Sidra was walking along the western road on the way to visit a patient when she heard Mirin’s voice on the wind. She was calling for Adaira, and she sounded desperate.
Concerned, Sidra quickened her pace, heading in the direction of Mirin’s croft. She veered from the road and trusted the hills, Yirr in her shadow. The land shifted for her, folding kilometers and flattening craggy slopes, urging her forward through deer trails in the heather.
She was anxious when she reached Mirin’s gate. By appearances, everything seemed well, and Sidra approached the front door.
“Mirin? Frae?” She knocked and waited. Sweat was beginning to seep through her dress when Sidra decided to open the door. “Hello?”
She ordered Yirr to wait for her in the yard and stepped inside the cottage. It was empty and dimly lit, all of the shutters latched save for one. The back door was cracked open, inviting a stream of morning light. Sidra set down her basket of herbs and slowly walked to it.
She stepped onto the rear stoop and was amazed to find Mirin and Frae attempting to drag a body through the garden. Sidra didn’t know what shocked her more: the blue plaid on the man, how his hands were bound, or the blood on Mirin’s dress as she struggled to haul him to the house.
Mirin has killed a Breccan, Sidra thought, mouth agape. And she’s trying to hide the body.
“Mum!” Frae cried, pointing at Sidra.
Mirin whirled, tense until she recognized the healer. “Blessed spirits! Can you help us, Sidra?”
Sidra didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, the ground soft beneath her boots. “Yes. Where are we taking him?”
“Inside,” Mirin panted. Her face was ruddy, and stray hairs were escaping her braid.
“Are you wounded, Mirin?” Sidra asked, glancing again at the blood on the weaver’s skirts.
“No, it’s his blood. Is he … is he dead, Sidra?”
Sidra knelt and quickly glanced over him. A head wound, which looked far worse than it was. One of his palms bore a shallow, intentional slice. She checked his pulse; it was slow but strong.
“He’s alive,” she said, moving to take hold of his ankles. “He’ll most likely wake soon.”
“Frae?” Mirin said, clearing her throat. “Will you run inside and clear a space in the common room? Set out one of the kitchen chairs. And close the shutter.”
Frae nodded and dashed to obey.
A strange feeling began to creep over Sidra. She paused, staring at the Breccan’s boot.
Is this him?
She didn’t know where the query came from, but it made her stomach clench. She was wearing the green plaid Torin had commissioned for her, and she felt safe beneath its enchantment. But her chest began to ache.
“Sidra?” Mirin gently asked, breaking her strange reverie.
Sidra hurried to lift the man’s feet as Mirin heaved his upper body, and together they painstakingly carried him into the house and to the chair Frae had arranged. It took a bit of shuffling to get him seated upright—he was backbreakingly heavy—and Sidra was sore for breath by the time she and Mirin had removed his plaid and weapons.
“Will you bind his ankles to the chair?” Mirin asked, handing her two strips of plaid. “As tight as you can.”
Sidra nodded. “What happened?”
“I …” Mirin paused, laying her hand on her forehead. “Jack is unwell. I had to leave him on the hill, and I need to keep the Breccan under watch until Adaira arrives. Do you mind going to Jack and seeing if there’s anything you can do to heal him?”
“Yes,” Sidra said, her heart racing. She grabbed her basket and returned to the back garden, following the path Mirin and Frae had made dragging the Breccan. She saw Jack lying in the grass, and her fears rose. Every horrible thought was blooming in her mind—a Breccan must have crossed and Jack had fought him and was now critically wounded—and Sidra prepared herself as she knelt in the grass and turned him over.
He had been lying on his harp. The instrument was crooked and burned, as if it had been held over a fire, and he groaned as he settled on his back.
“Adaira?” he croaked, opening his eyes a sliver.
Sidra touched his brow. “No, it’s me. Sidra. Can you tell me what happened, Jack?” She prepared a cloth to wipe the dried blood from his face and fingers. His nails were broken and jagged at the edges. That’s when she knew it hadn’t been a fight but magic that had done this to him.
“The music’s cost was more than I could pay,” he said, wincing as she cleaned his nails. “It’s the same as before. I’m just … exhausted.”
“Jack.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “Don’t scold me, Sidra.”
Sidra held her tongue and worked quickly, full of questions. She made herself focus on the most pressing matter, which was healing Jack. But other thoughts were simmering.
“Can you give me something that will make me hale?” Jack said. He had opened his eyes fully now, watching Sidra prepare his tonic.
