Sometimes Sidra saw the ghost of Torin’s first wife sitting at the table. The visits occurred when one season ended and another began, when change could be felt in the air. Donella Tamerlaine’s ghost liked to bask in the morning light, dressed in leather armor and plaid, watching as Sidra stood in the kitchen by the fire, cooking breakfast for Maisie.
Sometimes Sidra felt unworthy, as if Donella were assessing her. How well was Sidra caring for the daughter and husband she had left behind? But most of the time Sidra felt as if Donella was simply keeping her company, so fastened was her soul to this place, to this ground. The women—one dead and one living—were connected by love and blood and soil. Three cords that were so interwoven that Sidra was not surprised that Donella appeared to her and her alone.
“I have to send Maisie to school this autumn,” Sidra said as she stirred the parritch. The cottage was quiet, dusted with dawn, and the wind was just beginning to howl its morning gossip. When Donella was silent, Sidra glanced at her. The ghost sat in her favorite chair at the table, her tawny hair flowing down her shoulders. Her armor was incandescent in the light, a breath away from being wholly translucent.
Donella was so beautiful it sometimes made Sidra’s chest ache.
The ghost shook her head, reluctant.
“I know,” Sidra said with a sigh. “I have been teaching her letters and how to read.” But the truth was, all of the isle children were required to attend classes in Sloane when they turned six. Which Donella knew, despite being dead for the past five years.
“There is a way to delay it, Sidra,” Donella said. Her voice was faint, a tendril of what it had once been when she was alive, although Sidra had not even been an acquaintance to her then. The two women had taken very different paths in life, and yet it had strangely led them both to the same place.
“You think I should begin teaching her my craft?” Sidra asked, but she knew it was what Donella was thinking and it took her by surprise. “I always assumed that you would want Maisie to follow your legacy, Donella.”
The ghost smiled, but her demeanor was melancholy, even as the sunrise illuminated her. “I don’t see the sword in Maisie’s future, but something else.”
Sidra slowed her stirring. She inevitably thought of Torin, who was stubborn as an ox. On their wedding night, they had sat across from each other on their bed—fully clothed—and conversed for hours about Maisie and her future. How they would raise her together. He wanted his daughter to go to school on the isle. She would be taught everything: how to wield bow and arrow, how to read and write, how to whet a sword, how to count her numbers, how to knock a man to the ground, how to mill oats and barley, how to sing and dance and hunt. Not once had Torin mentioned Maisie learning Sidra’s craft of herbs and healing.
As if sensing her doubt, Donella said, “Maisie has already learned from watching you, Sidra. She enjoys tending the garden at your side. She likes to help you when you make your salves and tonics. She could become a great healer beneath your instruction.”
“I enjoy her company,” Sidra admitted. “But I’ll have to talk to Torin about it.” And she didn’t know when she would see him next.
What she did know was Torin’s dedication to the East Guard. He preferred the night shift, and he slept during the day in the dark, quiet bowels of the castle because he wanted to be in the barracks with the other guards. She understood his commitment, the thoughts that dictated his mind. Why should he, even though he was captain, be sleeping at home when his guards were sleeping in the barracks?
Occasionally, he ate his dinner with her and Maisie, which meant it was their breakfast. But even then, his love and attention were given to his daughter, and Sidra did everything he had married her for—to keep the croft and help him raise his child. Every now and then, before the moon had fully waxed and waned and when Maisie was visiting her grandfather on the croft next to theirs, Torin would come to her. Their couplings were always spontaneous and brief, as if Torin only had a few moments. But he was always gentle and attentive to her, and sometimes he lingered with her in the bed, tracing the wild tangles of her hair.
“I think you will see him again sooner than you think,” Donella said. “And he will not deny you anything, Sidra.”
Sidra was stunned by that idea, thinking the ghost was exaggerating. But then Sidra wondered, Well, when have I ever asked Torin for anything? And she realized that she rarely did.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll ask him. Soon.”
