The Second Death of Locke — Chapter no 13

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RINE AND BONE,” OLA swore, the first to recover. “You’ve got to be“B kidding me.”

But Kier was already moving. “Look. Let’s chat on the road—we’ve stayed too long. Pack your things. Brit, you and Sela will ride.”

Over the years, Grey had become very good at compartmentalization.

That was the only reason she was able to launch herself up, finish tidying the room and pack her bag and Kier’s, don her new gray coat and stand ready at the door without utterly falling to pieces.

The First Daughter of Cleoc Strata. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, couldn’t understand—how? Why? How had she even ended up as Luthar’s prisoner, and did they also think she was Maryse of Locke, or did they know the truth?

And, uncomfortably, Grey understood better than anyone what it meant to be the lost daughter of a nation. She realized all over again, with a sick sort of desperation, what would happen to her if that secret got out.

She sent a pulse of worry down the tether. Kier answered with his own tentative comfort, but it wasn’t strong enough to be believable.

Her mage actively relaxed when they were back on the road, the inn fading into the distance behind them, the mountains looming ahead. Sela and Brit rode the horse Kier had acquired, Brit’s arms framing the girl in a way that wasn’t fully restraint but wasn’t not restraint.

“Captain,” Ola started, but Kier said quietly, “Wait. There will be time. I want to get out of here.”

They continued in silence, Kier shushing them any time one of them got anywhere close to probing the matter. The captain kept his own counsel,

chewing on his lip, clearly preoccupied. Grey glanced up more than once to find him looking at her sideways, his expression unreadable.

But he did not confide in her. Grey did not know what to think of that, of all things.

She focused instead on the walk. The scenery changed as they wound up into the foothills, from forest to grassy hills, then rocky paths with cliffs that rose up and up. They kept to the trail now, Ola pausing every so often to peer at the map and the compass, sometimes consulting Kier. It grew colder, too: Grey’s breath came in great puffs, and she was grateful again for her new coat. She buried her fingers deep in the pockets, thumbs tracing over the bits of lint and coin left behind by the previous owner. Her sword clinked against one of the straps of her bag, more sensation than sound, and she lost herself in the monotony of it until Kier said, “Okay. Let’s eat and talk.”

She stopped. Brit pulled the horse to a halt, too; it snuffed gray-white clouds of breath and pawed at the rocky trail. Grey didn’t know its name.

She reached to gently run her hand across the beast’s nose, damp with the condensation of cooling breath.

Brit and Sela slid down, and Kier took the reins. He nodded to a rocky formation to the side of the path. They sat in a loose circle, waiting, as he tied the horse to another rock near a patch of grass so it could graze. Eron distributed their afternoon helpings of cheese and dried fish. Finally, Kier seemed to come to some decision—perhaps he’d been wrestling with it all day. Grey felt the tug on the tether as he siphoned, the pop of her ears as he shielded them.

“Sela,” he said. “I have two questions. Why does anyone think you’re Maryse of Locke? And how did you end up Luthar’s prisoner?”

The girl kept her head down, chin to chest. Grey remembered the first time she saw her, bundled and tied up in that carriage. She felt an uncomfortable stirring of pity.

“I was staying with nobles in Lindan, getting my education.” Lindan was on the continent, and like all other continental powers, it stayed far out of the warring within Idistra. They did allow children to journey to the continent for safety, though, particularly those from the noble families. One of the Lindle universities had offered Severin a place, back when there was peace, but since Grey was still a child, he could not leave the Isle to accept

it.

“Nicer than here,” Brit muttered, nudging a rock with the toe of their boot. Grey took in their pallor, even paler than their usual alabaster. She made a mental note to give them a draft for pain relief before they moved again.

“I don’t know why I did it,” Sela conceded. “Homesickness, maybe? I… I feigned illness and slipped out of my lessons, went to the harbor and boarded the first ship I could find that was going to Idistra.”

Despite herself, Grey reached over and took Sela’s hand. The girl looked up at her, eyes big and glassy with tears.

“We all made bad decisions at fifteen,” Grey said evenly.

“Speak for yourself, Flynn,” Ola muttered.

But this seemed to strengthen Sela ever so slightly—or perhaps she, like Grey, was just happy that Ola no longer looked murderous every time Grey spoke. “I wanted to come back. I knew it was foolish. I didn’t care.”

