Page 31 of The Violet Raven

Callan mutters something dark and Gaelic under his breath, scowl locked in place like it’s carved from stone.

Still grinning, Saoirse saunters over and rubs Callan’s arm—a touch he doesn’t pull away from. “Ya all right there, sweetheart? Should we fetch a mirror so ya can come to terms with yer defeat?”

With a glint in her eye, she glances down at his backside and back up at him with a smirk. “Ye’ve a fine plump arse, Cal. Not quite as plump as yer sister’s, but almost. Bet it caught most of your fall!”

Saoirse looks over at Casey. “Shame about yers. This gift,” Saoirse says as she taps Callan on his bottom—a gesture he jumps at—,”must have skipped right over ya and into yer sister. She has twice as much in the rear.”

Casey scoffs, looking genuinely offended. “I am perfectly proportioned.”

Callan and I both chuckle—heartfelt laughter this time, the kind that catches in your chest and pulls the sting out of the day. The teasing, the warmth in their voices—it untangles the knot in my chest just enough to let me breathe.

As I feel that settling in my chest, the sound of low voices murmuring from the next room catches my ear.

I glance toward the door.

My father and mother’s tones are hushed, too hushed, the warmth of their earlier embrace replaced by something taut and weighted.

The knot in my chest returns.

Whatever had unsettled my mother—whatever flickered in her eyes—it was so much more than the contents of a lingering dream.

It was the look of someone hearing pieces of a story they already knew.

And she seemed haunted by the familiarity.

9

Memories Worn by Time

Triona

Friday, 25 April 1823

Ifind myself standing alone amidst the dark, veiled embrace of the forest. Tendrils of fear coil in my stomach. I am that frightened little girl again. A memory that has my consciousness trapped, and terrors of the past envelop my soul. A memory with odd familiarity.

Out of my direct line of sight, a butterfly with ethereal hues of a perfectly combined violet and black adorned in its wings seems to beckon me. The light casts an ephemeral dance along its coloured scales, and I find myself captivated. An otherworldly allure emanates from its delicate form, and against all wiser instinct, I listen to its siren call that compels me to follow it deeper into the forest.

I walk through dense foliage for some time, treading a path unknown. Shadows deepen and surround me in uncertainty. When the butterfly lands abruptly, on top of a large and rounded mound, the world falls into a chilling silence that portends danger.

It’s the jarring sort of silence that causes prey to heed warning that a predator lurks near. The silence of the forest is shattered abruptly, and before I have any chance to react, a stone is propelled, and collides with the back of my head. I crumble to the ground, screaming from the pain, mixed with the fear that’s taken over all senses. My cries are the only sounds that can be heard until the faintest sounds of malevolent laughter rings out.

Death, a concept unknown until this very moment, asserts its presence. It's an intangible spectator that I can feel looming there, right on the precipice, ready to make its move on me.

Prey.

Just as darkness inches closer, a thunderous bellow rends the silence, and the fear and the darkness fade instantly, swallowed by a luminous surge of light. I feel protected by a force unseen. When I find the courage to look up, an enormous white stag peers at me from across the clearing; standing guardian like a majestic sentinel.

As it approaches with deliberate grace, it gazes down upon me, and much like the butterfly, I find myself ensnared in two sets of golden eyes that reflect wisdom transcending mortal understanding. A sense of tranquillity and peace descends over me, bringing with it a sudden drowsiness. Whether from fear, pain, or the exhaustion of the past few minutes, I cannot say.

I extend my hand tentatively, and the stag responds in kind, as it nuzzles into my outstretched palm. In that sacred moment, I am touched not only by the velvet softness of its muzzle but by an unspoken assurance—an ethereal connection and understanding between frightened mortals and benevolent guardians of the otherworldly realm.

My eyes shutter closed, and I begin to drift into the realm of dreams. The last thing my consciousness renders is the faintest whisper that sounds much like my name being called from afar.

Remnants of the dream cling to me like a fog that refuses to lift. My body is tense, gripped by a strange unease as fragments of it float in and out of my mind. The dark forest, the butterfly, the sharp pain from the stone striking me, and that white stag with its golden eyes—watching me, shielding me.

My fingers find the scar on the back of my head, in the exact spot it had been in my mind. The memory of the injury taunts me with its elusiveness. The thought unsettles me, leaving a restless energy crawling under my skin.

Once I’m ready, I find Dealla downstairs, seated in her usual spot by the kitchen table, a book resting open in her hands. She glances up when I enter, her expression brightening as she sets the book aside.