The front door blew open. Donella evanesced and Sidra, startled, whirled to see none other than Torin enter the cottage, windblown and ruddy. His tunic was damp from dew, his boots coated in sand, and his gaze found her instantly, as if he knew exactly where she would be—by the fire, stirring his daughter’s breakfast.
“Who were you talking to, Sid?” he asked, frowning as his eyes swept the room.
“No one,” she said, flustered. Torin had no idea she could see and speak with Donella, and Sidra didn’t think she would ever be brave enough to tell him. “You’re home. Why?”
Torin hesitated. She had never questioned why he was visiting. Of course, if he was here, he was hungry after working all night. He wanted his dinner and to hold his daughter.
“I thought I’d sup with you and Maisie,” he said, his voice lowering. “And I have a visitor with me.”
“A visitor?” Sidra dropped her spoon, intrigued. If she had been listening to the wind that morning, she might have heard the gossip it bore over the fells. But she had been preoccupied with the ghost of Torin’s first love.
She walked around the table, the draft stirring her unbound hair, and only stopped when a young man entered the cottage, his shoulders hunched in apparent discomfort. He held something in his arms; it looked like an instrument hiding in an oilskin sleeve, and Sidra’s heart leapt in joy until she noticed how disheveled he was. He had Torin’s plaid draped across his shoulders, but his garments beneath were plain and hung from him like an ill-fated fortune. He cast a long shadow, one made of worry and resentment.
But these were the moments Sidra lived for. To aid and heal and unravel mysteries.
“I know you,” she breathed with a smile. “You’re Mirin’s son.”
The stranger blinked and straightened, astonished she had recognized him.
“Jack Tamerlaine,” Sidra continued, recalling his name. “I’m not certain if you remember me, but years ago, you and your mum visited my family’s croft in the Vale of Stonehaven, to purchase wool. My cat had gotten herself stuck in the old elm tree in our kail yard, and you were kind enough to climb up after her and bring her safely down to me.”
Jack still appeared bewildered, but then the lines marring his face eased and a hint of a smile played on his lips. “I do remember. Your cat nearly scratched my eyes out.”
Sidra laughed, and the room instantly brightened. “Aye, she was a cranky old tabby. But I did care for your scratches afterward, and it seems I did a fair job at it.”
The chamber fell silent. Sidra was still smiling, and she felt Torin’s gaze. She turned her attention to him only to see he was regarding her with pride, and it surprised her. Torin never seemed to pay any heed to her skills of healing. That was her work, as the East Guard was his, and they kept those pieces of themselves separate. Save for those rare moments when Torin needed stitches or to have his nose reset. Then he submitted, albeit begrudgingly, to her hands and care.
“Come inside, Jack,” Sidra invited, seeking to make Jack feel welcome, and Torin shut the front door. “I’ll have breakfast on the table in a moment, but in the meantime … Torin, why don’t you find Jack something to wear?”
Torin motioned for Jack to follow him into the spare chamber. Most of Torin’s garments were at the barracks, but he kept his finest raiment at the cottage in a chest lined with juniper boughs—tunics and jerkins and the rare set of trousers, as well as several plaids.
Sidra hurried to set the table, drawing forth her reserves, which she always kept within reach in case Torin unexpectedly joined them. She set down boiled eggs and crocks of butter and sugared cream, a wheel of goat cheese and a pot of wildflower honey, a plate of cold ham and salted herring, a loaf of bread and a jar of currant jelly, and lastly, her pot of parritch. She was pouring cups of tea when Torin reemerged into the main chamber, holding Jack’s instrument as if it might bite him. Sidra opened her mouth to ask him how Jack had come into his care when the bedroom door banged open and out bounded Maisie, her brown curls tangled from sleep, her bare feet slapping on the floor.
“Daddie!” she cried and jumped into Torin’s arms, mindless of the instrument.
“There’s my sweet lass!” Torin caught her with one arm, a broad smile on his face. Maisie settled on his hip, wrapping her arms and legs about him, as if she would never let him go.