She paused, glancing at him.
“I need to appear strong for Adaira,” he explained. “Give me your most potent tonic.”
“If I do that, Jack, it might take you longer to heal,” Sidra warned. “I can give you something that will make you lively, but it will wear off within hours and might make your other symptoms worse.”
“I’ll take that chance,” he said. “Because the truth of the matter is, there’s currently a Breccan in my mother’s house, who may or may not be dead.”
“He’s alive.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Jack said, and Sidra was pleased to hear his dry humor had returned. “Or else I might have forfeited my life for killing the Heir of the West.”
Sidra’s hands froze. “He’s the heir?”
“Yes,” Jack groaned as he sat forward. “He came to steal Frae, and I thwarted him.”
An icy finger traced Sidra’s spine.
It’s him.
The man she had just helped carry into Mirin’s house was the one who had assaulted her on the hill to Graeme’s. Who had stolen Maisie.
“Sidra?” Jack said, concerned.
She didn’t know how long she had been sitting beside him, lost in an eddy of thought. Jack was frowning, watching her closely.
“Moray was the one who attacked you that night,” he whispered.
She hesitated, but nodded.
“That bastard,” Jack said.
Sidra focused on her herbs, preparing one of the brews she had created for the guard to keep them sharp and aware during long nights. “Here, Jack. This will help with your exhaustion and a few of your aches and pains.”
He accepted the cup and drank.
They sat together in the grass, silent for a few moments. Sidra was trying to decide what to do—whether she wanted to speak to Moray or not, let alone look him in the face—and Jack was waiting for the tonic to take full effect. Then Sidra noticed that some color had returned to his countenance—although he was still remarkably pale—and his eyes looked brighter. She was gathering her supplies together when she heard footsteps approaching.
Sidra and Jack both turned to see Frae running to them.
“Jack!” she panted, slowing to a walk.
“What’s happened, Frae?” Jack said, reaching for her. He wobbled for a spell, but only Sidra noticed.
Frae sighed, visibly relieved to see him better. She looked up at him before glancing at Sidra and said, “Mum sent me. The Breccan’s awake.”
Adaira should have known that on the day Torin regained his voice, all hell would break loose. She and her cousin were poring over maps and plans for the rescue crossing when Roban interrupted them with a message.
“I’ve heard your name on the wind, laird,” the young guard said. “It sounded like Mirin’s voice.”
Adaira paused, leaning on her father’s desk. Her heart dropped. If Mirin was summoning her instead of Jack, that meant something must have gone awry. It seemed like every passing day met such a fate, and Adaira wondered when life would feel calm and predictable again.
She and Torin rode to the weaver’s croft with a small retinue of guards. She had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t to find Moray Breccan bound to a chair in the center of the room, gagged and blindfolded, with dried blood in his hair.
Adaira came to a halt over the threshold so abruptly that Torin stepped on her heels.
Her eyes quickly took inventory of her surroundings. She found Jack first. He was standing by the loom, behind Moray. Sidra was sitting on a stool at his side, as if the two of them wanted to remain out of sight. Mirin was by the hearth, Frae’s long arms wrapped around her waist.
“A word, Jack?” Torin said.
Jack nodded, and Adaira followed the men into Jack’s bedroom for a debriefing. Sidra joined them, and they closed the door, leaving the guards in the common room to watch Moray.
“What happened?” Adaira asked.
Jack began to recount the recent events, but his voice sounded odd, as if he couldn’t catch his breath. Adaira noticed there was a slight tremor in his hands, and his nails were broken to the quick. He refrained from saying that he had played for the spirits, but Adaira knew that was exactly what he had done. He also seemed to be holding something back, breaking his sentences and leaving them incomplete.
“He was trying to kidnap Frae,” Jack finally said, wavering like he was about to collapse.
Adaira reached out to steady him, and Sidra hurried to say, “You need to sit down, Jack.”
“Here, over to the bed,” Adaira said, and together they shuffled him to the bedside.
Jack groaned as he sat. Perspiration beaded his upper lip. “I’m fine. It’s just stifling in here, isn’t it?”
Sidra glanced at Torin. “Will you crack open the shutter? He needs fresh air.”
Torin obeyed, and Adaira felt like she could also breathe a little deeper, now that cool air was trickling into the small chamber.
“Do you think he’s the one who stole the other lasses?” Torin asked in a clipped tone.
Jack hesitated, looking at Sidra. Adaira knew it then. She knew Moray had fooled her, time and time again, and her face flushed.