“Does anyone know you left?” Kier asked, arms crossed. That scar on his lip was tugged down, making his frown deeper on one side than the other.

“I don’t know. And if they do, I don’t know if they care. Lindan was never… kind to me.”

“Ah.” Kier glanced at Grey, then away. “So you took a ship back. Then what?”

“I didn’t expect…” Sela trailed off. Grey didn’t know what it was she didn’t expect: that she’d be returning to a nation at war? That someone would care about one girl coming back from abroad? She was anxiously ruining a bit of bread with the hand Grey wasn’t holding. “The ship was trying to land in Scaela, but it was searched and I was not on the manifests, so they knew I was not meant to be there. They asked for papers, and I didn’t have them. So they…” She stopped, thin lips pressed together.

Grey squeezed her hand. Sela looked away.

“They were going to drown me. I knew if I revealed my identity, they’d kill me. So I said I was Locke.”

Grey pretended to be very interested in her fish to hide any reaction to the story, and immediately regretted it. It tasted like post-battle leather armor. “Why?” she asked finally, saying out loud what everyone else seemed to be thinking.

Sela looked at her, only her; those big eyes were doing their best to appear earnest. But Grey didn’t doubt her for a minute. She was a kid. Grey herself had run away when she was sixteen, looking for the first place that made her feel something. It just so happened she actually was the long-lost lady of a dead house in hiding, while Sela was not.

“Because I didn’t want to die, and I know Locke is important,” Sela said. “No one has ever found Severin—so what if he wasn’t the one who survived after all? What if it was me?”

“Because you’re twelve,” Eron said, exasperated.

“Fifteen,” Sela corrected.

Kier had gotten up at some point, and he was now pacing back and forth. “Eat, Captain,” Grey chided, and he grudgingly bit off half of his dried fish and struggled to chew it, wincing the whole time.

“Okay,” he said once he recovered. “The problem with taking you to Cleoc Strata, even if you tell the truth, is it’ll look like we kidnapped you.

Plus, it’s much farther than Grislar, and we’d probably be killed at the border. Too many complications.”

“Why take her to Cleoc? Why not bring the High Lady to us?” Grey asked. Kier looked at her, withering, but she was his Hand, and often, his reason. She went on. “If we go to Grislar, like we’re supposed to, and send word ahead to get an ensign from Cleoc—we can barter for peace, Kier. If Sela says we rescued her from Luthar when we’re actually protected…”

“But our leave,” Brit said sadly. “We’re meant to deliver Maryse of Locke.”

“They only said we had to deliver the prisoner,” Grey said. “If we get caught on the way, we’re fucked. But if we make it there, if we’re able to arrange it? That will mean something, won’t it? Perhaps it will even lead to an alliance on one front?”

Kier looked at her for a long time, sending something down the tether that she couldn’t quite read. That was the problem with feeling someone else’s emotions, even someone as close to her as Kier: there was not always a direct translation from his heart to hers.

“What if that doesn’t work?” he asked.

Grey shrugged. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

He looked at her, the expression clear on his face: What if they find out about you? She tried to school her own expression into an answering gaze

of We will deal with it if it happens.

Ola blew out a long breath, tugging on the end of one of her braids. “It would be nice to have one less border to worry about.”

“I can do it,” Sela said, without anyone asking her. “I can get the truce— I’ll push for it. I’m supposed to inherit in a few years. My mother has to listen to me.” She was still squeezing Grey’s hand and ruining the bit of bread, still just a girl who’d run away from safety into something she didn’t understand—but Grey understood better than anyone that little girls grew up, and little girls with titles grew into rulers with power.

Grey looked away, far past the mountains, toward the sea. Something like longing stirred within her.

They made camp that night halfway up one of the rises, in a shallow dip protected by crests on either side. The cliffs above had just begun collecting little drifts of snow. “It will only get colder,” Kier warned as they set out blankets and bedrolls. “Keep close together.”

They sat together as Eron cooked up a new variety of beige. Grey changed the bandage over her stitches, then inspected Brit’s healing wounds. Kier was a ways away from them against the cliff, reading a book.

