“It’s not too arduous yet.” Mama shrugged, the movement shifting her long red braid from her shoulder to her back. “It ensures that the army has what it needs.”
All those donut and ice cream nights, the treats available in Little Aldon, the baked goods in the mess. The army had an abundance, and it hadn’t occurred to Fieran that such a thing could only happen if those back home were rationing their own portions.
Mama crossed the room, halting beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. The nap helped.” Fieran lowered himself back onto his pillow.
Mama rested a hand on his shoulder, her green eyes going soft rather than sparkling with her usual humor. “If you can’t sleep tonight, or any night, there will be plenty of hot chocolate and cookies in the kitchen. No matter our rations. All right?”
There seemed to be something more to those words, but Fieran couldn’t quite discern what it might be. All he could do was work up a smile. “Thanks, Mama.”
She patted his shoulder. “I’ll be back shortly with our picnic.”
Fieran smiled and nodded. A picnic in bed didn’t sound all that bad. Knowing his mama, she’d have all of them laughing so hard they’d be snorting their food out their noses before the evening was out.
Chapter
Six
He was falling. Aeroplane spiraling. Hitting the ground.
Fieran jolted awake, gasping for breath. He tore at the blankets restraining him. They were tight. Too tight. Too tangled.
His breathing increased as he yanked at the blankets, a tightness squeezing his chest. He needed to get out. Everything was too constricting. Too stifling.
His legs finally tore free of the blankets, and he stumbled from his bed. He sank onto his knees, gasping as if he’d just ruck-marched for twenty miles at double time.
The half-moon splashed silver light onto his bed and floor. He couldn’t tell what time it was or how long he’d been asleep, but it couldn’t have been that long.
He eyed his bed. The soft mattress called to him, but the memories still lingered, threatening to grab hold of him the moment he tried to sleep. It seemed his brain had decided he was finally in a safe space to start processing everything that had happened.
Using the bed to leverage himself to his feet, he fumbled for the cane Uncle Eugene had given him. Once he found it, heleaned on it to steady himself as he shuffled from his bedroom and into the hall.
As the oldest, his room was at the end, farthest from the stairs. He tried to keep his movements quiet to avoid waking up Ellie or Tryndar. The last thing he wanted to do was answer questions from his siblings about why he was awake at this time of night.
At the end of the hallway, he reached the landing at the top of the stairs.
The stairs. For a moment, Fieran just stared. They looked as insurmountable as a mountain at the moment. He was going to be lucky if he didn’t take a tumble.
There was a lift just down the hall toward Dacha and Mama’s room, but despite all of Dacha’s efforts, the lift rattled and whined when used. Fieran would wake up the whole household for sure if he took it.
The stairs it would have to be. He’d just have to fall quietly if he did take a tumble.
With a firm grip on the rail, he took it one step at a time, using the cane both to steady himself and feel for the next stair.
He was breathing hard from exertion rather than panic by the time he reached the bottom. But he’d done it. That was an improvement.
The walk to the kitchen at the back of the house felt like a mile. By the time he approached the door, his legs were shaking, and he gritted his teeth just to stay upright.
A glow shone from beneath the kitchen door. Had Mama left a light on for him?
Fieran pushed the swinging door open, the hinges soundless as if they’d been regularly oiled. As a kid, he’d never found that odd the way he did now.
He halted in the doorway, his hand holding the door from swinging back at him.
Wearing her green dressing gown, Mama sat at the table, bathed in the glow of the lamp set in the middle of the worn work table. She cradled a steaming mug in her hands while a plate with a half-eaten cookie rested on the table before her. Two more plates, one holding several cookies and one empty, had been placed across the table with a mug and chocolate pot sitting nearby. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth moved silently, almost as if she were murmuring to herself.
Or communicating with Dacha through their heart bond. Fieran had seen his parents do it often enough growing up to recognize the look on his mama’s face.