Torin was the first to respond. He nearly ripped the bedroom door from its hinges as he stormed back into the common room. His rage was like lightning striking the ground, and Adaira had no choice but to chase after him. Her cousin made a beeline for Moray, and before Adaira could command him, Torin’s fist was smashing into the Breccan’s jaw.
Adaira halted.
“You stole my daughter,” Torin said, looming over Moray. “You wounded my wife, and I will kill you for it.”
He kicked Moray in the chest. The very place the Breccan had once booted Sidra. The blow rocked him, overturning the chair. Moray hit the ground with a grunt of pain, sliding across the floor until he and his chair hit the back of the divan.
“Adaira,” Moray wheezed through the gag.
She didn’t know how Moray knew she was present. He was still blindfolded, and she had made no indication that she was present. Chills swept through her as she watched Torin stalk him, preparing to land another blow.
At last, Adaira moved to interfere. She needed Moray Breccan conscious and whole and most of all able to speak.
Sidra beat her to it, moving to stand behind Moray, in Torin’s line of sight. She reached out her hand to him and said, “Not like this, Torin.”
Adaira watched as Torin’s breaths heaved. Her cousin had never been one to back down in a fight, and she was amazed when he calmed himself, accepting Sidra’s hand. He stepped over the Breccan, finding a place along the back wall to stand and watch, with Sidra tucked under his arm.
Rattled, Adaira took a moment to steady her voice. She turned to the guards and said, “Will two of you please set Moray Breccan and his chair upright?”
Her guards hurried to obey. Moray’s breaths were labored, and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. It suddenly felt warm and cramped in the cottage as Adaira stepped closer to the western heir. Her heart was beating far too swiftly for her liking, but her face was composed and cold. The expression her father taught her to wear when it came to justice.
Adaira yanked the blindfold away from Moray’s eyes. She watched the harsh lines in his brow ease as he stared up at her, as if he believed she would save him.
“Before I remove this gag from your mouth,” she began, “I want you to know that we kill Breccans who trespass into the east with ill intent. You’re here on my lands, uninvited and unexpected, and I can only presume you came either to betray me or cause pain to my clan. I’m going to ask you questions, and I expect you to answer everything with honesty. If you understand and agree to that, nod your head.”
Moray’s eyes smoldered, but he nodded.
Adaira pulled the gag from his mouth, and he coughed. One of the guards brought her a chair, to sit before the Breccan, and she was about to take a seat when Jack stepped forward.
“Laird?” he said, and while his voice still sounded strained, he stepped toward her with confidence. “May I share a suggestion?”
“Go on,” she said. But he didn’t have to explain. Jack unsheathed the dirk at his belt. His truth blade. Adaira accepted his offering and returned to stand before Moray.
“Are you going to cut my throat before giving me the chance to speak?” Moray asked. “Because I have a story you will want to hear.”
Adaira ignored his sarcasm and the curiosity she felt at his taunt. “While your blood runs from this blade, you will be compelled to answer everything I ask you in truth. I’m going to cut you now, because I don’t trust you to speak honestly without it.” She sliced his skin, just below his knee. Moray didn’t react; the sting of blades was familiar to him.
Adaira finally sat, her eyes fixed on his. But she could see his blood running in thin ribbons down the hide and leather of his boot.
“Why are you in the east, Moray Breccan?” she asked.
He bared his teeth. He was trying to resist answering, but the enchantment was in his blood.
“To steal a lass,” he replied.
Adaira was prepared for this answer, but his acknowledgment of his intent still hit her like a fist. She struggled to tamp down her rising gorge, to keep her mind sharp and uncluttered from emotion.
She asked, “Were you the one who stole the other Tamerlaine lasses?”
“I was.”
“Where are the three lasses being held?”
“They’re in the Keeper of the Aithwood’s cottage.”
Adaira noticed that Jack shifted. He was standing near his bedroom door, but he glanced at Mirin, who continued to stand with Frae before the hearth. The weaver looked pale as she stared at her son, and Adaira made a note to ask Mirin about this later.
“And where is that?” she continued.
“Upstream and past the clan line, deep in the heart of the woods.”
Torin flinched. Adaira held up her hand, silently commanding him to stay where he was.
“Did you partake in the most recent raid to cover your move of returning Eliza Elliott to the east?” she asked.
“Indeed.”
“Why return only one of the lasses?”
