Of the Blood | ✔️

One

I swallow, pushing down the emotions I never allow to spill over. "Yes, just like Mama and Grace. That's why we're here—to say goodbye. Do you understand?"

"I understand." He continues to chew his lip and turns back to his friend.

Only days ago, Andrew Milton scurried about town, his eyes the same vibrant blue as the ocean. He was healthy, happy, as every ten-year-old should be. Today, he's confined to his bed, too weak to eat, too fragile to speak. Too exhausted to notice we're here. No telling why. The doctor, who lives two towns away, hasn't been here in over a month.

In the kitchen behind us, burning timbers hiss around the stove vent. I glance over my shoulder at the people gathered near its warmth. Andrew's father, his mother, and younger sister Agnes. Papa's there too, still holding the pot of venison stew we brought with us so Mrs. Milton wouldn't have to cook. She's sniffling again, her cheeks raw from tears, lips chapped over and crusted with blood. Her husband tries to coax her with a steaming mug of tea but she pushes it away, her mouth a stubborn line of noncompliance.

A rustle from the bed draws me back, a rasping wheeze that claws its way out from beneath the covers. And then stillness. Silence. The quiet swallows me like a fog.

Honor curls into me. "Sissy, is he...?"

My lips part, but whatever I'm about to say is wedged between my brain and my mouth. We step further inside the bedroom, our boots whispering against the wooden floor. Waiting for a sigh of breath, for the slightest hint of movement. A trace of something, anything, to confirm Andrew's still here.

Finally, an exhale of air. Yet my feet won't budge.

"You can go in," a small voice says from behind us.
When I turn around, Agnes Milton stares up at me with vacant eyes. "Andrew hasn't woken up in two days. You won't bother him."

I want to tell her I'm sorry. That life pulses with unpredictability, and situations we can't always control. But then the moment slips away, the unspoken words scattering like fragments of a dream.

Agnes pivots on her heel and returns to her parents' side, her steps weighted with fatigue.

I take a slow breath to ground myself. "Are you ready?" I murmur to Honor, propelling us toward the bed.

We drop to our knees, hands pressed together, fingers like church steeples atop the quilt. Curiosity gets the best of me. I lean closer and peek inside the covers. Andrew's eyes recede, sunken and closed, his dark hair slick with perspiration. A tang of kerosene wafts up from beneath his nightshirt, the oil slathered across his chest to ease the rattle in his lungs. It's not helping.

Honor scoots closer, closer, until his elbow touches mine, his chin hovering mere inches above the bed. "What should we do now?"

I bow my head, clench and unclench my jaw. "We pray."

I reach for Andrew's hand and search for words of peace. His skin is clammy, his breaths rasping and shallow. "I'll watch out for Agnes," I tell him. "Whenever she's sad, I'll remind her of happier times. Like when the two of you would swing from the willow trees, or collect seashells along the shore—"

"I collected seashells with them, too!" Honor interrupts with a jab.

"Yes, Honor. You collected shells, too." I take a breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth, and start again. "I won't let your sister remember you this way—I promise."

I wait for Andrew to squeeze my hand, for the slightest twitch of understanding. It doesn't come.

A sudden draft squeals around the window. It rattles the glass and agitates the black veil covering the mirror, a precaution meant to keep Andrew's soul from getting trapped in the reflection.