Part 2 – A Song for Earth
Adaira stood in her bedchamber before the window, watching the sun rise. Her hair was still damp from the sea, and her fingers were pruned from treading the waves with Jack. She wore nothing but a robe, and she shivered beneath its softness, remembering the way the spirits had stared at her, as if they were hungry.
She turned away from her reflection in the glass and walked to where her bath waited by the hearth, disrobing along the way. She stepped into the water, which was lukewarm, but sometimes the cold didn’t bother her.
Sometimes she craved the icy embrace of winter.
She watched the ripples form around her as she settled, leaning against the copper tub. She thought about what the folk had said to her, and she remembered the way Jack’s voice had melded with the music her mother had written years ago. Her chest ached, and she didn’t know if it was from grief at hearing Lorna’s music reborn or if it was frustration. Adaira had believed the spirits of the sea could help her find the girls. She had hoped to bring an end to this madness and the misery of vanished children.
But the truth was that she was nowhere closer to solving the mystery. In fact, her mind was only more scrambled now.
She covered her face with her hands and pressed her fingertips into her closed eyes, exhausted.
It is her, the folk of the tides had said. Even now, their voices echoed through her hollowness.
No, Adaira should have said to them. No, I am nothing like my mum.
Beware of blood in the water, mortal woman.
She let her hands drift away and opened her eyes, gazing at the water that embraced her. She thought of Jack again, of how he had come after her despite his own fear of the night sea. He had looked so angry breaking the surface with her—for some odd reason he had reminded Adaira of a cat that had been dunked in a rain barrel. But he had also looked content the longer he beheld her, as if he had finally remembered who he was. That he was isle born. And Adaira had done the most ridiculous thing. She had laughed, and it had felt like birds taking flight within her.
She stared at her wavering reflection in the bath and wondered what it would take to provoke a stoic man such as Jack Tamerlaine to laugh with her.
“Enough,” she whispered to herself, reaching for the sponge and a bar of soap. She began to scrub her skin, but it did nothing to the memories she wanted to keep at bay.
The last time she had swum in isle waters had been with Callan Craig, years ago. She had been eighteen, searching for something to fill her loneliness. That keen, endless loneliness was magnified by her mother’s recent passing, and Adaira found a remedy for those feelings in Callan.
She had been smitten with him and spent many stolen hours with him sparring on castle grounds, riding the hills, tangled in bedsheets. Adaira winced when she thought about how naïve she had been, how eager and trusting. After their relationship ended, she hoped that time would dull the heartache, but it flared every now and then, like old bones in wintertime.
She cast off those painful memories and plunged beneath the water, holding her breath. The world was quiet here, and yet she could still hear Jack’s music and voice as he sang. She wanted to sit and listen to him play for hours. She wanted to see the hall restored, the clan brought together by music.
She wanted Jack to be the one to do it.
It was strange how much time away had changed him. Adaira had first noticed two things about him: how deep and rich his voice was now, and how beautiful his hands were. But his grumpy disposition was the same. As were his many frowns.
She had hated him as a lass. But she was coming to learn that it was hard to hate what made her feel the most alive.
She rose from the water and dressed, then made her way to the bureau where her brush and mirror waited. A letter caught her eye. Its corner was tucked beneath a jar of moon thistles, and the parchment was crinkled, as though it had been carelessly handled.
It was also marked by the western seal.
Moray Breccan had written to her again. She almost hesitated to open it.
On the day Adaira had forged a letter to Jack, she had also sent a letter to the heir of the Breccan clan, expressing her desire to discuss the possibility of a trade. Moray had quickly replied and, to Adaira’s surprise, had been well spoken and enthusiastic about her idea.
It seemed that peace might be attainable after centuries of strife, and Adaira was hopeful. She was tired of the raids, tired of the fear that laced the cold days in the east. She dreamt of a different isle, and if the Breccans wouldn’t initiate it, she would.
Her father had been furious.
She could still remember how Alastair had railed at her, claiming it was foolish to open their storehouses for the Breccans. To begin a relationship with the clan that wanted nothing more than to harm them.
“I know you have raised me to never trust the western clan,” she had replied. “For us to be self-sufficient. The history of raids alone is enough to make me despise the Breccans. But I confess that the hatred has worn me down—it has made me feel old and brittle, as if I have lived a thousand years—and I want to find another way. Have you never dreamt of peace, Da? Have you ever envisioned an isle that is united again?”
“Of course I have dreamt of it.”
“Then is this not the first step toward such an ideal?”
Alastair had fallen silent. He refused to meet her gaze when he replied, “They have nothing we need, Adi. A trade, as much as you want to believe it will stave off winter raids, will not end them. The Breccans are a bloodthirsty lot.”
She didn’t agree. But he had grown so feeble over the past two years that Adaira had let the argument fade, worried it would overtax him.
Torin had responded in a similar manner, but Adaira understood the ground he stood on. How would this trade work with the clan line? Where should it take place? One foul move from either clan would shatter the trust, and some innocent person would most likely wind up dead.
