CHAPTER 15

And so they healed.

Supplies came first—lumber, mortar, bricks, nails, shingles—the tools to patch the orphanage. Plants and animals came second—trees, seeds, sheep and chickens—the tools to sustain it. Next, wooden crates hauled new textbooks from Australia, not from England, textbooks where Australia’s history didn’t end in the early part of the century, where more discoveries than the first Swan colony filled its pages and the maps proved that yes, Western Australia was a territory. Leonora’s money, though not a lot, had gone far and Father McIntyre held no more regret in using it.

And so they healed.

James’s hand mended and its wound left no scar, but the memory of his knuckles against bone had changed him. He hated cruelty, violence—it made him sick to his stomach—but this was different; this had been justice and he’d known nothing of it before. He had always felt the jabs and punches of inaction, a helplessness that soured and left him weak. But justice tingled his blood.

His mother’s diary still held tight to his back at every moment, though gone was the fear of its discovery. And in the parts that he read the etchings of a mother and a father had begun to take form and they spoke to him with guidance. His mother was closest when he smiled or smirked or sat quiet without scowl. This woman was made of sun and warm breezes and the perfume of flowers. His father was closest when he worked or studied hard, when he grunted under the weight of filled burlap or galloped the horses at top speed. This man was made of earth and strong wind and the scent of freshly scythed grass. But he never felt his father so close as when he clobbered those boys and his father whispered in his ear, not with malice or with hate, but with righteousness. And when it was done, and his hand lay cut and open, there was approval and pride. For a man, a man, stands up for those who can’t stand or speak for themselves.

And so they healed.

James was quiet next to Leonora and even the waves seemed hushed below their dangling feet. She scanned his profile, searching for the reason of his silence and with clear worry that she was the one who had caused it. But she needn’t have worried. His silence was active and slightly embarrassed and had everything to do with the butterflies dancing in his stomach.

James stood suddenly and reached inside a hollow log cradled between roots. He returned with hands behind his back. He stared at the ground between them for a moment before thrusting out a hand, a brown-papered package held in his palm. “It’s for you, Leo.”

James bent to his knees and watched as her thin fingers pulled at the light rope that gathered the paper in a neat pinch. The brown paper opened and she did not move, did not blink.

“I made it,” he hurried, then swallowed. “I’ve been working on it for weeks.” His nerves twitched under the silence. “Do . . . do you like it?”

Still she did not raise her head or flicker an eyelash and his chest fell. He was a fool! A pile of sticks—tiny sticks intertwined with yellow feathers into a scrawny nest. He wanted it to remind her of the bird, the happy memories. He had even smoothed a small, white stone to a perfect egg and placed it in the middle. But it was fragile and rudimentary and laughable.

He blushed. “It’s stupid. Never mind.” He grabbed for it, but she pulled it to her chest defiantly and her eyes were stretched and wet.

He sat back then on his heels and the butterflies left his stomach and he knew she saw the beauty in the gift. She carefully pulled the brown paper away and let it float to the ground while she cradled the round weave of sticks and feathers delicately in her palm. She picked up the tiny stone egg and held it to the sun where it reflected perfectly in the light. She touched the yellow feathers tenderly, a slight smile upon her lips with a beautiful memory. When she looked at him again, her eyes were two glistening pools of wonder and gratitude.

Then the winds hushed and a new sound, never before part of the sea or the cliffs, a sound as delicate as flower petals and as beautiful as the tiniest songbird, wafted from the softest of souls. Leonora’s lips parted. “Thank you.”

And so they healed.