Sidra walked to them, carefully taking Jack’s instrument from Torin, listening as father and daughter spoke to one another in their singsong way. Torin asked about the flowers Maisie had planted in the kail yard, how her writing lessons were progressing, and then came the moment Sidra was waiting for.
“Daddie, guess what happened.”
“What happened, sweetheart?”
Maisie glanced over his shoulder to meet Sidra’s gaze, smiling roguishly. Spirits below, that smile, Sidra thought, her heart welling. She felt her love for Maisie so strongly she couldn’t breathe for a moment. Even though the lass was not made from her own flesh and blood, Sidra imagined Maisie had been spun from her spirit.
“You lost your front tooth!” Torin said in delight, noticing the blank spot in Maisie’s grin.
“Aye, Daddie. But that’s not what I was going to tell you.” Maisie set her smile on him, and Sidra braced herself. “Flossie had her kittens.”
Torin’s brow rose. He looked straight to Sidra. A father who sensed he was standing in a bog.
“Did she now?” he said, but he continued to stare at Sidra, knowing she had set this convenient trap for him. “How wonderful, Maisie.”
“Yes, Daddie. And Sidra said I must ask you if I can keep them all.”
“Sidra said that?” Torin, at last, glanced back to his daughter. Sidra could feel her cheeks getting warm, but she set Jack’s instrument in his chair and resumed her tea pouring. “She loves her cats, doesn’t she?”
“I love them too,” Maisie said vibrantly. “They are so cute, Daddie! And I want to keep all of the kittens. Can I, can I please?”
Torin was silent for a beat. Again, Sidra could feel the heat of his gaze on her as she moved from teacup to teacup.
“How many kittens are there, Maisie?”
“Five, Daddie.”
“Five? I … I don’t think you can keep them all, sweetheart,” Torin said, to which Maisie let out a whine. “Listen to me, Maisie. What about the other crofts that need a good cat to guard the kail yards? What about the other lasses who don’t have any kittens to hold and love? Why don’t you share? Give four kittens to other lasses and keep one for yourself.”
Maisie slumped, scowling.
Sidra decided to add her input, saying, “I think that is a great plan, Maisie. And you can always go and visit the other kittens.”
“Do you promise, Sidra?” Maisie asked.
“I promise.”
Maisie smiled again and wiggled her way down from Torin’s arms. She sat in her chair, eager for breakfast, and Sidra turned back to the fire, to set her kettle on the hook. She felt Torin approaching, then heard him whisper into her hair, “How are you ever going to have a guard dog here if the croft is overrun with cats?”
Sidra straightened, felt the air pull between them. “I’ve told you, Torin. I need no guard dog.”
“For the hundredth time, Sid … I want you to have a dog. To guard you and Maisie at night when I am away.”
They had argued about this for an entire season now. Sidra knew why Torin was so insistent. Every warm night that passed only heightened his anxiety about a potential raid. And if it wasn’t the Breccans sparking his worries, it was the malevolent folk. Trouble had been wandering the isle lately, in the wind and the water and the earth and the fire. Two young girls had gone missing, and she understood why he was so persistent. Neither she nor Torin wanted to see Maisie at risk of being ushered away by a faerie spirit. But Sidra didn’t believe a guard dog was the solution.
A dog could scare spirits away from a yard, even the good ones. And her faith in the folk of the earth ran deep. It was because of that devotion that Sidra could heal the worst of wounds and illnesses in the east. It was why her herbs, flowers, and vegetables flourished, empowering her to nourish and heal the community and her family. If Sidra dared to bring a dog into the fold, it might convince the spirits that her faith in them was weak, and she didn’t know what sort of consequences that would lend to her life.
She had been raised believing in the goodness of the spirits. Torin’s faith had steadily crumbled over the years, and he hardly spoke a kind word about the folk these days, intent on judging them all by the malicious few. Anytime Sidra broached the subject of the spirits with him, Torin turned cold, as if he were only half listening to her.
She wondered if he blamed the spirits for Donella’s untimely death.
Sidra turned to meet his gaze. “I have all the guard I need.”
