The money he makes on night shift at the prison has helped us survive. Kept us warm and fed. I felt so guilty being a drain, I eventually picked up part-time shifts at the launderette. They taught me how to sew, and I’m not too bad at it. The head seamstress says my stitches are damn near perfect. In the summers, I help as a scullery maid in one of the larger estates when the owners move back in for the warmer months.
Just like Wynn.
My eyes start to burn.
Eason withdraws a small glass bottle from his coat pocket and slips it into my open hand. “Here. I picked this up on the way home.”
The bottle of black hair dye will keep my blue roots at bay. They don’t show beneath the cap I wear to hide my ears, but after what happened all those years ago, one can never be too careful. “Thank you.” I appreciate him so much.
I rise from my chair and bring the bottle to the small bathing room, somehow finding the strength to lift my gaze to the cracked mirror hanging over the sink. Dark circles surround my eyes. My cheeks appear gaunter than when I last checked, which must’ve been the last time Eason bought me hair dye.
There is no point studying my reflection for too long. I don’t need to see myself to know that hollowness has taken root in my bones. Flows through my veins. Beats in my broken heart. Thebronzed tone has been leached from my skin, leaving me pale and almost gray. A living corpse.
Unlike Eason, whose skin has maintained its bronzed hue. Since he works mostly at night, he spends any free time he has outdoors, catching every bit of sun in an attempt to refuel his magic. But we’re too far away from its heat, and truly sunny days are few and far between.
I set the dye on the edge of the sink and reach for my comb. My wrist grazes the cork at the top, knocking the bottle off kilter. I try to catch it, but I’m not fast enough. The glass shatters on the ground, blackness spreading like ink across the floorboards.
“Allette?” Eason calls. “Is everything all right in there?”
“It’s fine!” Tears clog my throat as I stoop to clean up the glass. The dye costs a small fortune, and we have no extra coins to waste. How could I be so bloody careless?
I scoop the broken bits and open the window to throw them out, but no matter how hard I scrub, the stain on the floorboards refuses to go away, much like the dark stain of regret upon my soul.
I turn the tap to wash away the dye on my hands. My eyes catch on that silver scar running down my palm, a constant reminder of my foolishness. Inky streaks twist like blackened tears down the drain. By the time I return to the living area, the smell of roasting meat has replaced the damp mustiness that lingers in the cottage.
Eason’s gaze rakes from my tear-stained cheeks to my disheveled hair, his lips pressing into a tight line. “You didn’t do your hair.”
“I’ll dye it later.” I hate lying to him but can’t find it in me to confess that I’ve wasted so much money. Not that I think he’ll get angry. I’ve only seen him angry a handful of times. Thankfully, his frustration has never been directed at me, only at the logs he splits for the fire.
My knee bounces beneath the rickety table as we eat dinner in silence. I used to enjoy silence. Now it seems so empty.
Eason splays his wide palm on my thigh, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “Someone will come through tonight. I can feel it.”
He said the same thing last year, and the year before that. And he has been wrong every single time.
Despite the fire, I can see my breath when we curl onto the bed tucked into the corner, covered in a quilt I stole from someone’s clothesline. Eason settles at my back, his solid arms holding me tight against him. I must fall asleep at some point, because before I know it, Eason is shaking me awake, telling me it’s time to go.
What if we didn’t go to the portal? What is the point in torturing ourselves? Should we give up and accept our fate?
No, no. We must try. Because of my recklessness, Eason has been damned to this realm as well. For him, I’ll try until the day I no longer draw breath.
I slip out of bed and pull on my warmest gown. My lone black cloak falls past my black cotton skirts. I drag my wool hat over my ears. The thick wool socks I mended cover my clammy feet as I slip them into boots that have seen better days.
After stuffing our pockets with the coins we’ve saved through the years, Eason and I traipse through an inch of snow to wait in the forest within sight of the standing stones.
I search the sky for light, but there is none. No stars either. Only a thick layer of clouds.
Eason builds a fire, and we huddle close. The first year, we went without in case the flames deterred the fae and nearly froze to death. The second, he insisted on it. Now, it’s become part of our yearly routine.
The wind shifts, blowing thick smoke toward me, burning my eyes. My mind drifts to another fire, one that marked thebeginning of the end. My lungs seize as I stare at the writhing flames, my head growing lighter, my vision blurring. Forcing my eyes closed, I focus on my breathing the way Eason taught me until the knot in my chest eases and I can inhale fully.
Please let someone come through. Please.
I’m not sure who I’m begging. The stars only seem to listen when they feel like it.
Eason drags a thick slice of bread from his pack, offering me half. I’m not hungry but take it anyway to give my hands something to do. “What time is it?”
His watch glints when he removes it from his pocket. “Half one.”