Sela sat near Grey, stroking the horse’s side. It was called Pigeon, she’d learned, which made absolutely no sense. Horse names rarely did.

“Eron,” Ola said. “I can hear your wheels turning. What are you thinking about?”

Eron looked up, nearly knocking the pot over. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “How do we know for certain that someone survived Locke? What if the whole survivor thing is a lie? Didn’t the entire isle… explode?”

“If everyone had died,” Ola said, “there would be no magic at all.”

Eron considered this as he poured in the mush to soak. “But how do we know?” he asked finally. “It could still be possible that the letter from Severin was forged, and no wells have been born since the Isle’s destruction. How do we know that that isn’t because Locke is well and truly dead?”

“Because Locke is the root and foundation of power,” Sela said quietly.

Grey focused on Brit’s skin, on the task at hand. “There is no power at all without Locke.”

“Then how were you born a well, if you were born after Locke?”

“Cleoc was pregnant with me when Locke disappeared,” Sela said, like it was a normal thing to know. “I was born just a couple months after.

That’s probably why I don’t… have much to draw on. I’m barely a well at all.”

Grey did not want to think about this anymore. Because Sela was right: Locke was power; Grey was power. If she took her secret to her grave, kept fighting other wars and perished in them, she would take all of Idistra’s power with her.

If she did not reclaim Locke before her death, the nation’s magic would die. For good.

This was what she lay awake thinking of late at night; the one thing she could not fully discuss with Kier. He would push for her safety at any cost.

Even if it meant the death of magic.

And the truth? She was afraid. She knew the death of each remaining member of her family—she remembered when word came of her beloved aunt Wren, who had been slaughtered in Nestria. She understood, then, how her godfather, Scaelas, immediately went to war with Nestria in retaliation —if Grey had been a sovereign and not a girl of eight, she too would’ve set the very seas on fire to avenge Wren’s death.

She knew of her cousins and aunts and uncles, those who had not been heirs to the Isle’s power and had instead been sent to marry into other nations to strengthen alliances. All of that fell away when Locke perished.

None of them were safe, and Grey least of all.

She was a coward, at the end of it, willing to let the entire system die instead of putting herself at risk of facing the same fate.

She did her best to tune the others out. She finished her ministrations and tapped on Brit’s arm, signaling for them to move. They nodded, pulling their shirt down and shrugging back into their coat.

There was no further discussion on the topic. Kier marked his page and set his book aside, face-down, then looked out over nothing. Grey left the fire and went to sit by his side.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her back and tugged her close. “How are you holding up?”

he asked.

“Just dandy.”

“Less than two weeks, Flynn. Then the rest of our lives awaits.”

She sighed.

Lower, he said, just for her, “Power in bravery.” It was the motto of her family, her house, her isle. It was as if he knew what she’d just been thinking. Sometimes she wondered if he could take one look at her face and see every thought her brain held.

“I don’t feel very brave,” she admitted. “Or powerful.”

“Nor do I.”

She leaned further into him, looping her arm over his knee. The cliff face sheltered them from the swirling snow that had started, but it was cold against them—the wind was so loud here that she couldn’t hear the others; it was just as effective as being in a bubble.

“The wind,” she said, “reminds me of home.”

There was a beat of uncertain silence. “Does it?”

“Not that one.”

“Ah.” His arm tightened around her. “You dreamed of them last night.”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“Statement. Your breathing changes when you do.” He laced his free hand together with the one she had on his knee, and the power flowed through them, a full unbroken circuit. “Has this been bringing up memories?”

“Here and there,” Grey admitted. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you remember when we were her age?” she asked.

He was quiet for a moment. “I do,” he said finally, his hand tightening over hers.

It had been the last close call they suffered in Leota—and it had terrified her. Lot left during the summer before her fifteenth birthday, going to train, leaving them behind in a lopsided arrangement made worse by the fact she could no longer hide from her affection for Kier.

That winter, in a brutally cold storm that whipped the sea into frothy peaks below the cliffs, they had been sitting in Leota’s village square with a new letter from Lot and hot tea clasped in their hands. They were there when Mika, the town’s bailiff, strolled through with a group of his friends.

Grey had always wondered how he managed to hold his post with his proclivity for drink—she preferred to just avoid him and his crew.

