For several days, the leather sketchbook lay with the charcoals on its packaging beside the bales of hay Prim slept on. Each day when she woke up, she would touch the cover, feeling the smooth leather.

  On the third morning, Prim stood, gazing down at the sketchbook longer than she usual would.

  Could she be the kind of person who drew pictures again? What would she draw? What about her did Daks see that made him think she could be an artist?

  Then a memory appeared in her mind as clear as day:

  Airienn eye-to-eye with Prim. Airienn wore a long, deep purple gown, her eyes the blue of the sea during a storm, her white hair wild. She held out a pad of paper and a box of wax crayons. “This is for you, Primrose,” she said in her low, penetrating voice.

  That had been so long ago. Prim had forgotten. She took the sketchbook and charcoals with her to the house.

  That afternoon, when Ora was playing upstairs in her room, and Daks was out tending to the horses, Prim sat down at the kitchen table. She opened the sketchbook to the first page. Then she picked up a piece of charcoal. The emptiness of the spotless paper stared back at her, unblinking.

  Determined, Prim touched the charcoal to the paper and dragged it across the page…around…and around…and over. At some points she drew slowly and then, at other times, swiftly. When she stopped drawing, there was a chicken on the piece of paper. It took up half the page, simple, jagged, and smudged. But surprisingly decent for someone who hadn’t drawn in seven years. But there it was. She smiled, satisfied with her first drawing as an adult. She looked down at her black hands.

  “You’re drawing!”

  Prim jumped. “Oh!” Daks had returned. “Yes!—I thought I’d try it. I haven’t drawn in so long! I forgot I used to draw. Using charcoal was different.”

  “It’s a great start!”

  She was surprised by his enthusiasm, but it made her feel so warm. “Thank you.”

  Daks started to walk away.

  “Daks?”

  “Yes?”

  “I just—I just remembered something.”

  “What?”

  “The Wakeman used to visit the orphanage. One time when they came, they gave me a sketchbook and crayons. From then on, I drew all the time. I drew everything and everywhere. I would even draw in the bits of moonlight after curfew.” She chuckled. “One time, I got in trouble for trying to draw in the privy.”

  “Why did you stop drawing?”

  “Oh, one day this awful boy—Sherwin—took my crayons and sketchbook and threw them in the fireplace while I was asleep. That was my first fight. And…I just gave up on drawing.”

  “I’m sorry he did that. I would have fought him for that, too.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Well, thank you. But I wasn’t trying to tell you another sad story about my life. I wanted to thank you for this sketchbook—for reminding me of this thing that I used to love so much and for giving me the tools to be able to do it once more. I won’t forget that part of myself ever again. Thank you so much.” Without a thought, she jumped up and held Daks tightly. “Thank you, Daks.”

  “Oh! You’re welcome. Glad I could help.”

  He stood stiff in the sudden act of affection. At this realization, Prim became self-conscious and pulled away.

  “Ora, please come down here! I need to measure you!”

  Daks had asked Prim to make a new dress for Ora with the fabric he bought in town. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding the measuring tape, one hand on her hip.

  Ora came bounding down the stairs, her dress barely touching her knee.

  “Ora, you are growing—quick as a weed!”

  The girl grinned. “I know! Daidi says soon I’ll be able to wrangle cows all by myself!”

  “Come here, big girl!”

  Ora stood still as a stone as Prim wrapped measuring tape around her in all the different ways, marking down the measurements in her sketchbook.

  When Prim had finished, she kneeled down in front of Ora and looked at her in the eyes. Ora’s eyes were so…soft and unburdened. Prim couldn’t recall ever being so free. “Ora, you are beautiful and kind. Don’t change.” She kissed the girl on the forehead who let out a little giggle.

  That evening, Daks sat softly playing his violin as Prim helped Ora sew the dress.

  “Knots are dumb, and I hate them!” Ora exclaimed.

  Prim laughed. “I agree, especially with thread. But you can do it.”

  Ora growled. “Atcha.”

  Daks stopped playing. “Prim, it’s getting much colder. I think you should sleep in the house.”

  “Oh! That would be nice. It’s definitely warmer in here—and less itchy.” She chuckled.

  “The bed is all made up so I can take you up there whenever you’re ready to sleep.”

  “The bed? In your room? I thought I’d sleep on the sofa. Or I could sleep on the floor in Ora’s room if she doesn’t mind.”

  “No, no, I haven’t slept in the bedroom since Quin…Might as well put it to good use. Please.”

  “Atcha. If you’re very sure.”

  “Of course.”

  Later that evening, once Ora had gone to bed, and Prim had retrieved her belongings from the barn, Daks led Prim upstairs to the bedroom.

  As soon as he opened the door, a heavy weight hit him, and he had to steady himself. Prim would have no notion of the beautiful memory trove she was walking into. It threatened to crush Daks. He worked to keep his breathing slow, just a normal breathing pace. But he couldn’t remember how normal breathing worked.

  His and Quin’s bed stared at him, overlaid with a blue and white quilt—the quilt Aunt Edmey had given them when they were first married. A nightstand on either side, each with a partially burned candlestick. The bed stood on a woven, mustard yellow rug.

  Seashells of different kinds and colors were scattered on the left side nightstand and on the dresser. He wished they could have gone to the beach for a picnic one last time. If only he could have given her one more seashell.

  He pushed out a breath of air, slowly, very slowly.

  He needed to get out.

  “May I use your candle to light one of these?”

  Daks jolted. “Oh! What? Oh, yes, of course.”

  Prim grabbed one of the candles. Then she tipped it into his until a small white flame appeared. “Are you well?”

  Daks jolted again. He had been focusing on the flame, and the wick and the candle and…just not the room, anything but the room. “Oh? Oh, yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking. I suppose. I—I—I’m fine.”

  Her brows knit together. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes. I just need some rest.” He took a step back and heard a crack. He looked down to see a lavender-colored seashell broken in multiple pieces. It must have fallen at some point. Tears began to well up in his eyes. “Good night, Prim.” He quickly stomped out of the room.

  A long walk would be good. A body in motion and fresh air—even freezing air—would do the trick. So many jumbled thoughts and crashing waves of heartache. A walk always helped. He could check on the animals while he was out.

  The crickets taunted Daks with unceasing chirps. The cacophony of wings flapping above his head in the dark startled him. A bat mayhaps? Even his own feet crushing dead grass and leaves and twigs was jarring and irritating. He got as far as the chicken cype and turned around and marched right back to the house.

  The walk had not helped. Not one bit.