They say it will rain hard tonight. Uncle Russ sends warning calls to Rowan, the head of the family, to tell him of the news. Uncle Rowan is weather sensitive. Cousin Mattie throws a fit, fills up jugs of water from the well, and demands everyone in the house help her scour food and supplies. Everyone helps, because they know Mattie is sensitive to future events. I can’t help prepare for the storm. I am confined to bed, because of my condition. I sit on the bed and doodle on a white piece of parchment with some colored chalk Mattie found in her desperate search of the cellar. Aunt Elle, Uncle Morris, and Granny Minx all come to check on me in turn. Especially Granny Minx, who brings me molasses candy. I wander in and out of the long halls of our family estate, An Iogaireacht, named in the old launguage. I settle myself in the parlor, curled up in a chair so no one can grumble about me being underfoot, and wait for the storm of the century. I am not dissipointed.


Once the rain starts, it is almost as if a dam broke in heaven and begins to flood the whole world below it. The sky is dark and sultry, and lightning dances across the horizon. Atop my roof, it sounds as if giants are dancing. I peer out the window, and watch for a few moments as the rain begins to morph into hail.
Mattie’s voice startles me out of my poetic trance. “Would you like some tea? I brewed a fresh pot while you were in Wonderland.”
I wrinkle my nose at her. “Enough with the Alice jokes, Mattie.”
She giggles and wanders off to the kitchen, leaving me alone to stare in wonder at the havoc. I stare outside the small glass window, and watch the hail collapse on the ground, bouncing off the brick sidewalk and shatter musically on the ground. The trees are holding themselves, their branches tangled wildly in the powerful gales. All of a sudden, I hear a crackling sound, and I turn in horror to the very edge of the yard, clearly visible through the clear glass panes of the front door. The playhouse is straining and groaning, and I watch in dismay as the front window shatters under pressure, making a rattling cry that can be heard even through the mighty storm. I let out a cry. Woe! My childhood playground, my fondest memories! I run to the door, barely stopping to grab my cloak and swing it over my fair-haired head, and dash outdoors to save my poor playhouse. I hear Mattie cry out as I slam the door shut.
“Alice, my dear, you must come back! Alice?” I barely hear her as I dash the twenty-some yards to my playhouse, just before the roof collapses. I run faster still, weeping like a banshee. Once I reach her, my dear playhouse, I am knocked back by a powerful gale, like a fist to my gut, and bash my forehead on the ground. I see ink spots in front of my vision, and watch them pool in front of my eyes to the size of saucers. I hear Mattie scream, and the door slam. I grope for the doorframe of my little house, and clutch it to avoid being swept off my feet once again. My grip is slipping steadfastly, and I cry out, weeping to my mother. I feel arms encircle me, and I let go of my doorframe, and melt into the warmth pooling around my waist. I look up into the eyes of my savior, just as my vision begins to melt away at the corners. They are icy blue eyes, piercing through the dark of night. He reaches out and closes my eyelids, sentencing me to blindness.


“She ran outside, I don’t know why! She was shrieking and grasping to that wretched playhouse. Ro got to her before me. If it weren’t for him, we both would have been carried away by the gale!” The shrieking voice of Mattie cuts through my temporary coma, bringing me back to reality.
“Hush!” The frozen, unreadable voice of cousin Ro slices through Mattie’s hysteria. Ro or Rowan was not due back from his hunting trip for another moon. The Sense must have brought him back early. Why, I wonder? Ro never regarded me as anything but a pesky fly that wasn’t worth the time to swat. I am insignificant compared to him. I am nothing. He must have come back for another reason, and just happened to stumble across me in my time of peril.
I feel the cold that comes with my cousin Rowan slide over me, warning me of his approach. He grazes my pulse with the tip of his fingernail. He must feel the beating of my heart. I feel the dark energy radiating between me and my cousin. He must know that I am awake, listening, feeling. Ro is powerful. Ro is the future head of the family. He bears the gift of The Sense, which allows him to read others to an extent the rest of the family could never dream of seeing. He is here sensing my alertness. He won’t betray me, I know. Not out of fondness, certainly, but out of pity, perhaps. He knows that I am better of left in peace for a few hours. He probably doesn’t want to deal with me and my clumsy antics. He probably scorns the sight of my face.
