Sisters of Icarus

By Becca Lusher

Once there was an island, and on that island there lived a boy, but before that boy there was another child. And before that child there were three sisters.
Those sisters had a brother.
His name was Icarus.

Britain 163 BC

On a small island just off the south coast, three sisters are determined to survive against nature's unmerciful odds, but their brother is mad, everyone thinks they are strange and old voices cry on the wind.

Battling against love, grief, selkies and ghosts, middle sister Raccanta will face many tests of her strength if she intends to keep her sisters safe – and her promises intact. For on the mainland there lives a man who walks the woods and shows Raccanta a world that could tempt her far away.

Except the island keeps what it takes and it has no intentions of letting any of its sisters go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becca Lusher
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311683694

Becca Lusher

Having an overactive imagination hasn’t always been a good thing: I spent much of my childhood scared of the dark and terrified by the stories my older sister told me (mostly to stop her being the only one afraid of the dark). These days I find it useful. I love stories, I love fantasy, I love things with wings, stars and the world around me, and I have great fun combining them all into my stories.Born in the UK, I live in the wild south-west where I run around with my dogs and get bossed about by cats, while taking photos of gorgeous landscapes, reading lots of books and climbing rocks.I’ve also been known to write stories.

Book preview

The Stranger

ONCE THERE WAS an island and for many seasons and many suns it was empty and abandoned; an isolated place that squatted in the sea. Little more than an overgrown rock, it sat low on the horizon, just visible from the mainland shore. None lived there; none quite dared. They said it was the home of the sea goddess, the Hungry One, who gnawed at the land day and night, never sating her furious hunger. They said spirits haunted its shores, devouring all men who dared to walk there.

They said a lot of things. They always did.

Nothing they said could stop the stranger, though. A man from distant lands, with hair as dark as a pine marten’s pelt and skin as brown as weathered wood. He spoke strange words that none could understand and came with items to trade. They had met others like him before, of course, but he was the only one who stayed. He settled on the island and the people were curious at first, waiting to see what the sea goddess would do. Would she eat him? Gnaw at him day and night until he was half a man, then quarter, then nothing.

Nothing is all that happened. Or nothing is all they saw.

Instead the stranger settled on the island and seemed to make himself at home. How he came to be there none quite knew, for he had no great ship to carry him over the Hungry One’s waters. Instead he had a little boat, one made up from driftwood and scraps of what few trees grew on the island. He came to the mainland shore, he smiled and bartered and took away food and tools and stone. People were always curious about the stone.

Then one day he took away a wife. Not the prettiest girl on the shore, but likely the boldest. She wanted adventure and got it with her stranger. He took her back to the island and from that day forward the people never saw him again. Instead she came to shore for food and tools and stone. At first she smiled, but over time her face grew harder, her smiles rarer. She would not speak of the man or the island or the stone. She came, she traded with shellfish and driftwood, and she returned to the island.

The people were curious, though never so much as to visit. Perhaps the Hungry One was at work after all. Perhaps she was gnawing gently on her captives, wearing them away the tiniest bit at a time.

A strange place with stranger people, yet after a while the mystery faded. Perhaps he was just a bad husband. Perhaps she was destined to be unhappy, bold as she had always been. No one thought much of it for a time.

Until the fishermen told stories and the traders carried tales. The island was changing shape. Not by much, but on the south-western point, the highest place on the island, something was growing. It wasn’t a tree, for it was made of stone and it pointed straight at the sky like a fat finger. And soon the woman stopped coming to the mainland, stopped trading shellfish and driftwood for food and tools and stone.

And the people never did find out what the finger was for.

One

Lughnasadh

IT WAS PERFECT. He held the feather up to the light, running a finger down the edge to pull the clever fibres apart. A single upstroke and they all clung back together again. It was even tighter and cleverer than the spinning that obsessed his sisters all day, every day. He rippled his thumb along the edge again, feeling the softness, then swept the feather through the air, relishing the strength in its resistance.

Such perfection, such glory. So clever.

He took another one from his collection, and another, and another. White gull feathers, tipped with black; a cormorant’s narrow darkness, shot through with green; glorious brightness from a gannet’s wing; the pitch black of a crow; the tiny perfection of an entire wren; the bold gloss from a river duck. They spread out across the floor, so many colours, so many sizes, but all the same design, all of them for the same purpose.

