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Part 1

The poor lads were left wondering if they had ever really known her at all. They didn't speak to each other about any of it; it never seemed necessary nor likely to help. Being together seemed ample respite and refuge. I suppose it’s unfair to say who it was harder on, Calum certainly cried more. He was crying now, quietly, bar the fragmented coughs it was forcing up from his shallow breaths.

The house was calmer when she was gone. Frost covered the ground outside. Conor made tea and loaded their Thermos flasks, while Calum finished up the bacon, scrambled eggs, and a few slices of toast. He spooned the remaining eggs into the bacon tray, covered it with foil and left it on the table aside the remaining half bag of Warburtons Toastie. It wouldn’t be much longer before the smell of bacon passed its way down the main hall, up the stairs and out from the jutting beams and low ceilings towards the bright annex with its tall windows that they’d had built six years ago. They knew Dad would be thrilled to wake to breakfast, and more so if he’d come to find they weren’t there. Not because he didn’t love the boys, but because the past weeks had been hard again.

They went into the outhouse, already well wrapped in thermals, hopped quickly on pointed toes to the big chest of winter essentials: puffy jackets, waterproof trousers and socks. Gloves, beanies and buffs from Mum's trail races all followed. Boots on and nearly doubled in size, they looked out at each other from their turrets and nodded. Ready? Nearly. Calum regarded Conor’s full hands and turned back to grab his Thermos and breakfast. They stepped outside.

They loved Ella. A sister six years older is practically guaranteed to be worshipped by a pair of younger brothers. They had no interests of their own; they were her shadow. Conor recalled warm mornings when he'd wake and find her sitting at the end of his bed, looking out the window. Her eyes had always been taut, crows-feet at fifteen, taking in far more than you or I. Opportunities. Threats. They could protect you, those eyes. They still saw as much as they ever did, but now they housed a menacing cold.

Their steps were broken glass on the frost as they came to the stream by their oak. They took their seats, resting against the trunk. Calum on the low branch, his own, with the make-shift cup holder - a gnarled and twisting root - which perfectly fit his Thermos. It had been the redeeming feature that allowed him to accept this otherwise shameful bottom bunk with dignity. He had always felt she was above him, a stained-glass window. No longer, now she was lower, and she had his heels. They were no longer tears of sadness, but fear. It’s dangerous to try to save someone who’s drowning, especially if they want you dead.

Conor was above him, listening to the cough-cry of his brother. He was fully reclined, his left leg draped down, and his hat pulled low over his face. He thought about his eyes. That they weren't really closed, just covered, staring at this funny flap of skin. He felt the texture of them against his eyelids, the smooth roll as he panned slowly from left to right, and back. He turned, as he often did, a little further in, moving away from Ella, his brother, everyone. He left them up top and travelled in. He stayed there a while before nodding to the passenger who stepped on as he alighted - meeting the man without eyelids.

Conor opened his eyes and lifted his cap. Above him was Ella's branch. She was the only one with a view. There was this gap in the tree from her spot that never fully closed. It looked out in every season across the field belonging to Mr Armitage; he remembered his stories and thought fondly that somewhere in that ground would soon lie the three sisters. July from Ella's branch was perhaps the sweetest place in England. Conor pictured himself then, sitting between her legs, leaning back against her. She held him as he tried to match her breathing; it was always far slower than his.

He realised that he was attempting to match the cadence of her breath as he sat now. He was desperate to climb up and sit in her spot. But he couldn't. They had made their agreement. It was Ella's branch, and she had made it clear that they were not to sit in it without her. Though more recently to their detriment, they had always heeded her words as though they were wisdom from God. She had asked them not to go to her branch in a rare softer moment, and they had agreed. Albeit had she asked amidst some tormented tirade filled with unintelligible requests, they'd have nevertheless obliged.

They seemed to both silently give up hope in that exact moment. No need to speak when you are saying the same thing - we have lost her.

Calum called up, "Do you have any more bacon, Con?"

"Na, all gone. I'm bloody freezing - you ready?"

"Sure."