“Because I wanted to prove to you that I am merciful and I do nothing without thought,” Moray answered. “I knew you would soon discover I was the one stealing them, and you would burn with anger toward me. I needed to prove to you that there was a reason for the snatchings, and that, most of all, the lasses were being treated gently in the west.”
“Why steal them?” Adaira asked. “Why have you and your clan sunk so low as to take our daughters?”
A hint of a smile played over Moray’s lips. “Grant me another cut, Adaira. Because what I’m about to tell you … I need you to know it’s truth.”
She sat there for a moment, solemn and full of worry. But he was right; the first cut was already mending. So she granted him another wound, deep enough this time to draw a grimace across his face.
“Now then,” Adaira said. “Why?”
Moray seemed to settle in the chair, as if preparing for a long encounter. “On a stormy autumn night nearly twenty-three years ago,” he began, “the Laird of the West and her consort welcomed their first child into the world. A lad with hair like corn silk and a voice like a bleating goat. And yet he was not alone. Another bairn followed on his heels. A very small lass. She was tiny compared to her twin, with hair white as moon thistle.”
Moray paused.
Adaira swallowed and said, “Go on.”
Her enemy smiled and continued.
“She seemed shocked to enter the world on such a night, and my parents held her in awe, willing her to cry, to nurse, to open her eyes. Even then she defied them, and when the druid entered the chamber to bless the new bairns three days after their birth, he would not bless the lass. ‘She is sickly,’ he said. ‘There is a great chance your true daughter has been stolen by the spirits. Appoint a person you trust to set this lass in a place where the wind is gentle, where the earth is soft, where fire can strike in a moment, and where the water flows with a comforting song. A place where the old spirits gather, for they can return your true daughter, who is strong and destined for greatness in our clan.’
“My parents consulted with each other, and they both concluded there was one person they trusted to exchange their daughter—the Keeper of the Aithwood.
“The Keeper of the Aithwood was a good man, one who lived in solitude in the wood. He was a watchman and loyal to the clan, and he knew of a place where the folk of earth, air, fire, and water gathered. He took Cora, my sister, from my parents and carried her deep into the wood. He was given orders to lay her in a place where the spirits would find her and then to leave her there. If he was present, the spirits wouldn’t manifest to switch the children. So the keeper found a blanket of moss near a river, in the heart of the forest where the wind blew through the boughs and fire could rise and burn at a moment’s notice. And he left my sister there.
“For almost my entire life, I believed what the keeper told my parents about that day: he left my sister on the moss to be taken. But when he returned hours later, Cora was gone, and there was no bairn for him to carry back to my parents. For years my family and my clan believed what he told us: one of the folk of the wind took my sister into their kingdom and raised her there, knowing she would not survive the mortal realm. And we found painful peace in the thought, and we bowed to the wind, believing she was within it.
“But secrets refuse to stay buried on the isle. They have an uncanny way of rising, and they are vengeful.
“I had grown suspicious of the keeper over the years. His loyalty seemed to waver at times—he protested the raids and refused to let us ride through the Aithwood when we conducted them. I decided to watch him closely. It took a few years, but I finally caught him on the clan line, returning to the west. He had been walking the east without detection, and I wanted to know how he had accomplished such a feat.
“It took me months to wear him down. To break his stubbornness. In the end, he confessed and gave me his full allegiance in order to preserve his life. And the story he had once given about my sister’s disappearance? It had been a lie.
“This is what truly happened:
“On the day he left Cora on the moss, he walked away from her, as he had been ordered to do. But where she had been silent before, her cries now echoed through the forest, and they drew him back to her. He stood a safe distance away, so as not to interfere with the folk, and watched as the day began to fade into evening. It was bitterly cold, and the spirits refused to come and claim her. Soon, her cries drew a wolf, and the keeper fought off the beast and was wounded. His arm bled, and he chose to pick up my sister and deliver her elsewhere. He had lost a good deal of blood and become disoriented, but he knew the river would lead him home.
“He stepped into the currents and followed the river, unaware that he was walking in the opposite direction of his home. He claims that he didn’t realize the moment he crossed, owing to his distress, but soon the trees fell away, and he stood in an unfamiliar valley. He knew he was no longer in the west, but the East Guard had taken no note of his presence. A terrible inkling came to the keeper.
“Which Tamerlaine he first gave my sister up to, I don’t know, for he would never say their name. But I believe they live near the clan line, and that is how the east committed the worst of crimes: they took a daughter of the west as their own.