She’d been leaning on Kier, her cheek on his shoulder as they read, when she heard the laughter from the group of armored soldiers loitering nearby.

“All’s I’m saying is this.” Mika’s voice carried across the square, his words slurred with drink. “That boy can’t hide forever. Someday, someone’s gonna find him. And if I got my hands on ’im…”

At first, she thought he was talking about one of the village boys. She glanced up, frowning, wondering what they’d gotten into now.

“Could ransom him,” one of Mika’s friends said. “Imagine the payout.”

“Scaelas would find out,” another said.

“Nah,” Mika replied. “Nah nah nah. You’re thinking all wrong. You know what I’d do? I’d kill him. Stop this whole bloody business. No more power, no more magic, no more stuck-up mages with their bullshit. Then I’d chop ’im up and sell his parts.”

Grey froze—not even the hot tea in her hands could ease the chill in her bones.

One of his companions snorted. “Well, that’s one way to do it. You really think killing that kid would kill the whole system?”

“I think that if I had the chance, I wouldn’t hesitate to find out. Fuck Scaelas, and fuck this war. Let me rule, eh?”

More boisterous laughter filled the square, but Grey barely heard it. Her stomach swam with bile. Kier’s arm was tight around her, drawing her close, shielding her—because even at seventeen, he knew.

They had left the square, risking death on the icy cliff path that led to the shore; in their favorite pebbled beach cove, there was no risk they’d be heard. Grey’s panic was a tangible thing in her chest, her breathing uneven.

“Do you think,” she had asked, pacing back and forth, “others would feel the same? That it’s easier to kill me than to restore Locke?”

“I don’t know,” Kier admitted. He leaned back against the damp, cold rock, watching her. “But they’re not looking for you. They still think it’s Severin.”

Grey shook her head. “We can’t bank on that forever. Someday, they’ll figure it out.”

“Would that really be enough? If someone killed you, would they kill all power? Couldn’t someone else find the source again, or create it?”

“Yes,” Grey said bitterly, rubbing her eyes. “It would kill the power, to

kill the source. The only way to take the control of power away from me is to get an heir, forcing a new line of inheritance, and then control that. I’m old enough to bear a child now, if forced, and I’m sure they would kill me after I gave them a well who could take on the power—”

“Grey, stop,” Kier said, gripping her arm. Her voice had taken on a new, high pitch of fear. He was pale, confronted with the truth of her worst fears.

“That’s barbaric.”

She laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Then you doubt they’d do it?”

He pressed his lips together, a muscle ticking in his jaw. It was not the first time he’d been furious on her behalf, and she had the awful suspicion it wouldn’t be the last. “I won’t let that happen to you, okay?”

“You can’t control what happens to me.” She let him pull her into his arms, to wrap her up. She tried to time her breathing to his own, pressing her cold nose against his neck. “If Mika ever finds out—”

“He won’t, and I’ll kill him if he even gets close. But we can’t stay here waiting for someone to find you.” A pause, a beat. “Do you… want to be Locke?”

“No,” Grey said immediately, remembering the blood, the smoke, the flame. She pulled away, putting space between them—he was just comforting her, as any friend would. “I would rather die.”

“Then we’ll find a way to keep them from finding you. We’ll find somewhere to hide.”

“There is nowhere to hide,” Grey said, covering her face with her hands, her stomach heavy with the truth. “No matter where I go, the knights will be looking for me.”

“Unless,” Kier said, looking away from her, “you were one of the knights.”

She looked up at him. He did not seem afraid, nor did he wear that mischievous smile he had when they were doing something deliciously impulsive and ill-advised. He looked completely serious.

“Join them, you mean,” she said. “Follow Lot to training.”

“We could go together. They would probably let us stay together, even.”

She’d nodded, bitterness blooming. “When the patrol comes back next summer,” she said, arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the salt- soaked rock, “we will join up.”

“You’re too young to do it next summer. But if we wait a couple of

years, train more…”

“We’ll lie.”

“Grey…”

She shook her head, fierce. “I’m not going to sit here and wait for someone to find me. To kill me. Maybe my father trusted Scaelas, but I—”

She broke off, the tears ragged in her throat. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I can trust anyone.”

“You can trust me,” Kier said. He reached out, his hand brushing hers.