“And what am I to say to that?” he uttered, low and angry. Because he was rarely there, he knew she wasn’t speaking of him.
“You take offense where there is none,” she said gently. “Your father is next door. If there is any trouble, I will go to him.”
Torin drew a deep breath, but he didn’t say another word about it. He only studied her, and Sidra had the prickling sensation that he could read her face and the slant of her feelings. A moment passed before he stepped away, conceding this battle for now. He sat in his straw-backed chair at the head of the table and listened as Maisie chattered about the kittens, but his eyes lingered on Sidra, as if he were seeking a way to convince her about the dog.
She had almost forgotten about Jack until the spare chamber door squeaked open, and Maisie, glancing at the visitor, stopped talking midsentence.
“Who are you?” she blurted.
Jack seemed unruffled by the girl’s bluntness. He came to the table, found his chair with the instrument waiting, and sat, stiff as a board in Torin’s clothes. The plaid was heavy and awkward, fastened at his shoulder. The tunic could have fit two of him within its generous size. “I’m Jack. And you are?”
“Maisie. That’s my daddie and that’s Sidra.”
Sidra felt Jack look at her. “Sidra,” not “Mum” or “Mummy.” But she had never made any pretense to Maisie of being her mother, no matter how young and tender the girl was. That had been part of Sidra’s bargain with Torin: she would raise Maisie and love her wholeheartedly, but she would not lie and pretend she was the girl’s blood mother.
Every spring, Sidra would take Maisie and a handful of flowers to Donella’s grave, and she would tell the lass about her mother, who had been lovely and brave and gifted with the sword. Even though it sometimes left a lump in Sidra’s throat, she would tell Maisie the story of how her father and mother had trained and sparred on the castle grounds, first as rivals but later as friends and then lovers.
“And how did you meet Daddie?” Maisie would always ask, savoring the stories.
Sometimes Sidra would tell her, sitting in the sunshine and long grass, and sometimes she would save that particular saga, which was not nearly as dashing as the ballad of Torin and Donella.
But that was a story for another day.
“What’s that?” Maisie asked, pointing to Jack’s instrument.
“A harp.”
Sidra realized that Jack was favoring his left hand. “Are you wounded, Jack?”
“It’s nothing,” Jack replied, just as Torin said, “Yes. Can you tend to him, Sid?”
“Of course,” Sidra said, reaching for her basket of healing supplies.
“Maisie, why don’t you show your father the kittens?” Maisie was delighted. She took hold of Torin’s hand and tugged him out the back door. With their departure, the house was quiet again. Sidra approached Jack with her basket of salves and linen.
“May I tend to your hand?”
Jack turned his palm skyward. “Yes. Thank you.”
She drew her chair close to his and began her ministrations. Gently, she washed away the sand and dirt and was just beginning to fill the cut with her healing salve when Jack spoke.
“How long have you and Torin been together?”
“Almost four years now,” Sidra replied. “I married him when Maisie was just a year old.” She began to wrap his hand with linen, and she could sense the queries rising in him. He was a wanderer who had just returned home, struggling to arrange the pieces of the isle together. Sidra continued, for his sake, “Torin was first married to Donella Reid. She was a fellow member of the guard. She passed away after Maisie’s delivery.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes. It was a difficult loss.” Sidra envisioned Donella and realized Jack was sitting in the ghost’s chair, the sunshine pouring in from the window on the far wall. Before, the light had shone through Donella’s visage, but it gilded Jack now. He looked just like Mirin, Sidra thought. Which meant he must not favor his mysterious father at all. A father the gossips were still hungry to speculate about.
“There,” Sidra said, finishing her care. “I’m going to send you off with this bottle of salve and honey. You should dress your wound morning and night for three days.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, accepting the offering. “How can I repay you for your kindness?”
Sidra smiled. “I think a song would suffice, once your hand has recovered. Maisie would love to hear your music. It’s been a long time since we have enjoyed such a luxury.”
Jack nodded, carefully flexing his fingers. “I would be honored.”