How he envied them.

Is it enough? he murmured, looking down at the collection he’d laid around him, each in its assigned place. Will it ever be enough? Yet it had to be. He’d waited so long. Surely it was time. He’d been so patient. It must be time now.

I will make it so, he whispered to the feathers around his feet. Then he turned to the wood he’d prepared and started to build.

AND WHEN SHE first arrived on the island she found him living in a cave like a hermit, while his tower stood half-built on the cliffs. Tell me what happened next, Cana.

Raccanta looked up from the corn doll she was making and smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm. No matter how many times she was told this story, Simmine still wanted to hear it again. Probably because as the youngest she didn’t remember much of their mother, and far, far less of their father. So Raccanta tied two stalks of ripe corn to her doll, set it aside and smiled at her sister. Simmine looked back expectantly with eyes the same shade as their mother’s – beautiful blue-grey, like the sea after a storm.

When Mam first saw our father, long before she ever came to the island, he was like a twig man, all elbows and knees. His face was covered in an unkempt mass of salt-crusted hair, the shade darker than any she’d ever seen before. He wore nothing but short braccae, and they were full of holes.

And she loved him instantly! Simmine cried, hugging her half-finished doll to her chest.

Raccanta grinned. Actually she screamed and ran back to her brothers for protection. She’d stowed away on their supply boat when they came downriver, bringing fresh stones for the madman from the island.

Oh. Simmine’s shoulders sagged, as they did every time, as though she’d secretly hoped that this time the story would be different. Would turn out happier. Would start and end in a perfect love story. What happened then?

She went home, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the wild man on the island, with his beard like a bush and his eyes like fire. A new voice took up the tale. Raccanta turned, shading her eyes against the bright morning sun, surprised to see her older sister back so early. And since she most certain liked a challenge, our mother came back to town again and again to meet the man from the island, until one day she followed him home. That’s when she saw the cave and the squalor, but she didn’t run away, she just stayed here until our father grew used to her presence. Until he came to rely on her for food and other things. And she helped him build his tower, hoping that one day he would look at her with the same longing he saved for the southern horizon.

But he never did, Raccanta finished sadly, wondering all over again why their mother had come here, why she’d stayed.

No, he never did, Michra agreed. As the oldest she remembered their parents best. She’d seen things the others had been too young to notice and it brought a bitterness to her memories that her sisters found hard to understand.

Simmine wrinkled her nose. I prefer it when you tell the story, Cana.

While Raccanta chuckled, Michra sighed. You shouldn’t let her fill your heard with such nonsense, Simmi. Our parents did not share a great love story. They barely shared anything at all, despite our mother’s best efforts. Now, how are those dolls coming along?

The ones for the island are all done, Simmine said, allowing herself to be diverted and smiling proudly as she showed off the two dolls she’d made. It was Lughnasadh, the first day of autumn, when they said farewell to summer and looked forward to the harvest season. It was a day of thanks and hope and protection, and the dolls were an important part of their family’s traditions.

When Michra bent down to admire the dolls, Raccanta watched both her sisters and sighed. With their mother more than six summers gone, Michra had practically raised Simmine. Even now she was encouraging and kind, stroking the younger girl’s hair and helping her make her third and final doll. This was the Michra they saw every day, the one who loved them and cared for them. That was why her bitterness towards their parents, and especially their father, always surprised Raccanta when she heard it. What had her older sister seen or heard that Raccanta had missed? What could possibly make her hate their father so?

For herself, Raccanta remembered him as a sad man with faraway eyes. He’d always looked towards the sea; even in his rare moments of sleep he’d faced that way. Hoping, wishing, longing for something that never came. Yet occasionally and very, very rarely, he’d seemed to see his children. He’d been kind. He’d even smiled at Raccanta twice, stroking her hair and calling her soft names in his strange language that none of them could speak.

Until he was gone. Raccanta had been barely five winters old when he stepped into the fog, never to return. Michra had been nearer ten.

Raccanta remembered their mother much more clearly: a pretty woman, with a sad smile. Her eyes had followed her husband around until he left them forever. Then they turned northwards towards the distant shore, yet she never left the island, never took them away from here. Raccanta couldn’t help wondering why she’d stayed. What had kept her here? There was nothing but the house, the sheep and their father’s tower.