I slip back into a dreamless half-sleep, still aware of the people around me; hearing what is said, and smelling the thick soup cooking on the fire. I can assume tomato and greens, by the smells. My playhouse is smashed. It was left to die in the spring storm. I must choke back tears when I hear this. All my fathers’ hard work is destroyed. No longer can I trace my fingers over the height chart he carved over the years, up to my eleventh birthday. My mothers’ china teas set, all smashed and ground down to dust, carried by the wind as my her ashes are. As my fathers ashes are. As Emma, my little baby sisters’ ashes are. I wish I could crawl up into the fire, next to the bubbling soup, and turn to ashes myself. They can be scraped up by the maid, along with the charred bits of wood and smoldering cinders, and tossed outside into the garden, and drenched in water. My ashes can feed little worms, and plants can grow. I see a future in this plan.
I am finally awakened by Mattie and Aunt Elizah. They drag me out of the bed, and my nude body protests, as it has formed a connection with the silk sheets. They wrap me in linens like a mummy, and I try to ignore Ro’s presence in the corner of the room. The storm trapped outside is begging to be let in, as are Rowan’s hounds. Their howls split the ears of anyone who steps foot near the door. Uncle Russ, who is generally good natured, threatens to shoot the wretches. He is one of the few in the family who has noticed Rowan’s wrath has yet to make an appearance in his twenty-four years of life. He is often the one to give the young head of the family advice.
I consent to have stew shoved down my throat. I keep begging to look at my playhouse, and each time I ask, Uncle Russ nods his head, and says nothing. I look pleadingly at Ro, but he ignores me, as if he has better things to do then to help me win my battle. My shoulders sag, and I glance over at Mattie.
“It’s bad, Alice.” She whispers.
“I still want to see it!” I exclaim. “I am sure we could rebuild it, my father did build it out of nothing, practically speaking.”
She just shakes her head. “It is in pieces. The foundation was rotting over time, and the roof was on the verge of collapse; the storm threw it off the edge, so to speak. I am so sorry Mattie. I know how much the playhouse meant to you.” She looks red in the face, as if breaking this wretched news pained her to speak. Her eyes looked almost glassy. Mattie never has taken to giving people bad news. She is always making good-luck charms, and slipping them into the pockets of freshly ironed shirts. She hates it when things like this happen.
Uncle Russ rubs his fiery beard thoughtfully, as he does when he is in deep contemplation. “I could take you to the playhouse, but you are not to step foot outdoors again, whatever the circumstances. Mattie and Rowan both risked their necks saving you last night, and if anything was to happen, no one would be able to save you from being swept away by the gale. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir, thank you sir.” I stare down at the wooden surface of the table, staring at my reflection mirrored on its glassy finish. My playhouse is gone. Why do I want to see it so badly? Maybe the family is right. Maybe it is just a naïve risk that I should not be willing to take. It is not as if the playhouse was my only tether to my parents. I can still hear my mother singing. I can hear my fathers booming laugh, and I can feel their warm bodies against me as I drift off to sleep, being encircled by love and warmth and comfort. I still have my memories.
Rowan is looking at me. I can his reflection next to mine. His eyes are like the sea, and his long red hair sticks out in the queerest way. Next to my slush-colored gray eyes, pale, sickly skin, and white-blond hair, he looks wild and untamable. He is a wild stallion, mane blowing in the gentle wind. I look away from his piercing blue eyes and stare at Mattie’s curly hair, imagining that if one of her springy locks was to be pulled on and released, it would make a springy sound.

As Uncle Russ took my tiny hand and pulled me outside, my cloak is blown back by a powerful gust of air. “Be careful,” the voice of Rowan hisses behind me. I go cold, and my body stiffens. I am not sure if it is because of the freezing air, or my cousin. I can make out my playhouse in front of me, as we stumble over the lawn to the wreck.