“Grey, no matter what happens, you can always trust me.”

So he had lied for her, and run away with her, and fought Imarta and both of his mothers on her behalf when they found out. When word got back to him, Lot had only written her a gentle letter about the dangers of battle. He had written Kier a much meaner, strongly worded letter about Grey’s safety, but he had ended it by telling his brother he was proud of him. Grey had found that letter again recently, still tucked into Kier’s pack.

Now, Kier took a deep breath, and Grey anticipated his next question, because he could always read her, especially when she least desired it—Do you want to be Locke? all over again, the same question nearly a decade later—which was why she was surprised when he said, “Do you want to go

to Lindan?”

“What?”

“It might be nice,” he mused, his thumb skimming over the meat between her thumb and forefinger. “Lindle magic is different. No wells, no mages. Some are just… magicians, like they learned it. Like math.”

Grey knew all this, and Kier knew she knew. Like Idistra, Lindan functioned on an intrinsic system, meaning magical aptitude was a trait the Lindle were born with. Unlike in Idistra, all had some access to Lindan’s magic, though wielding it well was a matter of practice. “We probably wouldn’t have any magic at all,” Grey said carefully. “Not that far from Locke.”

“Mm. Maybe not.” He didn’t say, But you are Locke. He didn’t have to.

“We could leave all of this behind.”

You can let the magic die, if you want to, he did not say. You do not have to save us and sacrifice your own freedom.

“Do you ever think,” Grey said, glancing at the others, but Eron had Sela stirring the pot as he chopped up bits of jerky to flavor the travesty that

was dinner, and Brit was carefully braiding Ola’s hair next to the warmth of the magelight, which brought out the shimmers of red in her dark curls. “Do you ever think we’d be better off if we stopped running?”

“Stopped running from what?” Kier asked.

“Locke,” Grey said, the word barely more than an exhalation, and Kier stiffened—it seemed they were both surprising each other tonight.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said.

“A terrible one, actually,” she agreed. But she paused, listening to the screaming of the wind—and sometimes they were so heavy on her heart, the family she’d lost, the place she’d never grown to fully know.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she was right there in the Ghostwood, and she’d open them and her stomach still hurt, but it ached with emptiness instead of power.

“You know what it would mean,” Kier said. “What could happen to you.”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Kier knew as well as Grey did why her family had been killed: to control the power. Whoever controlled Locke controlled all of the magic in Idistra. It was a simple miscalculation that had led to their downfall: they did not know that Locke would rather die than be controlled, that they would take everything down with them

rather than allow the heir to be taken.

“You think they’d kill me.”

“Or worse,” he said. “We can’t be certain of Scaelas’s intentions. It’s too much of a risk.”

“We don’t need Scaelas,” Grey said. “We don’t need anyone.”

“We need allies,” he said. “You and I do not an army make.”

“Where’s that ego I know and love?”

He smiled, but only just. “I will go wherever you want to,” he said, “but we shouldn’t rush into a hasty decision, or do something because we’re backed into a corner.” He squeezed her hand, two short pulses. “If you want to go, it should be a genuine choice. Not the result of a forced hand.”

“I know,” Grey said.

“That’s a decision that can’t be reversed.”

She snorted. “Like retirement?”

“We could always re-enlist.”

“Gods, no.”

They sat for a moment in silence before Kier said, “Once you open that box, there’s no going back. It would reveal the truth of you.”

Grey nudged his jaw with her head. “You know the truth of me.” It was easy, like this, to pretend that there was something else between them other than friendship and the tether of power.

He laughed. Kier raised her hand to his lips, and she felt the brush of his new beard. “I do,” he agreed, “though sometimes I wonder.”

“Are you two going to eat, or are you just going to keep necking in the corner?” Ola called.

Grey sighed, untangling from Kier’s side. “We’re not necking,” she grumbled, even though she blushed as she said it. She half crawled back across the rocks to the circle of warm light. Sela handed her a bowl with a tentative smile.

“Captain Flynn?” she asked, moving closer with her own bowl, and Grey immediately knew from the girl’s tone that she was in for something.

“Grey works, kid. What do you need?” she asked, already mentally cataloging the things she had to do before sleep. Kier was across the light

with Ola, going over tomorrow’s route.