Thinking of that tower now, Raccanta reached for a fresh bundle of cornstalks and scowled towards the south-west. Where’s Icarus?

The cheerful flow of her sisters’ chatter stopped. Raccanta looked at Michra and raised her eyebrows. Their brother had always been Michra’s favourite and it had been him she’d chosen to take on her walk this morning, when she visited the fields and livestock at dawn, using ashes mixed with seawater to bless each and every one of them.

Michra hunched a shoulder defensively. He’ll be here. He’ll come.

Raccanta snorted but said nothing, looking down at the cornstalks in her hands instead and turning them into a doll. Unlike the other two she’d already made this morning, this one didn’t have a set form dictated by tradition. No, this was her doll. She could make it however she liked, just so long as it represented her and the tasks she performed. She wanted the spirits, gods and ancestors to recognise her, after all, or their protection would be wasted.

Silence fell over the three sisters as they worked, adding strands of their own hair, pieces of fleece, raw yarn, dyed cloth and other bits from around the island that best represented them and their daily tasks. Simmine used shells and sand on hers, while Michra preferred flowers taken from the crop fields. Raccanta braided together coloured yarn from their last dyeing day, adding tufts of fleece from the sheep flock she tended so diligently.

By the time she’d finished, her sisters had completed their dolls too and they had a small family of seven sitting in the sunshine, soaking up the precious heat.

What about Icarus? Simmine asked as their silence stretched out too long, broken only by the cries of seabirds passing overhead.

Michra bit her lip and stroked a tender finger over the scrap of weaving attached to her doll. Perhaps we should – she began, but Raccanta shook her head.

It has to be made by his own hand. You know that, Misha. If he doesn’t, then it won’t work. We can’t make it for him, not if we want him to be protected.

Her older sister sighed. I know. It’s just…

She didn’t finish; she didn’t need to – her sisters knew what she meant. Icarus was Icarus. Different, brilliant, infuriating. Today was one of the most important days on the island, one of the few when they actually needed him to be here, actually expected something of him. But he wasn’t here.

Maybe I should – Raccanta began, standing up.

No. It was Michra who cut her off this time. Don’t. No arguments, Cana. Not today. We don’t want to offend the gods.

Raccanta turned her head aside to hide her grimace. Personally, she thought the gods were more likely to take offence at being ignored than because she shouted at her brother. But Michra was the oldest and, no matter how little Raccanta had needed her in the years since their mother had died, she still listened to her. Mostly.

So Raccanta sighed and crouched down, reaching for the little collection of dolls. In that case, shall we begin without him and hope that he’ll join us before dark?

Picking up her own doll and a second one tied about with corn, Michra smiled gratefully. He’ll be there, she promised. He always is when it’s important.

Raccanta shared a silent look with Simmine, though neither of them said anything. They just picked up the dolls and headed towards the eastern side of the island, where the first protection stone was waiting for them.

ICARUS WAS SWEATING, his fingers aching with cramp, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet. He was almost done, almost there. The yarn that he’d stolen from his sisters’ spinning baskets would be enough, he was almost certain of it now, and a final pot of glue was bubbling on the fire. He was almost there, almost done.

His hand shook as he lifted another feather, part exhaustion, part excitement, as he dipped the quill in the paste then carefully, so carefully, laid it in place, pushing it into the perfect position. So close, so close now.

Using a damp cloth he carefully wiped the surrounding feathers, making sure they were clean, that no glue had smeared them. He would let no mistake, no matter how small, ruin all his hard work.

He was almost finished.

Reaching for another feather, Icarus dipped the shaking quill in the paste, rolled it along the edge of the bowl to coat it and smiled.

THEY STARTED IN the east, like the dawn and the day. With Michra leading, the three sisters wound their way through heather and gorse to a low, rocky outcrop. This side of the island was mostly beaches and coves, perfect for gathering all sorts of fruits from the sea. Today, however, they left the shore alone, their attention focused on a lone stone placed upright on the narrow promontory.

Reaching into the pouch at her belt, Michra drew out a length of yarn and bound a doll to the waist-high stone, facing east across the open sea towards sunrise. The standing stone’s weathered-grey granite faces were sprinkled with pale-green lichen and flecks of yellow. Raccanta remembered once asking her mother whether it was disrespectful to the gods and ancestors to let the stones grow so raggedy.

