wheeled chair into the dim lamplight.
The hard spatter of rain intensified, and the wind shook the foundation of the house. “This is my—” I began, but before I could finish, there was a loud knock on the door, and the three of us looked at one another fearfully.
“Maybe it’s Da,” Ishleen whispered.
“I hope so,” I said, “but just in case, both of you stay back here behind the curtain.” I pulled the curtain closed around them and made an urgent gesture, not knowing how much Irish Francisco understood.
I opened the door only a little to see Tom Cavan’s face peering at me from under his hood, the wind causing his coat to flap and pull, like it might fly off his very body.
“Let me in, Maeve,” he yelled, “out of this weather!”
“No, Tom,” I said firmly. “How dare you come here after what you’ve done. To do such a thing to your own father, and to mine!”
I tried to close the door, but he pushed against it.
“One of the Spaniards that was shot is gone. He might be a danger. I’m here to protect you lest he come here. Let me in!”
“You’re more of a danger than a wounded man who is likely starving to death, Tom Cavan! Now go, and leave my sister and mother and me in peace!”
“Maeve, I’m going to try to help your father. I’m going to bring him home.”
“You should, since it is because of you that he’s in English custody.”
He looked frustrated by my refusal to let him in, and pushed harder against the door. Panicking, I redoubled my effort against him. He glowered at me, and I thought for certain he would now overpower me, but he surprised me by stepping back. His expression as he did so was somewhere between determined and perplexed, and I thought of the conversation I’d had with his mother. She had clearly persuaded him not to force my hand.
I closed and bolted the door and stayed near it, listening until I heard his retreating footsteps through the storm.
I joined Ishleen and Francisco behind the curtain. Francisco was still sitting up, breathing with effort. In spite of the cold air in the room, droplets of sweat ran down his temples. He sighed heavily, then hunched forward, giving himself over to his thoughts, as if recalling terrible things. He grew distressed, as he’d been while dreaming.
It occurred to me that he was the only survivor of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad .
We remained in silence for a while, waiting for our hearts to settle again. Ishleen lifted the cup of water, offering it to him, but Francisco touched his stomach and gestured putting a spoon to his mouth.
“He’s hungry!” Ishleen said. I got up and put some leftover porridge on the fire. Francisco’s eyes followed me in every move I made, and I could not tell if this caused me to be more excited or more nervous. My heart was racing and my cheeks felt hot.
I poured milk into the pot with the porridge and stirred it over the flame. As I cooked, I turned and caught him staring at me. Our eyes locked, and I found myself unable to look away.
If there hadn’t been such pain in his expression, I’d have called his steady look too bold. Yet, at the same time, a shiver of mysterious affection filled me, as if he were someone well known to me. With effort, I blinked and turned away, but even then, the dark beauty of his face remained, imprinted on my field of vision. It mattered so little, perhaps not at all, that I could not understand his language.
If I could have spoken to him, the thing I would have told him, as odd as it seemed in those dangerous moments, was about the dress of delicate metal and the room with the iced-over walls and the gusts of wind. And that if I could only find that place, I might bring Mam back.
It was just at this moment that I glanced over at Mam, and Francisco also turned and peered into the shadow where she sat. He gazed at her for a few seconds, then looked back at me.
“Your … madre? Mother?” he asked.
I nodded, my heart sinking for poor Mam.
He
The hard spatter of rain intensified, and the wind shook the foundation of the house. “This is my—” I began, but before I could finish, there was a loud knock on the door, and the three of us looked at one another fearfully.
“Maybe it’s Da,” Ishleen whispered.
“I hope so,” I said, “but just in case, both of you stay back here behind the curtain.” I pulled the curtain closed around them and made an urgent gesture, not knowing how much Irish Francisco understood.
I opened the door only a little to see Tom Cavan’s face peering at me from under his hood, the wind causing his coat to flap and pull, like it might fly off his very body.
“Let me in, Maeve,” he yelled, “out of this weather!”
“No, Tom,” I said firmly. “How dare you come here after what you’ve done. To do such a thing to your own father, and to mine!”
I tried to close the door, but he pushed against it.
“One of the Spaniards that was shot is gone. He might be a danger. I’m here to protect you lest he come here. Let me in!”
“You’re more of a danger than a wounded man who is likely starving to death, Tom Cavan! Now go, and leave my sister and mother and me in peace!”
“Maeve, I’m going to try to help your father. I’m going to bring him home.”
“You should, since it is because of you that he’s in English custody.”
He looked frustrated by my refusal to let him in, and pushed harder against the door. Panicking, I redoubled my effort against him. He glowered at me, and I thought for certain he would now overpower me, but he surprised me by stepping back. His expression as he did so was somewhere between determined and perplexed, and I thought of the conversation I’d had with his mother. She had clearly persuaded him not to force my hand.
I closed and bolted the door and stayed near it, listening until I heard his retreating footsteps through the storm.
I joined Ishleen and Francisco behind the curtain. Francisco was still sitting up, breathing with effort. In spite of the cold air in the room, droplets of sweat ran down his temples. He sighed heavily, then hunched forward, giving himself over to his thoughts, as if recalling terrible things. He grew distressed, as he’d been while dreaming.
It occurred to me that he was the only survivor of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad .
We remained in silence for a while, waiting for our hearts to settle again. Ishleen lifted the cup of water, offering it to him, but Francisco touched his stomach and gestured putting a spoon to his mouth.
“He’s hungry!” Ishleen said. I got up and put some leftover porridge on the fire. Francisco’s eyes followed me in every move I made, and I could not tell if this caused me to be more excited or more nervous. My heart was racing and my cheeks felt hot.
I poured milk into the pot with the porridge and stirred it over the flame. As I cooked, I turned and caught him staring at me. Our eyes locked, and I found myself unable to look away.
If there hadn’t been such pain in his expression, I’d have called his steady look too bold. Yet, at the same time, a shiver of mysterious affection filled me, as if he were someone well known to me. With effort, I blinked and turned away, but even then, the dark beauty of his face remained, imprinted on my field of vision. It mattered so little, perhaps not at all, that I could not understand his language.
If I could have spoken to him, the thing I would have told him, as odd as it seemed in those dangerous moments, was about the dress of delicate metal and the room with the iced-over walls and the gusts of wind. And that if I could only find that place, I might bring Mam back.
It was just at this moment that I glanced over at Mam, and Francisco also turned and peered into the shadow where she sat. He gazed at her for a few seconds, then looked back at me.
“Your … madre? Mother?” he asked.
I nodded, my heart sinking for poor Mam.
He
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