“I’ve always wondered what the Tamerlaines who accepted her were thinking. Perhaps they didn’t want my sister to grow up so close to the clan line, where the west and her true clan might call to her blood one day. Perhaps at first the Tamerlaines didn’t fully know who my sister was—a child of their greatest enemy. The offspring of the western laird. The keeper wouldn’t tell me, but when I asked him where Cora now lived in the east, he only smiled and said, ‘The Breccan druid once said she was destined for greatness in the west, but he must have misread the stars.’
“I doubted him at first. I believed the keeper’s claims were those of a man gone mad after a life of solitude in the woods. But I also was determined to find my sister. And what better way than to walk the east, listening to the gossip that rides your winds?
“I visited numerous times, entering through the secret of the river and empowered by the Orenna’s essence. I learned the lay of your lands, and I listened to the wind. I soon learned of the heiress. The only living child of the laird. And the Tamerlaines loved you. They called you Adaira, with hair the color of the moon and eyes the shade of the sea. And I knew it was you, Cora.”
“Enough!” Torin’s voice cut through the chamber. “Enough with this dribble. With your lies and your cunning, Breccan. Silence him, cousin.”
Adaira sat like stone, watching Moray’s blood continue to spill from his wound and pool on the floor at his feet. Her breaths felt shallow, and her heart was beating against her ribs. She raised her gaze back to his eyes and saw herself reflected in them.
“Why, then, did you steal the Tamerlaine daughters?” she asked.
“I wanted to tell you that day we met in the cave,” Moray said. “When you first wrote to me of a trade, it gave me hope. It was a sign that you were ready to come home. And I wanted to tell you the truth, so you would understand why I longed for vengeance. Why I chose to strike at the Tamerlaines’ hearts. But it was not my place to tell you.
“I took one of the Tamerlaine daughters, hoping to gain the attention of the eastern laird. For him to realize what was happening and tell you who you truly are. And when he did nothing, I took another. I determined to keep stealing lasses until someone in the east gave up the secret and spoke truth. I simply didn’t think it would take so long, that the Tamerlaines would be so tenacious and stubborn. I didn’t think the laird would pass away during my attempts, taking his secret to the grave as you rose in his place. I didn’t think that I would have to be the one to speak your story, to behold your face when you heard it for the first time, Adaira. Laird of the East who was born in the west. But here we are.”
Moray paused, his voice softening. “I’ve come to bring you home, Cora.”
Adaira had told herself that she wouldn’t feel anything, that she would take him prisoner after he reached the end of his tale. But she couldn’t ignore the mark, like a bruise, that the story left on her. The story was also like a sword—she couldn’t prevent it from cutting her heart in two. And the story was like a veil torn from her eyes—she couldn’t help but see her past from a different angle, even if it was ugly, terrible, and absurd.
In the moment of quiet that followed, when Moray Breccan’s story had ended and everyone in the chamber waited to see what she would do, Adaira remembered the spirits. It is her, they had said when they saw her on the shore and on the holy hill. It is her. They had known who she truly was. A girl of the west, raised by her enemies. Perhaps the folk had been watching her life, year after year, anticipating this moment.
“Will you come home with me, Cora?” Moray said again. “If you’ll come home, the Tamerlaine lasses I took will be returned to their families. Just as you were cared for in the east, we have cared for the lasses in the west. Come, sister. A better life awaits you with the people you belong to. Let this exchange be made without bloodshed.”
Torin approached the back of Moray’s chair. He didn’t wait for Adaira’s command; he gagged the Breccan with a hard jerk, and Moray winced.
But the silence was worse than the noise. For now Adaira could feel the full weight of everyone looking at her. Mirin and Frae. Sidra and Torin. Her guards. Moray. Jack.
She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she should acknowledge Moray’s claims or sneer at them. Adaira rose.
“Torin, escort our prisoner to the dungeons of Sloane,” she said.
She stood aside as Torin blindfolded Moray again and loosened the bindings that had kept him strapped in the chair. The guards surrounded and dragged him from Mirin’s cottage to the yard, where the horses were waiting.
Adaira followed, preparing to ride with them. She didn’t want to look at Torin, or Sidra, or Jack. She didn’t want to see the doubt and the suspicion in their eyes, didn’t want to know how this revelation of her blood would change their opinion of her.
“Adaira,” Jack whispered. She felt him take a gentle hold of her arm, turning her toward him. “Where are you going?”
She stared at Jack’s chest. She couldn’t tell if he was wearing his half coin. In fact, she had never seen it around his neck, wondering if it merely hid beneath his tunic or if he chose not to don it.