The back door swung open, and the windstorm that was Maisie and Torin returned. Sidra noticed that Torin had a few fresh scratches on his knuckles, from the kittens, no doubt, and a peevish gleam in his eyes. Also from the kittens.
“Let’s eat,” he said gruffly, as if he were in a hurry.
Sidra sat, and they began to pass dishes around the table. She observed that Jack ate very little, that his hands shook, that his eyes were bloodshot. She listened as Torin spoke of the isle and realized that Jack didn’t know any of the current news. He meekly asked about Laird Alastair, about the crops and the guard and the tension with the west.
“I often worry about my mum, living so close to the clan line alone,” he said. “It’s good to hear things have been peaceful here.”
Sidra paused, but she met Torin’s gaze. Does Jack not know …? She was opening her mouth to say it, but Torin cleared his throat and changed the subject. Sidra relented, realizing if Jack didn’t know, it wasn’t her place to inform him, even though she now worried about him finding out later.
As soon as the meal was over, Torin rose.
“Come, Jack,” he said. “I’m heading to the city and can walk you there. Best to see the laird first and then your mum, before the wind carries any further gossip about you.”
Jack nodded.
Maisie began her chore of carrying cutlery and cups to the wash barrel, and Sidra followed the men to the threshold. Jack walked the path through the kail yard, down to the road, but Torin lingered.
“I hope four of those kittens have found their new homes by the time I return,” he said, partly teasing.
Sidra leaned on the doorframe, the wind tangling her dark hair. “They’re too young to be separated from their mother.”
“How much longer then?”
“Another month, at least.” She crossed her arms and met his steady gaze with one of her own. She was testing him, of course. To see when she could next expect him to come to her. To see how much time she had to prepare her argument for keeping Maisie home.
“That’s a long time,” he stated.
“Not really.”
But he looked at her as if it were. “Perhaps you and Maisie can begin to find people who want the kittens.”
“Of course,” said Sidra with a smile. “We will make the most of our time.”
Torin’s gaze dropped to her mouth, to that wry tilt of her lips. But he turned without another word, walking the path between the herbs only to pause at the gate, running his hand through his hair. And while he didn’t glance back at her, Sidra knew.
He would return to her long before a month had passed.
Jack remembered the way to the city of Sloane, even after ten years of absence, but he politely waited for Torin to join him on the road, his stallion clomping behind him. The two men walked in companionable silence, Jack uncomfortable with the way Torin’s garments swallowed him. Inwardly, he grumbled, but he also was grateful. The raiment was resilient against the wind, which was blowing from the east, dry and cold and full of whispers. Jack closed his ears to the gossip, but once or twice he imagined he heard The wayward bard is here.
Soon, everyone would know he was back on the isle. Including his mother. And that was one reunion Jack was dreading.
“How long do you plan to stay?” Torin asked, glancing sidelong at him.
“For the summer,” Jack replied, kicking a pebble from the road. Although he honestly wasn’t sure how long he would be forced to be here. Torin had mentioned that two girls had vanished in the past fortnight, and Jack still didn’t see how he was needed for something like that, as terrible as it was. Unless Laird Alastair wanted Jack to play his harp for the clan as a way to mourn the losses, but Torin said he still had faith the girls would be found whenever the spirits ceased their mischief and surrendered them back to the mortal realm.
Whatever the laird needed him for, Jack would do it quickly and then return to the university, where he belonged.
“You have responsibilities on the mainland?” Torin queried, as if sensing Jack’s thoughts.
“I do. I’m in the midst of my teaching assistance and hope to become professor within the next five years.” That is, if this time away on Cadence didn’t ruin his chances. Jack had worked long and hard to be in the position he held, teaching up to one hundred students a week and grading their compositions. Unexpectedly taking a term off would now open the door for another assistant to steal his classes and possibly replace him.
The mere thought made his stomach churn.
