tongue. "Little Clara. Do not cry. I love you. I love all of you. More than life."
"Then why?" My words came in sobs, hot and fierce. "Why do you not send for us when you say you will? Why do you choose the bottle, the wharf, her before us?"
For a breath, his eyes cleared. He looked as though he had been forced to see himself in a mirror, and the sight wounded him. But the moment slipped away. His hand found the bottle again, lifted it, drank. The light drowned.
The woman murmured that perhaps she should leave, but he caught her wrist with drunken urgency. "Stay," he begged, voice thick. She sank back, reluctant, eyes lowered.
Uncle Oliver rose slowly, came to my side, and set his broad, gentle hand upon my shoulder. His silence was eloquent. It said he saw, he grieved, he was sorry.
"Come," Heath said at last, his stool scraping against the boards. His voice was low but hard as iron. "We should go."
Papa lurched forward, clutching Arabella's head to kiss her hair wet with tears, clapping Heath upon the arm too roughly, pressing his palm against my cheek. "I will send for you soon," he said, swaying. "Sober. With gifts." But the bottle was already in his hand, and the woman's eyes had followed him.
We gathered ourselves and moved toward the stair. Arabella's tears fell steadily. She lifted her face once more, trembling. "Papa," she whispered, "will you not walk us home. Please. It is dark, and the lane is long."
I added softly, "Just to the chapel. The nettles catch our skirts. The wind stings the eyes."
He hesitated. His gaze moved from us to the bottle, then to her. "It is not far," he said, forcing a smile. "You will manage. You are strong ones. I have friends here. I will send for you again soon."
The woman turned her gaze aside. Uncle Oliver opened the door for us, his face grave with shame, but his hand gentle as he rested it upon Arabella's shoulder.
We stepped into the evening wind. The ocean's voice had grown iron, the sky heavy with lowering clouds. Arabella clung to me, her ribbon trailing in the dust. Heath strode ahead, stiff and straight-backed, a soldier who had seen too much too young. I followed, my sleeve damp with my sister's tears, my own heart raw with the echo of Papa's broken promise.
The lane bent toward the chapel, nettles scratching, the wind sharp in our eyes. Each step rang hollow, as though even the ground grieved with us. I tried to hush Arabella's sobs with comfort that could not comfort myself. Heath's shoulders were tight as iron.
Papa would not walk us home. The bottle was dearer, the woman at his side dearer. And in that refusal the old tale returned, the one Mother told of when I nearly drowned. I had no memory of it, yet I felt the water still in my lungs. I imagined the bright sky shattered above me, the silence of drowning, the way no one saw. Not Mama. Not Papa. Not until it was almost too late.
So it was again that night. We were still drowning, though our feet pressed earth.
At last the cottage door appeared. Its latch was cold beneath my fingers. Inside, the hearth glowed faintly, unwilling. I settled Arabella by the fire, tied her ribbon anew, hushed her sobs. Heath stood in silence, his eyes upon the floor. I washed my hands at the basin, watching the water cloud, as if sorrow might be rinsed away.
Outside, the wind pressed on. Inside, we learned again the lesson children of such homes must master. How to breathe when the world does not see you, how to walk home in the dark when no one will.