It didn’t matter.
She realized she would need to break their handfast. Jack had inadvertently bound himself to a Breccan. The truth was slowly eating through her, as if her past and her soul were a feast to ravage. Her mind reeled with the list of things she needed to do—should do—but her primary focus was getting Moray secure in the holding.
“I’m escorting the prisoner with Torin,” she said in a flat tone.
“Then let me come with you,” Jack said.
She didn’t want him beside her. She wanted a moment alone, to weep and rage in privacy. To sink into the pain of realizing her entire life had been a lie.
“Stay here with your mum and sister,” Adaira said, licking her lips. She felt parched. Cracked to her bones. “You should be with them after what happened this morning, and you need to rest. The worst of this is far from over.”
She mounted her horse and gathered the reins. She looked at Torin, who was waiting for her nod, and then they began to ride east, with Moray Breccan in the center of their tight formation.
Adaira felt Jack’s gaze. But she couldn’t bear to look behind and meet it.
Jack watched her ride away. He was numb, and the tonic was beginning to lose its edge. A throb drummed at his temples; his thoughts were overflowing.
He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he wanted to be with Adaira. He dragged his hands over his face, breathing into his palms as he considered chasing after her on foot.
“Jack.”
He turned when Sidra’s soft voice broke his thoughts. She was standing in the yard behind him, her dark brows slanted in concern. “I think your mum might be in a bit of shock. I set a kettle on the fire to boil and left a calming brew of tea, but I think you should sit with her until the worst passes.”
He hadn’t even been thinking about the impact of Moray’s confession on his mother. His mind had been wholly consumed by Adaira.
“Yes, of course,” he said, and hurried back inside.
The light was still dim, but he could see Mirin sitting on the floor before the hearth, as if her knees had become disjointed. Frae was fluttering around her, trying to get her up.
“Jack!” his sister cried. “Something’s wrong with Mum!”
“It’s all right, Frae,” Jack said. He gently eased Mirin up and into a chair. He glanced at Sidra, uncertain.
The healer reached for Frae’s hand and smiled. “Frae? Would you like to come to work with me today? I have two patients I need to see, not far from here. You can help me with the herbs, and then we can bring some food back for Jack and your mum.”
The fear in Frae’s face turned into awe. “Could I really, Sidra?”
“Yes, I would love to have you accompany me. That is, if your mum and brother agree?”
Jack looked at Mirin. Her face was pale, her eyes glazed. He didn’t think she’d heard a word Sidra had said.
“Yes,” he replied, forcing a smile. “I think that sounds nice, Frae. Fetch your plaid.”
Frae darted into the bedroom. Jack sagged in relief.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said as Sidra set two more vials in his hands.
“There’s no need to. These are for you. Take them when the pain returns,” she said, glancing at Mirin. “Keep your mother warm and calm. The tea will help.”
Frae bounded back into the chamber, shawl in hand. Jack knotted it at her collar before trailing the women to the door.
He had a moment of apprehension, letting Frae out of his sight. But he saw Sidra linking their fingers, her dog following them like a diligent guard.
“We’ll be back in two hours,” Sidra called to him.
He nodded. He waited until they had faded from sight before he shut the front door.
He exhaled against the wood. His exhaustion was rising, but there was no time to rest.
He believed Moray Breccan’s story. He believed every word, but Jack knew there were pieces still missing. Pieces only his mother held.
The kettle was hissing.
Jack removed it from the fire, adding the herbs Sidra had given him for tea. He poured two cups and brought one to Mirin, ensuring that her hands could hold it before he tucked a blanket over her knees.
He sat down in the chair across from her, waiting until she took a few sips.
She seemed to return to life, remembering herself. The color gradually blossomed on her cheeks, and he sighed in relief.
“Can I ask you something, Mum?”
Mirin looked at him. Her shoulders were still stooped, as if she was in pain. But her voice was clear when she spoke. “Yes, Jack.”
He drew in a shaky breath. He could smell the fragrance of the tea, the musty scent of the wool strung over her loom. He wondered how much this little cottage on the hill, built of stone and wood and thatch, had seen in its lifetime. He wondered what the walls would say if they could speak. What stories they guarded.
“On the night the Keeper of the Aithwood crossed the clan line with the Breccans’ daughter in his arms … he came to you,” Jack said. “My father brought Adaira to you.”
Mirin, eyes shining with tears and decades of secrets, whispered, “Yes.”