Adaira reached for the letter. Since the disappearing girls had become the focus of her days and energy, she had almost forgotten about the trade and Moray’s previous response: an invitation to her to visit the west. She held the letter close to her face, breathing in the wrinkled parchment. It carried the fragrance of rain and juniper and something else. Something that she couldn’t name, something that stirred her apprehension.
She broke the wax seal and opened the letter. She read it by dawn’s light.
Dear Adaira,
I hope all is well with you and your clan. It has been four days since I last heard from you, and my parents and I are eagerly awaiting your response to my invitation to visit the west. I wonder if my letter failed to reach your hands. If so, let me repeat what I said before:
As the next generation, you and I have been afforded the chance to change the fate of our clans. You write to us of peace, which I had not thought possible, given our history. But you have granted me hope with the offer of a trade, and I want to extend an invitation to you and you alone to visit the west. Come and see our lands, our ways. Come and meet our people. Afterward, I will follow you east, likewise alone and unarmed to show the measure of my trust.
Furthermore, I ask to meet you on the clan line in five days’ time. I will bring the best my clan has to offer to trade with you. You may likewise bring the best your clan has to give, and we can begin a new season for the isle.
Meet me at noontide on the northern coast, where the sea cave marks the boundary between east and west. I will remain on my side of the clan line, as you should remain on yours. It will take some imagination to pass the goods back and forth, but I do have a plan. Alert your guards that you must come alone with your gift, so they must remain distant enough to be out of sight. I assure you that mine will do the same, and that I come unarmed to meet you.
Let us be an example to our clans that peace is attainable, but that it must be built entirely on trust.
I will be awaiting your response,
Moray Breccan
HEIR OF THE WEST
She read it a second time. Then a third, just to be certain she understood the gravity of it. Adaira’s hands shook as she folded Moray’s letter and departed from her bedchamber.
Was it wise for her to go alone to the west? Was it hypocritical of her to feel a pit in her stomach every time Moray mentioned trust?
She needed council.
She wanted to speak with Sidra first.
Sidra paced Graeme’s common room, around piles of parchment and books. They were waiting for Torin to arrive. Every minute felt like an hour, and Sidra’s heart continued to beat in her throat.
Her thoughts were consumed by Maisie. Where was she? Had she been harmed? Who had taken her?
“Sidra?” Graeme said gently. “Do you want to change? I have some spare garments in that oaken chest in the corner.”
“No, I’m fine, Da,” she said, distracted by her inner turmoil.
“I just thought …” Graeme paused, reaching for a decanter of whiskey. His hands shook as he poured two glasses. “It’s going to upset my son to see blood on your clothes.”
Sidra halted and glanced down at her chemise. It looked like she had been stabbed.
“Of course,” she whispered, realizing that the last thing she wanted was for Torin to see her like this. She walked through the maze of Graeme’s possessions to the trunk in the corner and knelt. Her fingers were cold as they raced over the wooden carvings, hefting the lid open.
She knew what rested within.
Torin’s mother had been gone for almost twenty-one years. Emma Tamerlaine had departed unexpectedly in the night when Torin was only six years old, leaving her son and her husband behind. She had been a mainlander; the isle was unfamiliar, frightening, and far away from her family. In the end, life here had been too difficult for her, and Emma had returned to the mainland without a backward glance.
Yet Graeme still had her raiment, as if she might return one day.
Sorrowfully, Sidra searched through the dresses. She eventually settled on a chemise, hoping Torin wouldn’t realize who it once belonged to. But why should he? He rarely saw Sidra’s own undergarments.
She held it up. The chemise was long and narrow, betraying how tall and svelte Torin’s mother had been. Sidra knew it would never fit her curves, and she was considering her options when she heard the front door blow open. The entire cottage shook in response. A breeze whispered through the chamber, overturning papers.
Sidra knew it was Torin, and she froze on her knees, Emma’s chemise gripped in her hands. Her view of the threshold was blocked by a dressing panel, but she could hear him clearly as he spoke.
“Where’s Maisie?” Torin panted, as if he had run across the hills. “Is everything well? I stopped by the house on my way and neither she nor Sidra were there.”
“Torin …” Graeme said.
Sidra shut her eyes. The house fell silent, and she wished that she could awaken. That this was only some terrible nightmare, and she wasn’t about to shatter Torin’s life.
“Sid?” he called.
She dropped his mother’s garment and stiffly rose. She looked at the floor as she stepped around the panel, at last coming into Torin’s line of sight.
It was the silence that made her glance upward.
His face was unnaturally pale. His eyes were glazed, betraying his shock. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. A gasp escaped him, and Sidra thought it sounded like he had just been stabbed, deep in the side.
Torin strode to her. He stepped through Graeme’s clutter, kicking books and trinkets out of the way. All too soon, that distance between them was gone, and Torin framed her face in his hands. She could smell the coast on his fingers—the sand and seawater. She could feel the bite of his many calluses and yet he held her so gently, as if she might break.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Who did this to you?”
Sidra swallowed. It felt like a rock was in her throat. It hurt to breathe, and her eyes burned with tears.
“Torin,” she whispered.
He knew it then. She felt how he stiffened, and his eyes began to frantically search the room.
“Where’s Maisie?” he asked.