“Can you explain binding to me?”

That again. Grey forced herself to get down three spoonfuls in rapid succession, thinking it over. “Maybe when you’re older,” she said finally.

She was rewarded with a pout that made Sela look even younger.

“I don’t believe it has anything to do with that,” Sela said primly. “But you and the captain are bound. Why?”

Grey nodded. There was no point in edging around it: the fact was out there. “Why didn’t they train you as a well?” she asked. She knew the girl had power—she also knew how little she was able to use it.

Sela shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve tried, a few times, but I’m no good at it. So we decided to focus on my education instead. Diplomacy, magical history, geography. All that.”

Grey took this in. She remembered what Sela had said before, about barely being a well at all. Perhaps she was too weak for training—but she’d tethered to Brit in the battle, so there was something there.

Beyond that, she wished someone had been able to make such a decision for her. There were so many gaps in her own knowledge, holes that she didn’t think she’d ever be able to fill: history and geography, mathematics,

continental languages. Her schooling had been so singularly dedicated to preparing her for a life at war, life as someone else’s tool, a life as a well and a healer, that she sometimes didn’t know who she would be if she’d

genuinely had the choice.

“So why did you come back?”

Sela sighed through her teeth, poking her spoon around in her sludge, which she hadn’t finished. For all her sweeping declarations about the passable mediocrity of Eron’s cooking, she didn’t seem keen to eat it now.

“I don’t know if I can explain it,” she said. “Do you ever miss your home?

Familiarity? The place you know better than any others?”

Grey shrugged. She’d been moving around since she was sixteen. And though she’d lived in Leota for years, though that had been her home for most of her childhood, it wasn’t Leota she thought of when she smelled the salty brine of the sea.

“I guess that answers your question,” she said slowly, choosing each word with deliberate care. “About Kier and me. With power—with your mage. It’s like that, sometimes. You find someone, and they feel like home, and everything is stronger. I think that’s how it’s meant to be, for some of us. Not moving from mage to mage with every reassignment. I know Kier just as well as I know myself.”

“Do you love him?” Sela asked with the shamelessness of a teenager.

“Of course I do,” Grey said. There was no point in clarifying the way she loved him, or the ways it was unreciprocated. “But… there’s more to love than that.”

“Ola said it’s a foolish thing for anyone to do,” Sela admitted. For a second, Grey thought she was talking about love, and that she and Ola had been gossiping, but Sela clarified. “Binding, I mean. She said that Kier is useless without you, and that if you die, he’ll never be able to do magic again.”

“He’d be useless without me anyway,” Grey said, trying to make a joke, and finding it bitter in her mouth. She shrugged. There was no way to break a bond, no way to undo it, and they’d known that four years ago when he whispered her true name and pressed his blood to her mouth. “But we’re capable of a lot, bound as we are. It has its benefits. It makes both of us stronger.”

She looked at Sela’s full bowl, her upturned face. She wasn’t even

pretending to eat anymore. Grey elbowed her gently in the ribs. “Eat something,” she said. “We’ve mountains to cross, kid.”

Sela sighed, but she did as she was told. A few moments later, when she’d finished shoveling the gruel in—speed was the only way to make the meal palatable—she said, “Can you train me?”

Grey had been expecting this. She watched the steady glow of the magelight, felt the warmth on her fingers. “I can try,” she said, “but I

probably won’t be any good at it.”

“Trying is nice too.”

“And Brit needs to agree to help.”

“They probably will, if I ask nicely.”

Grey did not contest this. She sensed a shadow over her, then Kier came close. “We should probably get some rest,” he said. He’d clearly already told the others—Brit and Ola were already setting up their bedrolls. “Eron is taking the first watch.”

“Thanks,” Grey said. She watched him go back, setting out their sleep areas, leaving Sela’s closest to the warmth of the magelight. To Sela, she said, “Then we’ll try.”

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I expected a lot of things from this marriage, but not love. It’s Isaak’s fault for loving me first and I am a fool because I have allowed it. The fact that it has found me, weakened me, makes me incandescently angry. I think of him, always, and nothing could enrage me more.

Letter from Alma, High Lady of Locke, to Wren Locke Teinek, her sister, 18 years AD

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