They passed the croft of Torin’s father, Graeme Tamerlaine, the laird’s brother. Jack noticed the kail yard was beset with brambles and the cottage looked dismal. The front door was framed with gossamer. Vines snaked across the stone walls, and Jack wondered if Torin’s father still lived there, or if he had passed away. And then he remembered that Graeme Tamerlaine had become a recluse in his old age and rarely left his croft. Not even for feast days in the castle hall, when all of Eastern Cadence gathered to celebrate.
“Your father …?” Jack asked, uncertain.
“Is quite well,” Torin said, but his voice was firm, as if he didn’t want to speak of his father. As if the dilapidation of Graeme Tamerlaine’s croft was the norm.
They walked onward as the road rose and fell with the lay of the hills, which were green from spring storms. Foxglove grew wild in the sun, dancing with the wind, and starlings soared and trilled against a low swath of clouds. In the distance, the morning fog began to burn away, revealing a glimpse of the ocean, endlessly blue and sparkling with light.
Jack soaked in the beauty, but he remained guarded against it. He didn’t like the way the isle made him feel alive and whole, as if he were a part of it, when he wanted to remain a distant observer. A mortal who could come and go as he pleased and suffer nothing for it.
He thought of his classes again. His students. A few of them had burst into tears when he shared the news that he had been called away for the summer. Others had been relieved, as he was known to be one of the strictest of teaching assistants. But if a pupil was going to take his class, he wanted to ensure they had grown in skill by the end of it.
His thoughts were still centered on the mainland when he and Torin reached Sloane. The city was just as Jack remembered. The road had been transformed into smooth cobbles winding between the buildings, houses built close to each other, their walls made of stone and cob with thatched roofs. Smoke rose from the forges, the market brimmed with activity, and the castle sat in the heart of it, a fortress made of dark stones dressed in banners. The sigil of the Tamerlaines snapped from the parapets, betraying which wind blew that afternoon.
“I think a few people are happy to see you, Jack,” Torin said.
Caught off guard by that statement, Jack began to pay attention.
People were noticing him as he passed. Old fishermen sitting beneath canopies, mending their nets with gnarled hands. Bakers carrying baskets of warm bannocks. Milkmaids with their swinging pails. Lads with wooden swords, and lasses toting books and quivers of arrows. The blacksmiths between strikes on their anvils.
He didn’t slow his pace, and no one dared to stop him. Most of all, he didn’t expect to witness their excitement, their smiles as they watched him pass.
“I have no idea why,” Jack said dryly to Torin.
As a boy, he had been disliked and mistreated because of his status. If Mirin had sent him into town to buy some bread, the baker would give him the burnt loaf. If Mirin asked him to bargain for a new pair of boots in the market, the cobbler would give him a used pair with worn leather thongs that would break before the winter snows had melted. If Mirin gave him a silver mark to buy a honey cake, he would be given the sweet after it had fallen on the ground.
Bastard followed him in whispers, more than his own name. Some of the wives in the market would study Jack’s face to compare against their husbands’, wondering and suspicious despite the fact that Jack was an unforgiving reflection of his mother and unfaithfulness was rare in Cadence.
When Mirin began weaving enchanted plaids, the people who had snubbed Jack suddenly became a little kinder, because no one could rival Mirin’s handiwork, and she suddenly knew everyone’s darkest secrets while they had yet to learn hers. But by then he had begun carrying every slight around like a bruise in his spirit. He had provoked fights at school, broken windows with rocks, refused to bargain with certain people when Mirin sent him to the market.
For him, it was bizarre now to acknowledge how eager the clan was to see him, as if they had been waiting for the day he would return home as a bard.
“This is where I leave you, Jack,” Torin said when they reached the castle courtyard. “But I suppose I’ll see you again soon?”
Jack nodded, stiff with nerves. “Thank you again for breakfast. And the clothes. I’ll have them returned as soon as I’m able.”
Torin waved away his gratitude and led his horse into the stable. Jack was admitted into the castle by a set of guards.