Her mother had smiled and assured her that as the gods and ancestors loved and protected us, so they sheltered all life and it was an honour for the stones to be so blessed.

The memory turned to the words her mother had used in those gone-by years, melding with Michra’s voice now. So similar, yet younger and less sure as she spoke the words of the ritual.

Great Father Sun, born in the East, who covers the sky in daylight and brings warmth to our world. You have watched over our crops and made them grow in your bright season, now we reap them and give thanks. She tied one last knot with an extra firm tug, securing the doll to the stone. Then she dropped to her knees and pressed her head to the granite. We give thanks.

As she rose and stepped aside, Raccanta took her place, sinking to her knees and touching the stone with her forehead. We give thanks, she echoed, then moved back so Simmine could kneel too.

We give thanks.

Then it was Simmine’s turn to lead them south. She did so with a cheerful hum in her throat, one which Raccanta couldn’t help but echo as they wove between the gorse and heather and climbed to where high cliffs stared out over complete emptiness. Here there weren’t even faded shadows of distant cliffs to break up the blue; just the rising surge of the sea meeting the paler line of the sky.

Another stone was waiting for them, a little shorter than the eastern one and perhaps a bit wider, but its faces were just as brightly speckled with lichen. It was against this southern splash of colour that Simmine bound a doll decorated with hanging shells.

Great Mother Sea, the restless and Hungry One, who lies in the South and brings fish to our shores, look kindly on your stranded children and brings us good fortune on your shifting tides. We honour you. Tugging on the final knot, she dropped to her knees and kissed the stone. We honour you.

Michra went next, but merely touched her forehead to the stone, not feeling the same kinship to the sea as Simmine did. We honour you.

Staring out at the rippling emptiness, Raccanta took a deep breath before she sank to her knees. We honour you, she echoed, though in truth the sea had always unnerved her. It was difficult to trust a goddess with such a changeable, shifting face. Still, it was better to honour her than offend her.

Stepping back from the stone, Raccanta turned to her sisters. They looked back. Icarus was still nowhere to be seen, so she sighed and turned northwards, leading her sisters across the centre of the island. It wasn’t strictly according to the tradition their mother had taught them, but it likely wouldn’t hurt this once.

The northern shore was the lowest on the island, without any cliffs at all. Here the grass sloped gently down to a golden beach, which in turn stared out over choppy waves towards the mainland shore. From here on such a clear day it was all red cliffs, red sands and tiny specks of boats and roundhouses. Raccanta ignored them, making her way instead to the tall stone that stood where the grass met the sea.

Great Brother Wind, who sleeps in the North, bringer of rain and clouds, who makes the grass grow to feed our sheep. You have been gentle in this season, and we ask your kindness for a quiet winter to come. We ask this of you. The doll she attached on the northern face was dressed in tufts of dark fleece, which fluttered in the breeze as she tugged tightly on the last knot. Then she pressed her forehead hard against the stone, silently begging the gods to hear her plea. We ask this of you.

Simmine came next, a gentle touch from a gentle girl. We ask this of you.

Then Michra, who like Raccanta pressed her forehead hard against the stone, knowing how important kind weather would be to getting their flock through the seasons to come. We ask this of you.

Be kind if you can, Raccanta murmured, brushing her fingers against the doll’s empty face. A breeze brushed against her cheeks, but she turned away, following her sisters into the west to where the fourth stone awaited them. This was Icarus’ stone, his turn to speak with the gods, but Raccanta felt no surprise when they arrived and found him still missing.

Simmine turned towards the tower looming on the south-western cliffs, the highest point on the whole island. Shall we…? Her voice trailed off at the glower on Michra’s face.

No. Leave him. I’ll do this one. He’s probably waiting for us in the grove. He still has to make his doll, remember.

Raccanta had not forgotten, though she held her tongue. Simmine looked equally unhappy but didn’t protest as Michra stepped forward to tie the fourth doll to its stone, this one wound about with strands from each of their heads.

Great Sister Moon, who sets in the West, bringer of night and dreams and darkness. Watch over our sleep and protect us in the shadows. Keep us safe. If Michra yanked the last knot into place with a particularly vicious tug, Raccanta couldn’t really blame her. Then her oldest sister dropped to her knees and kissed the stone. Keep us safe.

