Page 45 of Take Me Away

‘Maggie,’ I automatically correct. Then I think of the bulging ceiling and smell of damp.

For fuck’s sake.

‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I say again, but now I can’t stop thinking about the forecast calling for endless rain tonight.

‘Dad.’ Maisie’s voice is serious now. ‘What if her ceiling falls in and SMOOSHES her?’

The image of Isla trapped under collapsed plaster, injured and alone, flashes unwanted through my mind. It’s ridiculous, melodramatic. The cottage has stood for over a hundred years through far worse storms.

And yet.

‘Fine,’ I snap, putting down my bowl. ‘I’ll go check on her. Just … stop talking about her for five minutes, okay?’

Maisie’s face breaks into a delighted smile. ‘Can I come too? I want to see if her foot is purple!’

‘No. It’s pouring, and you’ve got school tomorrow.’ I grab my raincoat from the hook by the door. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes. Finish your food.’

‘Tell her I hope her foot feels better! And that she can borrow my sparkly Band-Aids if she wants!’ Maisie calls as I head out into the rain.

The walk to Salt Cottage is miserable, rain lashing sideways, soaking me despite the coat. Puddles have formed on the uneven lane, and I splash through them, irritation growing with each step. This is ridiculous. I’m sure she’s fine.

But my pace doesn’t slow, propelled by something sharp and persistent that I don’t want to examine too closely.

As Salt Cottage comes into view, I spot light in the windows, warm against the darkening evening. And then, through one of those windows, I see her. Standing on a chair. Balanced on her good foot, bad foot gingerly held up from the seat of the chair.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ I growl, as something hot and dangerous ignites in my chest. She’s only trying to catch water from the leak in a saucepan.

I stride up the path, hammering on the door with more force than strictly necessary. Through the door, I hear a soft curse, then the slow, uneven shuffle of someone limping across the floor.

The door opens, and all my carefully prepared words evaporate.

Isla stands before me, hair piled in a messy bun, wearing an oversized sweater, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, lips slightly parted in surprise. She’s leaning heavily on the doorframe.

‘Kit?’ she says, confusion evident. ‘What are you⁠—?’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The words burst out, propelled by an emotion I refuse to name. ‘Standing on a chair with an injured foot?’

She blinks. ‘The roof is leaking worse. It must be the storm.’

I push past her into the cottage, rain dripping from my coat onto the floor. Sure enough, there’s a steady stream of water coming through the ceiling, splashing into a saucepan that’s nearly full.

‘So your solution was to climb on furniture while you can barely walk?’ I demand, turning back to her.

She closes the door, limping back towards me. ‘I needed to empty the pot before it overflowed.’

‘You could have fallen and made your injury worse,’ I point out, running a hand through my wet hair in frustration. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘I was thinking I don’t want Maggie’s cottage to flood,’ she retorts, a flash of the old fire in her eyes. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

The question pulls me up short. What am I doing here? I could say Maisie sent me. I could say I was worried about the leak. Both would be true, but not the complete truth.

‘Pack a bag,’ I say instead, the words emerging before I’ve fully thought them through.

‘What?’

‘Pack. A. Bag.’ I enunciate each word. ‘Clothes. Toothbrush. Whatever you need for the night.’

She stares at me like I’ve suggested she sprout wings and fly. ‘Why would I⁠—?’