Page 89 of Two Hit Wonder

"Eejit, stop. Eejit. EEJIT." Glinna was already moving, but Eejit had panicked now, careening around the garden like a woolly pinball with a bucket for a face. She crashed into the wall, bounced off a garden chair, and narrowly missed trampling Isla, who was laughing so hard she'd fallen over.

It took both of them to corner her. Maeve grabbed the sheep's woolly backside while Glinna worked the pot free with a series of sharp tugs and an impressive amount of swearing.

"There," Glinna said finally, holding the pot aloft like a trophy. Eejit, now sporting a white nose and a deeply offended expression, shook herself and stalked off to the far corner of the garden.

Hamish was still giggling. "She looked like a ghost!"

"She looked like an idiot," Maeve muttered. "Which is appropriate, given her name."

They returned to painting. Maeve's heart rate slowly returned to normal. The twins had moved on to attempting to build a dam in a small muddy puddle.

"I don't know what's going on with my life," Maeve said, surprising herself. The words just came out, like the whitewash had loosened something. "It got… complicated."

Glinna didn't look at her. Just kept painting, steady strokes. "It's only complicated because you make it complicated. You can't go around blaming other people for things all the time."

"They lied to me."

"Can you not understand why?"

Maeve's brush stopped. She stared at the wall, at the wet white paint covering the old stone. "Maybe," she said finally. Then, quieter: "Yes. I can understand." She of all people could understand wanting to keep something private, wanting to control your own narrative. She couldn’t blame Ellie for that, and couldn’t blame Cam for keeping her secret and doing what needed to be done. It was right, in the end, wasn’t it? Annoying and slightly hurtful and yet still right.

"So it comes down to Iona, then. Doesn't it?"

And there it was. Maeve gritted her teeth. "Yes."

"And?"

"And what I did is unforgivable." The word tasted like sour lemon, and she hated it and hated herself. "I hit her, Glinna. I actually…" She couldn't finish.

Glinna set down her brush. When she spoke, her voice was gentler than before. "I know you're afraid. Afraid of taking risks, letting people in. But that's what life is, Maeve. A constant risk. You can hide away if you want, but that's not living. That's just waiting."

"I'm not hiding. I'm…"

"You're hiding. You've been hiding for fifteen years. And you're good at it, I'll give you that. But good at hiding isn't the same as good at living." Glinna turned to face her. "The punch isn't yours to forgive. You lost that right when you put your hands on another person. That's for Iona to decide. And pretending otherwise is just another way of hiding."

Maeve felt the words settle into her bones. She wanted to argue, to deflect, to make a joke and change the subject. But Glinna was looking at her with that expression she had, the one that saw straight through Maeve and her excuses.

A shriek from the garden saved her from having to respond. Isla had somehow gotten onto Eejit's back and was clinging to the sheep's wool with both hands while Eejit bucked and spun in outraged circles.

"Isla Campbell, you get off that sheep this instant!"

Glinna sprinted across the garden. Maeve watched her scoop Isla off mid-buck, check her for injuries, deliver a stern lecture about not riding animals without permission, and then somehow produce a tissue to wipe mud off Hamish's face, all in the space of about thirty seconds.

This was what Glinna had built. A life. A family. A version of happiness that involved chaos and whitewash and children who tried to ride sheep. Maeve thought about what she knew of Glinna's past. The wildness of her twenties. The mother she'd stolen from, the bridges she'd burned. The slow, painful process of becoming someone different.

If Glinna could do it, with everything she'd done…

From inside the cottage, a thin cry rose. Charity, who had been napping in the kitchen, was awake.

"I've got her," Maeve called, already moving.

The kitchen was warm. Charity was in her portable cot by the window, red-faced and furious about being awake. Maeve picked her up carefully, supporting her head the way Glinna had shown her, and the crying subsided into hiccupping sniffles.

"Alright," Maeve murmured. "Alright. I've got you."

She was so small. So warm. Her tiny hand curled around Maeve's finger with surprising strength, and Maeve felt something shift in her chest. She thought about Glinna, out there in the garden, with her six children and her chaotic life and her willingness to love things that could hurt her. The risk Glinna took every single day, just by caring.

It would be easier, Maeve thought, to keep all those children inside and safe. To wrap them in cotton wool and never let them climb trees or ride sheep or fall in love. But that wasn't what Glinna did. That wasn't what anyone who was actually living did.