Frae still decided to go to him first with her troubles.
She approached his door and knocked. “Jack?”
“Come in, Frae.”
The door creaked open, and Frae politely peered inside. She saw her older brother sitting at his desk before the window. The shutters were open, welcoming in the cool summer dusk and the song of an owl, and on his desk was a strange array of moss, bracken, wilted wildflowers, small branches, and braided grass.
“What are you doing?” she asked, drawn to the strangeness until she stepped closer and saw that he had been writing musical notes on parchment.
“I’m working on a new composition,” he said, setting down his quill to smile at her. Ink stained his fingers and his hair looked messy, but Frae didn’t say anything. She had noticed Jack was not the neatest of people and often left his plaid and clothes crumpled on the floor.
“Will I get to hear it?” she asked.
“Maybe. This song is for an important task, but I can play another one just for you.”
“Tonight?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. “I’m afraid I need to get this ballad done as quickly as possible.”
“Oh.”
“Did you need help with something, Frae?”
That reminded her. She blurted out, “The fire died.”
Jack frowned. “Do you need me to build a new one?”
“I mean, I tried to,” she said. “It won’t light, and I don’t know what to do.”
Her brother rose from his chair and walked into the dim common room. Frae followed, biting a hangnail. She watched as Jack reached for kindling in the basket, as he stacked fresh wood in the hearth. The flint sparked in his hand, but the fire refused to take. Eventually he leaned back on his heels, starting at the ashes.
“Do you think it’s because of the harp?” Frae whispered.
Jack glanced at her sharply. “The harp?”
“The new one you brought home yesterday. Perhaps the fire wants you to play it.”
He didn’t have time to respond. The front door swung open as Mirin returned from the garden. Their mother draped her shawl by the door and then glanced at them.
“What happened to the fire?” she asked, setting her harvest basket on the table.
“I think the kindling and wood might be bad,” Jack said, straightening.
Mirin arched a dark brow, noticing the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth. She and Frae had just gathered it two days earlier from the Aithwood. And it had never refused to burn before.
“I’ll go gather some fresh wood from the forest,” Jack offered.
Frae’s heart stuttered in her chest. She reached out to snag Jack’s sleeve. “But it’s almost night! You shouldn’t go into the Aithwood when it’s dark.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
Frae almost rolled her eyes at him. Sometimes Jack didn’t listen very well, especially when he was wrapped up in his music and seemed to forget which realm he lived in.
“Your sister’s right,” Mirin said. “Save it for tomorrow, Jack. We can eat cold soup by candlelight tonight.”
Frae watched as Mirin attempted to light the tapers. The sun had fully set now, and darkness was blooming in the cottage. But Frae could see how her mother struggled with the flint. Her fingers were stiff from all the magical weaving she had been doing lately. Not even Sidra’s salves could help with the inflammation, and Frae shivered when Mirin handed the flint to Jack in defeat.
But when Jack tried to light the candles, the fire wouldn’t take to the wicks. In the dimness, Frae could see her brother’s deep scowl and the gleam of worry in his eyes.
“What are we going to do?” Frae asked.
“Come, both of you sit at the table!” Jack said in an unusually sprightly voice, setting the flint aside.
When Mirin and Frae continued to stand, shocked by his bright tone, he took their arms and guided them. He sat Mirin down first, then Frae, before he turned to the kitchen cupboard and rummaged through it.
“What are you doing, Jack?” Frae asked, rising from her seat. He was acting like nothing was wrong, and it puzzled her.
“I’m bringing you dinner. Please sit down, Frae.”
“But the fire!”
“We don’t need it tonight,” Jack said over his shoulder. Again, the blithe tone of his voice didn’t quite match his personality. But Frae couldn’t deny that his cheerfulness made her feel better about their situation.
If Jack wasn’t worried, then she shouldn’t be either.