It’s #BookQW and yes, these days we all feel like giving a ‘scream’. If you’ve read The Witch of the Meadows, Salm and his maybe-girlfriend Luna are getting their own story in my Windborne series of winged #wizards.
Read more below!
Pap cleared his throat. “A ball bearing needs replaced on the beacon’s turntable.”
Her lovely thoughts of meeting up with Salm dissolved and Luna missed the hook to hang her satchel. It fell to the floor. She used the time retrieving it to compose herself, then slowly turned. “That didn’t just go bad today.”
“It got worse today.”
“It’ll last the week.”
He opened his mouth but Stella barreled through, “Breakfast and I’m starved. Come on!”
Pap turned for the table, saying over his shoulder. “I want things in order for the week.”
And I want to be free to set my own schedule. Luna smothered a scream and ducked into the washroom to clean up. Or she could race up the stairs to do it, followed by their cries. “Start without me!”
Minutes later, Luna slid into her chair. “Thank the Orb and you, Nebs! These potatoes smell heavenly.” Luna had two bites of eggs and potatoes—the breakfast-type evening meal her father insisted the nocturnal family share—before realizing that no one else had said anything. She lowered her fork. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Pap’s been waiting for you to tell us his news,” Nebula said accusingly. The sixteen-year-old still wore the floral apron she’d cooked in over a fancy blouse with lacy edgings paired with too-short dungarees. Ribbons wove through her two blond braids that matched striped socks.
Luna glanced from Neb, to her father, pacifying words already spilling, “I garnered an extra job, one I didn’t want to pass up since word of my work will get around with fest.”
But Pap seemed too preoccupied to chastise her for being late, something he didn’t let go of even after agreeing that she should earn an income with her mechanical talents. “After all, the training was given to be put to use, not squandered,” was his favorite line.
He stirred his tea without meeting her gaze, the spoon rattling an irritated dinging with each turn by his large hand. He’d nicked himself shaving, and his blond hair stood up in back—he’d forgotten to brush it—and he face was redder than his usual ruddy complexion.
Filling the fourth side of the square table, Stella stood instead of sat, frozen in the act of spreading butter on her bread like she was laying on mortar. Her braids also sported ribbons, so the eleven-year-old must have convinced Nebula to do her hair as well. The matching socks had to have been her idea, but the old dungarees Nebula’s? Except, their father was also wearing old work clothes—his painting clothes.
Her gaze flicked back to him again. He added milk to his tea and a teaspoon of sugar. Another spoonful of sugar, she realized. The tea was a practically colorless, the liquid at the brim, too full to even lift.
“What’s is it? Someone hasn’t…”
Her sisters shrugged. “We mixed whitewash for the shutters,” Stella said.
This was more than giving their aging shutters a coat of whitewash. “What?” Luna asked again.
Pap glanced at her, then around the room, not directly at any one of them. He pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“Is that the fest schedule?” Nebula asked. “Let me see.” She snatched at it, but Pap held it out of reach.
Hmm, something he wanted them to attend as a family? “Listen, Pap,” she said carefully, “Salm is at anchor this week. I thought we had cleared my schedule because he’s mostly free.”
Her father frowned.
“Surely you have nae forgotten?” Now did not look like a good time to bring up that they wanted to speak with him.
“This, ah, is before, mostly.” He smoothed the worn paper on the table—a schedule he’d obviously had for a while. Odd, because the only people who had the schedule draft were on the town council. Pap wasn’t. Who might else… A bad feeling stole over her, worse than the thought that Pap would steal away her time with Salm.
“I, ah—” Pap cleared his throat. “Apparently, I agreed to hold tours of the lighthouse during fest.” He shoved the paper toward Luna.
Her breath caught. Indeed, lighthouse tours were listed. Three times, on three different days. That explained the whitewashing. They’d need to clean the stairway. The windows. The yard. Blast it all.
She read it again. For the first time in a dozen years, Kittiwake Point Lighthouse and quarters—“What? The keeper’s quarters? Our home will be on tour?”
Stella squeaked, “Not my room!” and Nebula slammed down her fist. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“And quarters,” she repeated. “No, Pap,” she moaned and looked around. The stacks of produce crates in the corner. Bags of bird and chicken feed they couldn’t keep in the shed because of mice. Pots and pans no one wanted to clean, the cutting board the only cleared surface on the counter, cupboards so stuffed with books, old school papers, hairbrushes and lost mittens that they no longer closed. Wide windowsills jumbled with knickknacks and whatever anyone found washed up on the beach. Lumpy chairs with threadbare upholstery. Swirls of dust along the baseboards leading to a narrow path between shoes and clean laundry up the staircase. It was home, and it was a mess.
“How?”
~~~
If you like this story, check out the first in the series, The Witch of the Meadows!
Leave a Reply