Sidra drew a deep breath. Her sternum ached; her words crumbled.
“Where is Maisie, Sidra?” Torin asked again, his gaze returning to hers.
She had never seen him appear so afraid. His blue eyes were dilated, bloodshot.
“I’m sorry, Torin,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
His hands fell away from her. He took a step back, stumbling over a pair of boots. He heaved a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. Another sound slipped from him, soft yet guttural. Eventually, he glanced at Sidra, his face composed.
“I need you to tell me everything that happened last night,” he said. “If I’m going to find Maisie … you need to tell me every detail, Sidra.”
She was jarred by how reserved he now appeared, but she knew this was his training, to keep his emotions in check. He was speaking to her as the captain, not as her partner.
Sidra began to recount what had happened, save for Donella’s warning, thankful that she was able to speak without weeping.
He listened, his eyes fixed on her. Every few breaths, he would study her blood-smeared chest, the snarls of her matted hair, and Sidra would feel how cold she was.
“The spirit spoke?” Torin interrupted when she reached that part.
Sidra hesitated. She glanced across the room at Graeme, whom she had all but forgotten about. Her father-in-law stood by the door, still holding the two glasses of whiskey. He nodded to her, quietly encouraging her to tell Torin …
“It wasn’t a spirit,” Sidra said.
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
She explained about spirit blood.
“Are you certain, Sidra?” Torin asked. “This isn’t your blood?”
“I gave him a flesh wound in the back,” she said flatly. “This is not my blood, nor is it a spirit’s.”
“Then if it was a man …” Torin exhaled through his teeth. “Describe him to me. How tall was he? What did his voice sound like?”
Sidra struggled to put her memory, which felt distorted by night and terror, into something that Torin could identify.
He listened, bent toward her words, but she could sense his frustration. “You didn’t recognize his voice, but he asked for my daughter in particular?”
“Yes, Torin.”
“So he knows me. He must be a clansman, someone I’ve brushed shoulders with, or trained in the guard. Someone who knows the lay of the east.” Torin pressed a knuckle to his lips and shut his eyes. He still looked far too pale, as if the blood had drained from him.
“Torin,” Sidra whispered, reaching for his hand. She knew what he was feeling. That horrible wave of distress, to know it was a man stealing the lasses. To ask oneself, Why would a man kidnap little girls?
His eyes opened. He held Sidra’s gaze for a beat, but there was no hope, no reassurance in him. There was only anguish, and she felt responsible for it. She should have fought harder. She should have run faster. She should have screamed for Graeme.
Her hand fell back to her side, but Torin reached for her fingers, drawing her across the room and out the front door.
“If you wounded him, he could not have gotten far. Show me the exact place where it happened,” he said.
Sidra tripped as she matched his pace. She was still barefoot, and the brightness of the sun was a shock to her. She squinted, then realized that several of Torin’s guards were present, waiting by the road. They instantly moved forward when they saw her bloodied clothes.
“It was here, Torin,” she said, stopping halfway down the hill. The heather around her was crushed, a testament to her struggle. “I stabbed him. And he …” She bit off the rest, but Torin’s eyes were keen.
“What did he do next, Sidra?”
She resisted the urge to embrace herself and shivered. “He kicked me. In the chest. I rolled to there and lost the dirk on the way down.”
Torin followed the trail, kneeling in the place where Sidra had sprawled. He was pensive, studying the ground. His fingers found a few drops of blood in the heather, and it gave Sidra hope. Torin would be able to find the culprit. When he rose, she could see the color had returned to his face. His eyes were blazing, his steps full of purpose as he came to her.
“I want you to stay with my da for the rest of the day,” he said. “Please don’t leave his croft. Do you hear me, Sid?”
Sidra frowned. “No. I planned to help you search, Torin.”
“I would prefer if you stay with Graeme.”
“But I want to search. I don’t want to be locked away in a house, waiting on news.”
“Listen to me, Sidra,” Torin said, taking hold of her shoulders. “You were brutally attacked last night and injured. You need to rest.”
“I’m fine—”
“I won’t be able to focus on the search if I’m worried about you!” His words were sharp, cutting through her resolve. “Please, just do as I ask, this one time.”
Sidra took a step away. His hands slipped from her shoulders, and he sighed. But he didn’t stop her when she turned and ascended the hill, and she didn’t look back.
She passed through the gate into the yard. Graeme was standing in the doorway, still holding the two glasses of whiskey.
He took one look at Sidra’s face and said, “I’ll make us some oatcakes.”
She watched him step inside, grateful that he was granting her a moment alone. She took a step deeper into the yard and realized the glamour wasn’t fading, as it always did when she approached Graeme’s place.
The garden remained in utter disarray. Weeds grew in thick clots. Vines snaked across the pathway and up the cottage. Gossamer hung in golden webs. It shocked her. She had always seen through the glamour in the past. All the love and care she had given to this ground … it was like it had never happened.
The devastation she had been burying rose. Sidra’s tears began to fall as she knelt amid the wildness.
My faith is gone, she thought, sensing that was the reason why the yard was so changed, why she saw the glamour.
She watched the sunrise gild the weeds.
She began to viciously uproot it all.
