Torin recovered it, careful not to crush the petals in his hands. He searched the dirt, the nearby stones, the tussocks of grass, for a small doorway. Surely, the spirits had opened a portal, inviting her into their domain. Where else would she have gone?
He felt a strange tug in his stomach. It was fear, something he had learned to tame long ago, but he decided that he needed to see Maisie with his own eyes.
He gave his guards orders to mark the trail and continue scouring the area for more footsteps and doorways, and he rode home.
He was relieved to find Sidra at the kitchen table, herbs spread before her like a map he could never read. She was preparing tonics for her patients, and her sable hair was caught in a messy braid.
She glanced up the moment he entered.
“Torin,” she breathed. “Do you have news?”
He hated the hope in her eyes. He shut the door behind him. “It’s Catriona Mitchell. She’s been missing since this morning. I’ve found a partial trail, as well as something that I need your assistance on.”
At once, Sidra set down her pestle and met him in the center of the room. He carefully retrieved the two red flowers from his leather pouch, setting them into her waiting palm.
“Can you identify this flower for me?” he asked, hopeful.
Sidra studied the flowers. A frown pulled at her brows. “No. I’ve never seen such flowers before, Torin. Where did you find them?”
He explained, suddenly feeling exhausted and defeated. Another lass gone, on his watch. Another girl vanished, leaving behind a strange flower in her wake.
Catriona Mitchell was only five years old. The same age as Maisie.
Torin’s eyes lifted. He could see into the bedroom, because Sidra had left the door open. Maisie was fast asleep on the bed.
Torin walked closer, to lean on the doorframe and watch his daughter sleep. His chest ached.
“Torin? Do you want to rest for a while?” Sidra asked quietly.
He sighed, turning back to his wife. She was reaching for the kettle and had set out a plate of treacle biscuits. The last time he had properly eaten was at this table, when he had brought Jack home.
“No, I don’t have time,” he whispered, fearing if he woke Maisie he wouldn’t be able to leave.
Sidra set down the kettle, looking at him with worried eyes. He began to walk back to the door, but he paused, glancing at the red flowers she had set down on her wooden cutting board. The blossoms were stark against the collection of her other herbs, keen to be noticed.
“I don’t know what to do, Sid,” he said. The confession tasted like ash in his mouth. “I don’t know how to find these lasses. I don’t know how to make the spirits give them up. I don’t know how to comfort these families.”
Sidra came to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and Torin leaned into her, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair.
“I’ll see what I can uncover about these flowers, Torin,” she said, easing back so she could meet his weary gaze. “Don’t give up hope. We’ll find the girls.”
He nodded, but his meager faith had fully crumbled over the past few weeks.
Not knowing what to believe anymore, he kissed Sidra’s knuckles and left.
The sun was bright, but the clouds to the west had started to bruise. A storm was brewing, which would make it very difficult to find any further trace of where Catriona had wandered to.
Torin was about to mount his horse when his gaze was caught by the hill to his left. It was cloaked with heather, and a walking path cut up the middle. It led to his father’s croft next door, and Torin decided he owed Graeme a visit.
It had been a few years since Torin had properly called on his father. He rarely visited because the memories lingered like ghosts in his childhood home and he and his father had always harbored different opinions. Their estrangement had been sparked when Torin and Donella handfasted in secret.
You’re acting like a fool, Torin, Graeme had said when he realized his son’s plans. You need to ask Donella’s parents before you give her your vow.
Torin, twenty and besotted, hadn’t cared for Graeme’s advice. He and Donella did what they wanted, and it had indeed caused a stir in the clan. It had almost ruined Torin’s chances of being promoted to captain.
After Donella perished, Torin’s days had become bleak, like a winter that never seemed to end. Maisie had been a baby, squalling in his arms, and Torin had finally carried his daughter to Graeme, desperate.
Help me, Da. What am I supposed to do? She does nothing but cry. I don’t know what to do.
The words had poured out of Torin’s mouth, and he had wept, finally, like he had broken a dam. He hadn’t wept when Donella bled to death after the birthing. He hadn’t wept when he watched her shrouded body find its final rest in her grave. He hadn’t wept when he held Maisie for the first time. But all the tears had broken free the moment he set his daughter into his father’s arms and confessed his ineptitude.
How had this happened to him? Donella was gone, he had a child and no inkling how to raise her, and he was alone. This was not the path he had ever envisioned for himself.
Graeme had held Maisie, just as shocked by Torin’s weeping as Torin was himself. Bleary and heartsick, Torin had sat in his father’s chair in the common room. Graeme had then said words he didn’t want to hear, words that made him rigid.
Your daughter needs a tender hand, Torin. Find her a mother. A woman of the isle who can help you.
Find her. As if she grew on a tree. As if she were fruit to be picked.
With Donella buried and dead only three months.
Furious, Torin had snatched Maisie from Graeme’s arms and departed, vowing he would never return to his father for help.
That evening a raven had brought a note to Torin’s door. He knew it was his father’s doing; Graeme had refused to leave his croft ever since Torin’s mother abandoned them.
Warm the goat milk. Test it on your wrist to ensure it’s not too hot before you feed it to her. Walk and sing to her when she cries. Make sure she sleeps on her back at night.
Torin had ripped Graeme’s note to pieces and burned it in the hearth. But he did as his father had instructed. Slowly, Maisie cried less, but she still was far more life than Torin could handle. And then, a few months later, he had met Sidra in the valley.
He ascended the hill now, desperate once more. He made it to the crest, reaching his father’s kail yard. It was overcome with weeds, even though Sidra came once a week to tend to Graeme’s garden. Torin noticed the roof needed mending, the shutters hung crookedly, there was a bird’s nest in one of the eaves, and the rain barrel looked foggy. All seemed broken and disheveled—that is, until Torin approached his father’s door.
Then the weeds retreated with a whisper, exposing the stone pathway. The despondent vines that grew up the side of the house turned into honeysuckle climbing a trellis. Wildflowers bloomed amid the kail and herbs. The gossamer melted away, and the shutters were straight and recently painted.
Watching the cottage and yard change with his presence gave Torin pause. He was humbled, thinking of all the times he had judged the croft and his father’s past decisions from the road. The disrepair, the messiness. Why couldn’t his father take care of things? And yet all along it was beautiful and orderly; Torin had simply been unable to see it.