The hall was lonely and quiet, a place for ghosts to gather. Thick shadows hung in the rafters and in the corners; the only light streamed in through the arched windows, casting bright squares on the floor. The trestle tables were coated in dust, the benches tucked beneath them. The hearth was cold and swept clean of ashes. Jack remembered visiting with Mirin every full moon to feast and listen to Lorna Tamerlaine, Bard of the East and the wife of the laird, play her harp and sing. Once a month, this hall had been a lively place, a place for the clan to come together for fellowship after a day of work.
The tradition must have ceased with her unexpected death five years ago, Jack thought, sorrowful. And there was no bard on the isle to take her place, to carry the songs and legends of the clan.
He walked the length of the hall to the steps of the dais, not realizing the laird was standing there, watching his approach. A grand tapestry of moons, harts, and mountains covered the wall in glorious color and intricate detail. Alastair seemed woven into the tapestry until he moved, catching Jack by surprise.
“Jack Tamerlaine,” the laird said in greeting. “I didn’t believe the wind this morning, but I must say the sight of you is much welcome.”
Jack knelt in submission.
The last time he had seen the laird had been the eve of his departure. Alastair had stood beside him on the shore, his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he prepared to board the sailor’s boat to cross over to the mainland. Jack hadn’t wanted to appear afraid in his laird’s presence—Alastair was a great man, in stature and character, imposing even though he was prone to smile and quick to laugh—and so Jack had boarded the sailor’s boat, holding in his tears until the isle had faded, melting into the night sky.
This was not the man who greeted Jack now.
Alastair Tamerlaine was wan and gaunt, his clothes hanging loose from his narrow frame. His hair, once dark as raven feathers, was bedraggled, a dull shade of gray, and his eyes had lost their luster, even as he smiled at Jack. His thunderous voice was hoarse, made from shallow breath. He looked weary, like a man who had been at battle for years without respite.
“My laird,” Jack said in a wavering tone. Was this the purpose of his summoning? Because death stalked the ruler of the east?
Jack waited, bowing his head as Alastair drew close. He felt the laird’s hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his eyes. His shock must have been evident, because Alastair let out a rasp of laughter.
“I know, I am much changed since you last saw me, Jack. Years can do that to a man. Although time on the mainland has been good to you.”
Jack smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes. He felt a flare of anger at Torin, who should have mentioned the laird’s health that morning at breakfast, when Jack had inquired after him.
“I have returned, sir, as you have asked me to. How may I serve you?”
Alastair was quiet. He blinked, a crease of confusion in his brow, and in that swell of silence, Jack was overcome with dread.
“I wasn’t expecting you, Jack. I didn’t ask you to return.”
The harp in Jack’s arms became a millstone. He continued to kneel, gazing blankly up at the laird, his thoughts scattering.
It hadn’t been Alastair, although his signet ring had been used in the letter.
Who summoned me?
As tempted as he was to shout his frustrations into the hall, he remained silent. But a glimmer of movement answered him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw someone emerge onto the dais, as if she had come from the moonlit mountains of the tapestry. Tall and slender, she wore a dress the color of storm clouds, and a red plaid shawl framed her shoulders. Her raiment whispered as she moved, drawing closer to where he knelt.
Jack’s gaze was riveted to her.
Her face, freckled and angular, with high cheeks that carved into a sharp jaw, evoked not beauty but reverence. She was flushed, as though she had been walking among the parapets, challenging the wind. Her hair was the color of the moon, bound in an array of braids that were pinned together as a crown. Tucked within them were small thistle blooms, as if stars had fallen upon her. As if she held no fear of their sting.
He saw a shadow of the girl she had once been. The lass he had chased over the hills one chaotic spring night and challenged for a handful of thistles.
Adaira.
She stared at him, still on his knee, as he stared at her. His shock burned away, replaced by indignation that blazed so fiercely he couldn’t breathe when he thought about what he had surrendered to come home. His title, his reputation, the culmination of years of dedication and hard work. Gone like smoke in the breeze. All this he had given up not for his laird, which he could justify, but for her and her whims.
She sensed it in him—the heart of the wild boy who had chased her, now older and harder. His mounting ire.
Adaira responded with a cold, victorious smile.
