“I made her a book a few years ago,” Brella murmured. “It was blank. I assumed she could write. I thought maybe the fae had a written language. I was w-wrong.” Her voice hitched. “I hadn’t even brought a quill. I thought she would already have one. I should have asked. And she was so disappointed. That there was this thing in front of her, blank and ready for her stories, and she had no way to use it. That I hadn’t asked.”

Her voice broke. She brought a hand to her eyes and breathed for a few moments. “The next time I came, I brought her a quill and the primer books my siblings and I learned how to read on. She and Uncle traveled with Vel and me so I could teach her to read. I taught Uncle, too, because he was interested. We all knew he would forget. I almost said no. Teaching Aunt was hard enough. But Uncle said that dying soon didn’t mean he couldn’t learn to read in this lifetime, even if he forgot in the next. It turned out to be rather easy to teach him. They both picked it up quickly, and Aunt started writing their life into the book.

“What I hadn’t expected was that Uncle wrote in the book, too. Aunt wrote their stories from the front and Uncle wrote from the back. Not stories, though. He wrote her notes. She let me see them once. Just a few. He wrote things like ‘When I’m dead, miss me, but not too much,’ and ‘Hold a gold button from my waistcoat to your mouth. If it’s cool, I’m thinking of you. If it’s warm, I’m thinking of you.’ He wrote ‘If you can’t get me back this time, my sweet, don’t despair. Don’t blame yourself. You know I never truly leave you.’”

Brella finally turned away from the trees. The red that rimmed her eyes made the amber of her irises even brighter, two gold waistcoat buttons floating in watery whiteness. She smiled, but there was something broken in the way her lower lip trembled.

“I always think I’m right, Scratch. I never ask what people want. I just give. I give wrong. I give burdens, sometimes. And I never give other people room to surprise me. I almost didn’t teach Uncle how to write. I didn’t think there was a point. But there was.”

“Brella—”