As Raccanta stepped forward a cloud passed over the sun, casting her in shadow and making her shiver as she knelt. She kissed the stone too. Keep us safe.

Simmine didn’t just kiss the stone, she cast her arms around it, pressing her cheek tightly against the granite. Protect us, she murmured. Keep us safe. Please.

The cloud passed on and sunlight poured down over them again, but Raccanta still felt cold as they turned their back on the west and headed for the centre of the island. It was only as they reached the oak grove that Raccanta realised that Icarus had forgotten to leave some hair for the western doll.

Not that it would matter. The moon protected the whole island, so the hair was just a symbol. Yet as she knelt with her sisters before the pile of stones that represented their parents, and brought out her last and most personal doll, she noticed again the absence of her brother and the chill of the passing cloud settled deep into her bones.

AT LAST, AT LAST! Icarus sat back on his heels, kneading his aching back with sore hands, and stared down at the glory spread out before him. Such wonder, such beauty. All his. The work of his hands, his mind, his dreams.

I knew I could do it, he murmured, squinting as the sun crested the western window and glared in at him. Icarus turned his head away and ignored it, just as he ignored the shadows gathering in the corners of the room. What did it matter what time of day it was? He was done. His task was complete. At long, long last.

Now for my reward.

Grinning with anticipation, he rolled onto his back in the space between the frames. He spread out his arms and slipped each one carefully through the loops designed for this purpose. They fit perfectly.

Raising his right arm, Icarus swung it across his body, rolling himself carefully to his knees. It was awkward and heavier than he’d expected, the length of the frames affecting his balance, but it didn’t matter. It was done. He was ready. Oh yes, he was so perfectly ready.

Laughing with excitement, he lurched to his feet and headed for the stairs that led to the flat roof of the tower, arms held out to either side to stop his feathers trailing on the floor. He laughed again as he fumbled with the door at the top, forced to slip one arm free before he could even reach to untie the rope. Then he stepped out into the brisk wind and turned to face the setting sun.

I’m ready! he shouted, laughing at the gulls as they wheeled and shrieked above.

"I’M READY!"

As the distant cry spread over the island, the three sisters stared at each other, dolls in hand, ready to place them in the protective cairn that would keep them safe for the next year.

Was that –? Simmine asked.

A babble of laughter erupted, followed by raucous shrieks, as if a man was trying to impersonate a gull. Raccanta snapped her head around to stare at the tower. It was just barely visible through the thin branches of the oak saplings surrounding them.

There, right on top, a bulky silhouette was spinning and spinning against the burning dusk sky.

Icarus, she whispered, the corn doll dropping from her hand.

"Icarus!" Michra shouted, jumping to her feet and running from the grove.

Gathering her skirt in her hands, Raccanta swiftly followed.

I’m ready! Icarus shrieked at the gulls wheeling above him and raised his arms.

At first Raccanta thought he was wearing a cloak, but as he turned towards the setting sun the light caught on blinding white and glossy black. A mottled, myriad collection of shapes and shades, all set in a distinctive but unexpected shape.

Wings. He’d made himself wings.

No, Simmine breathed behind her as shock stopped Raccanta dead, her pounding heart filling with dread and foreboding.

Icarus, stop! Michra cried, still running, still shouting, but it was too late. Icarus wouldn’t listen to her now; he never had before. He’d always done exactly as he wanted and everyone had mostly let him. He was the only boy, the image of his father – except that he had his mother’s eyes. Now he had his father’s curse: madness. "Icarus, please!"

Watch me, Misha, her beloved brother laughed. Watch me fly!

As the sun god slipped towards his nightly rest, Icarus took two long, bounding strides and leapt, arms outstretched as though to hug the sky.

"No!" Michra screamed.

Simmine seized Raccanta’s hand and they clung to each other, eyes fixed on the figure in the air. Oh, Simmine breathed, and Raccanta’s eyes widened – because Icarus wasn’t falling.

He was… he was gliding, like some great gull with the wind soft beneath him. The setting sun threw out a last ray of light, washing him in gold and a deep, dark red.

He did it, Raccanta whispered, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Icarus, stop. Come down! Michra shouted. Come down at once!

He just laughed and beat his arms.