It doesn’t look bad, is what I keep telling myself. All it needs is a new roof. As we inch closer, though, it becomes quite obvious the state my little house is in. It lies in despair, crying out my name, begging me to build it back up, nice and strong and sturdy, like the way my father did. I crawl over to the base, where the door used to be, and stroke the wood softly. Uncle Russ and Cousin Rowan become distant. The storm stops, and the rain ceases. I lay my head down next to the doorframe and sob. My father smiles down on me. He reaches down to touch my hair, and I can almost feel his fingers.
“Father,” I sob.
“Hush, it’s all right now dear.” He continues to stroke my cheek, my blond locks of hair, and whispers soothing words to me. Time seems to unfreeze, and the rain pours down on me again, drenching me like a bottomless bucket of water is being poured over my body. The fingers don’t stop stroking my hair. The whisper cease, and so do my tears. The wind howls like a wolf.
I slowly push my weak body up, and the fingers evaporate into thin air. Not wanting to explore the wreck, I look up at Uncle Russ. “Let’s go back to the main house.”
“Good idea.” He seizes hold of my frail little hand and pulls me into the embrace of his warm cloak. The linen smells like mothballs and lavender. He lifts me up into his arms. “We best take the back door, so Mattie doesn’t see her. The poor girl will have a heart attack.”
Rowan trails back into the woods, and I eye him, concerned.
“He’ll be alright, that boy.” Uncle Ross chuckles. “That boy is made of steel, just like his father.”
I stare, to weak to speak. Uncle Ross chuckles again. “It’s cute that you are so concerned about him though. He would be touched.”
I blush, and choke. I shake my head as furiously as I can in my weakened state.
“Well, he would.” Russ says amused.
I roll my eyes as sarcastically as I can and lean against him, falling steadfastly into sleep.


The next day, I feign sleep until my room is empty, and then crawl away from the silk sheets. My body groans in protest. I feel my muscles throb, and reach for the wall to steady myself. I limp over to the wash basin and clutch hold of the sides, dipping my head in the ice-cold water. I have to bite my lip to the bleeding point to keep from crying out. My vision blurs, and I nearly collapse. I pull on my sweater, and cloak to keep from freezing. I can hardly feel my own face. I think my blood is frozen in my veins. I lace up my cloth tights, gasping with sheer effort. I have to take short breaks in between each article of clothing, or I feel ready to collapse in exhaustion. I finally make it out the door, fully dressed to the kitchen, which smells of chives and onion. Perhaps a tinge of rosemary is in the air as well. I get strange looks from the maids as I settle down at the table, giving my sore muscles a break. A bowl of stew and a hot mug of tea that smells of tonic are placed in front of me, which I inhale. I ask for seconds.
“She never has had an appetite quite like this. Perhaps we will put some meat on her bones yet,” mutters cook. “Her mother was always trying to fatten her up. Can’t find her a husband in the state she is in.”
I ignore their gossip and focus on my third bowl of soup. I refuse to touch the tonic.
Mattie comes in after I am done eating and stares unconvinced at the empty bowl. She turns to the cooks with a huff. “Did she feed her soup to the cats?”
“Nay, she ate three whole bowls.” Cook responds gruffly.
“I don’t believe it.” Mattie growls.
I ignore their pesky voices and lick the soup off my lips. I push my chair back away from the table and stumble off to my bedroom.
“Where do you think your going? Great-Grandmother Anita stops me in the hall.
“My room.” I continue on with my task, paying no mind to the old woman standing in her door, glaring at my retreating figure. She never did like me much, I suppose. But I never did like her much either. She is not really my great-grandmother. She is Rowan’s great-grandmother, by his mother who married into our family.
I make it to my bedroom in a time that I am very proud of. Instead of napping, I reach under the bed and pull out my parchment scraps, and begin to doodle with a piece of chalk. I draw a playhouse, some glassy blue eyes, and a girl with white-blond hair.