Page 127 of Lore of the Tides

Finn smiled. “Thought so.”

“We are still finalizing those details,” Lore said as she headed toward the door, her baby quilt wrapped around her. “Is it too early for wine?” Lore called over her shoulder.

“No such thing as ‘too early’ when it comes to wine!” Hazen rasped from the corner.

“Yes, I will take some wine, Lore. Finn, explain everything to me once more—and I know how you can be—donotleave out a single detail,” Lore heard Isla exclaim, muffled as Lore descended the creaking stairs into the cellar.

Lore lit a stub of candle with a striking stone and perused the shelves.

Uncle Salim carved the shelves in here directly into the stone before Lore had even been born, and his craftmanship had proved its worth. They had shielded nearly all his stores during the earthshake.

She ran a hand across the dusty bottles, a sneeze escaping her as dust motes danced in the candle’s flickering flame.

The cellar, nestled underground, maintained a constant temperature year-round. It was cool, yet warmer than the house had been last night, before Lore and Finn had lit the fires in the dormitory, her aunt and uncle’s room, and the family room.

The familiar smell of the cellar, with its comforting blend of dust and age, enveloped her. She picked up a bottle and blew the dust off the label. Some of these were old. This one had been bottled the year of her birth.

A fitting coincidence, as her nameday was approaching. Lore hoped she would live to see twenty-two.

As she prepared to leave, her gaze lingered on a row of reflective bottles that hadn’t yet had time to gather dust. These would be the last bottles of wine Salim would ever make here.

But when they settled into their new home, he could make more, explore new flavors, and do it all without the constant fear of being slain by an arrow-happy sentry for some imagined offense.

“Breakfast is in the kitchen. You should eat something before we head to Wyndlin Castle.” Grey’s voice drifted down from above Lore, his footsteps creaking on the stairs.

Lore hugged her chosen bottle to her chest. “Do you rememberthat time we pilfered two bottles from here and drank them by the lake?”

“Seven years isn’t so long; how could I forget?”

That night, the wine had been sweet, and Lore, then, had fancied herself mature enough to drink. There hadn’t been a breeze to be found, and the lake had been still as glass. The moonlight reflected off the surface, illuminating Grey’s face. It lit him up on the outside, matching the light within him.

That year had been harsh for everyone. Cold and wet—many of their food stores had had to be disposed of due to mold. Everyone was hungry, but that year was particularly hard on Grey.

His uncle, who had stepped up to fill his father’s role, had just been murdered in cold blood, going the way of too many human men—careless brutality carried out by a sentry who never had to fear facing consequences for his actions. Grey saw that sentry every day that year, as he was stationed on the edge of the wood right near his house. He had to look upon his face, walk past him, deal with the cruel jokes they tossed at the human children like poisoned candy, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

It was made worse because that was how his own father had died. Lore’s too.

They drank their pilfered wine straight from the bottle, pouring a splash in the tall grass that had been pressed down by their bodies as they lay under the stars, a pour for each of their fathers and now one for his uncle. They downed the maroon liquid to the dregs at the bottom of each bottle, the sediment clinging to their teeth because they were not yet fifteen and didn’t know any better. The wine muddled their thoughts and softened their grief, so it didn’t feel as jagged edged and dangerous; it was, for the moment, an accustomed ache, manageable, not all-consuming.

Aunty Eshe, who had a sense for these things, came roaring down the hill to the lake, her footsteps like thunder. But Lore and Grey, by then, were holding each other, their arms clasped fiercely,as if any moment they would be ripped from each other and their hands left empty, as their loved ones had been.

The wine had allowed them to laugh, something that hadn’t happened often that year. They found themselves laughing through their tears, and even Eshe didn’t have the heart to scold them too badly for stealing the wine, for their attempt at experiencing what little they could reclaim of their stolen youth.

After that, though, Eshe had Salim install a lock on the cellar and kept a better tally of his stores.

“I see you have access to the cellar’s key now.”

“Finally,” she said with a dramatic huff. “I’m planning on having a glass with breakfast. Steady my nerves.”

“One glass. Everyone knows you can’t hold your liquor.”

Lore pouted, her face theatrical. “Not when I was fifteen, sure. But I can now.” She wriggled her eyebrows. “Do you want to join me?”

Grey eyed the bottle, his face pulling into a grimace.

“I’d better not. When I have a glass, it reminds me of Queen Riella’s wine. The craving for it becomes more prominent, harder to quell.”

Lore wanted to kick herself. She was so stupid for even offering him a glass. “I see. I’m happy you are managing it, though.”

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