Free Into My Arms by Kylie Ladd Page A

the injections, the scans, the emotional and financial outlay. And Arran was fine. The break-up with Mark had been tough on him, and there were all those years after he dropped out of law school when she feared he’d never settle, never find what it was he wanted to do. But he had eventually, hadn’t he? He seemed to be really enjoying his new job; when he came over for dinner he spoke about it with a light in his eyes. It was ironic but somehow so apt that he’d ended up helping others find their place in society, when he’d taken so long to fit in himself.
    And Skye. Lovely, sunny Skye. Nell turned back over and pushed herself up on one elbow so that she could watch her daughter sleeping, just as she’d done when she was a baby. Arran had had colic, but Skye had slept right through his screaming, even though their cribs were side by side. What was it that was troubling her now? Something was going on. Anything that had to be discussed in the middle of the night must be more than a mere hypothetical. Were she and Hamish having problems? They fought occasionally—or rather, Skye argued with him—but they’d been together for two years now, since Skye was twenty-four. Maybe Hamish had proposed, and she was getting cold feet? Nell lay back down and closed her eyes. Had she felt any doubts before marrying Charlie? She couldn’t be certain, but her gut told her no. He would have saved her on that ferry, she thought, sinking into sleep. Greece or Scotland, Charlie would have got them all safely to the shore.

9
    Zia turned his key in the lock and slowly pushed the front door open. Without meaning to, he held his breath, listening intently for any sound of activity. There was none.
    Farid pushed past him, banging his schoolbag against the back of Zia’s legs. ‘Madar?’ he called, thumping into the kitchen of their small flat. ‘Madar?’
    Zia ran after him, but quietly, like a panther. ‘Don’t yell,’ he hissed, catching his younger brother by the arm. ‘She might be asleep.’
    Farid looked up at him, dark eyes angry. ‘Then I will wake her up. She should come to school to meet us, like she used to.’
    ‘She needs to sleep,’ said Zia, though he didn’t really know why. It was the explanation his father gave whenever she didn’t join them for dinner or head out to the market in the morning. Zia couldn’t actually remember the last time his mother had been to the market. She had gone every day when they first arrived in Australia, getting up early to secure the cheapest groceries and the freshest produce, but lately it seemed to be his father who did the shopping, leaving after Zia and Farid had gone to school, returning more often than not with the wrong cut of lamb or overripe fruit.
    Farid wrenched his arm from Zia’s grasp and made a dash for their parents’ bedroom. Before Zia could stop him, he had barged through the door and thrown himself onto the bed, where he curled up against his mother. She didn’t look as if she had been asleep, Zia thought, following his brother into the darkened room. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. As Farid nestled against her she roused herself to stroke his hair, but didn’t look at him.
    ‘Madar,’ Zia whispered in Farsi, ‘do you need anything?’
    His mother slowly turned her face towards him, blinking to bring him into focus. ‘Zia,’ she said, almost formally. ‘There is washing to be hung out. I meant to do it this morning, but . . .’ Her voice trailed off. With an effort she went on, ‘And if you could perhaps start the dinner? Your father should be home soon.’
    Zia lingered at the foot of the bed, waiting to see if she would ask him about school or even tell him to do his homework, but she had gone back to gazing at the ceiling. Beside her, Farid was sucking his thumb. For a moment, Zia felt an urge to lie down with them, to bury his face in his mother’s neck as he had when he was little, to close his eyes, to smell her rosewater and