But the wind wasn’t kind this time. The moment he moved his wings, he lost his flight and in the last rays of the Lughnasadh sun, Icarus flapped like a desperate fledgling. He flapped and he flapped, struggling to move his heavy wings, but by now he was at the edge of the cliff.

Closer to the sea he found the winds stronger, fiercer and far less kind, and his feathers were coming loose. His marvellous wings were unravelling.

Oh, he said, voice clear and sad, his empty arms forced wide by the battering winds as a gust thrust him forward.

And then he fell.

Two

MICHRA AND SIMMINE screamed, their voices matched by the wheeling, flustered gulls, but Raccanta could only watch as Icarus fell. Feathers trailed after him in a line of white, grey and black, his hair like a glossy banner caught in the breeze.

He struck the cliff edge with a crunch that punched Raccanta straight in the gut. Simmine doubled over, casting up her breakfast, but Raccanta was already running. She passed Michra – still screaming, hands covering her wailing mouth – but Raccanta didn’t stop. She ran straight for the cliff, towards the crumpled form of her brother.

Too late. With a sad, hushing sigh, the weight of his wings pulled him over the edge and he dropped out of sight.

No! Michra cried out as Raccanta lunged.

She landed full length on the soft grass, but all she caught was a pale gull feather: white tipped with black, stained with red, snapped at the shaft.

"Icarus!"

Pounding footsteps approached, and Raccanta turned just in time to catch Michra before she threw herself off the cliff after their brother.

Icarus! Cana, let me go. We have to save him. We have to catch him. He needs us!

Raccanta didn’t let go, she just gripped her oldest sister tighter around the middle, ignoring the blows that rained down on her back, the sharp tugs that snarled in her hair. She just held Michra and held her, staring at the gore-splattered ground until Michra’s fury faded and she collapsed against her, sobbing as though her lungs had burst.

Why? she moaned, burying her head against Raccanta’s shoulder, shaking from the force of her grief. Why? Why? Why?

Raccanta couldn’t answer. She’d never understood her brother and – if she was honest – had never even tried, dismissing him as spoilt and selfish. Now he was gone. Her own breathing was far from steady, but she didn’t cry like Michra. Nor did she throw up like Simmine, though the sound of Icarus’ body hitting the ground would forever live in the darkest part of her memory.

Finally, Michra’s weeping eased and she pulled away. You can let go now, Cana, she muttered, wiping her face. I promise not to do anything foolish.

Raccanta carefully eased her arms away, watching closely as Michra approached the cliff edge. Simmine joined her, so Raccanta followed and all three stared down at the rocks below.

Icarus was gone. All that remained were the empty frames of his wondrous wings and a raft of floating feathers.

The Hungry One has taken him, Simmine murmured, something Raccanta had been thinking but hadn’t dared to say. Just as she knew that it was the goddess’ revenge for being ignored by Icarus today. How quickly the gods moved.

Just as she took our father, Michra said, voice low and empty. She takes everything in the end.

Only if people were foolish enough to throw themselves into her hands, Raccanta thought but again didn’t speak. Icarus had insulted two of their greatest gods this day, and worse, he had violated the natural laws by trying to take a gift that wasn’t his. If men had been meant to fly, they would have been born with wings. Flight was for birds, the sky was their realm. People belonged on the land.

Our land. The wind hushed and sighed, tickling at Raccanta’s ear. Our land. Icarus. Icarus.

She shook her head and listened again, but all she heard was the wash and hiss of the waves on the rocks below. If she tilted her head and let herself drift… Yes, it almost sounded like her brother’s name. That was all it was; the wind and the waves and a grieving imagination.

Icarus. Icarus. So sweet. So sweet. Sweet blood. Icarus.

A shudder ran down Raccanta’s spine, but she ignored it. She ignored everything except her sisters. They’d all witnessed something horrifying and they’d lost their brother; things were bound to seem uncanny and strange for a while.

Raccanta reached for Michra’s cold hand and gave a tug. Come, she said. We can do nothing here. Let’s go home. Tomorrow we will see him off properly.

Michra stared down at the waves, where the frame was slowly sinking, the feathers dispersing on the restless tide. Tomorrow, she agreed. Yes, tomorrow.

Simmine took Michra’s other hand and, between them, the two younger sisters led the elder one home, while the wind whispered and tickled their