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The urge to scream and throw things almost had Iryana reaching for the wall coverings as she stormed past, but she balled her fists and urged herself to keep it together a little longer. She couldn’t handle this overwhelming pain and rage. Needed to numb it enough that she could breathe and keep moving.

Iryana pushed open the door to Edvar’s room to find him sitting on his bed, fixing the fletching on his arrows. He jumped when she stomped in.

“Iryana?”

“I need vodka.” She stared at him, daring Edvar to argue.

“What do you need—”

“Not right now, Edvar,” Misha snapped, coming up behind her.

Their cousin pointed to one of the chests, and Iryana threw it open, grabbing the largest, fullest bottle she could find. She didn’t care what it was.

“Thanks,” Iryana said, holding up the bottle as she swept out of the room as quickly as she’d entered.

“Night,” Misha added, shutting the door behind them.

As soon as she was in their room, Iryana tossed the alcohol onto the bed and started ripping off her suffocating coats and layers. She could breathe a little easier once they were strewn around the room. Then she climbed onto her bed, and slid her back down the wall. Misha and Hadima followed, sitting on their own beds.

Iryana tipped the bottle back and let the alcohol burn down her throat. She hardly tasted it.

Her mother had been so close all this time. Hiding out beyond the wall at an earth settlement? She couldn’t believe it.

What would her mother think of how much Iryana had fallen apart after her father died. Would she think they were the same in all this? Both broken by the same man? Hadn’t Iryana considered leaving at one point too?

She took another swig of alcohol.

“Pass it over.” Hadima held out her hand.

“Are you really going to tell me not to drink right now?”

“No, I’m going to join you.” Hadima looked as hollowed out as Iryana felt.

Iryana hesitated, and then she handed the bottle over.

Hadima held the vodka up to her nose and sniffed it, her whole face scrunching up with disgust. But she tipped the bottle and swallowed three large mouthfuls before erupting into a coughing fit.

Iryana took the vodka back, downing another swig.

“This is a fucking mess,” she groaned.

Misha snorted. “At least she’ll be gone soon.”

Hadima sucked in a pained breath, collapsing against her pillows.

Iryana looked at her sisters, really looked at them. She was in pain, probably still in shock. But her sisters were hurting too, and that only made her angrier at their mother. For coming back now, just to hurt them again.

“How can you forgive her so easily, Hadi?” Iryana asked, thinking of that hug they’d shared before leaving the tent.

“It… It’s not that I forgive her,” she answered slowly. “I was thirteen when you all left for the cottage, and mother was the most caring, gentle person I’ve ever met. She was there for me through losing our home. Though living in the woods as we fled from the dakii. Through having Misha. She didn’t break from any of it. It’s hard for me to imagine the mother I remember leaving us. I have to assume whatever she went through changed her completely.”

Iryana dropped her head back against the wall, eyes burning.

She was back in the cottage, always reeking of festering wounds and the poppy. It was easier to picture her mother now, though she’d been much thinner back then. She moved through the house like a ghost, voice always a whisper and hands careful not to make a sound. Iryana and Misha had always been sent out to do the chores in the yard and barn, to keep them from upsetting their father. And yet he would still rage. Yelling and grabbing and hitting. They could hear it through the doors and walls, even when they couldn’t see it themselves. Iryana always thought it was the words that hurt their mother the worst.

He blamed her for not being gentle with his wounds, for how slowly he was healing.

Yelled at her for not letting him walk around, then blamed her when it hurt too much or he collapsed from trying. He called her horrible, horrible names that a husband should never utter to his wife. Accused her of wishing he’d just die already. Said she was cruel and enjoyed his suffering. And still their mother wiped the sweat off his brow, changed his sheets, cleaned him with soft cloths, and brewed his poppy tea. Until that day she went foraging and never came back.