He wondered if Sidra saw past the glamour, and when he noticed how tidy the rows of vegetables were, he knew she did. She had probably seen the heart of this place from the beginning.
The folk of the earth guarding this yard must be very shrewd.
“Sidra? Sidra, is that you again?” Graeme called from within before Torin had even knocked. The yard must have given his presence away. “Tell Maisie I have her ship ready. Come inside, come inside! I was just about to make some oatcakes …”
Torin let himself in. The common room was messy, and this time it was not glamoured. His father had an overwhelming collection of things. There were piles of books, heaps of loose papers, waterlogged scrolls from another era set in haphazard stacks. Five pairs of fancy mainland boots with laces, hardly worn, and a jacket the color of fire, lined with plaid. Jars of golden pins, a jewelry box that held his mother’s abandoned pearls. A map of the realm pegged on the floor, because the walls were already crowded with drawings and musty tapestries and a chart of the northern constellations. All were possessions from Graeme’s former life, when he had been the ambassador to the mainland.
Torin wound through the maze, coming to the large table by the hearth, where Graeme sat waiting. In his hands was a clear bottle, holding an intricate little ship.
“Torin.” Graeme almost dropped the glass. His mouth hung open, and he stood, startled. “Are Sidra and Maisie with you? I finished the ship for her. See? She and I have been working on it together, when Sidra brings her to visit.”
“It’s only me,” Torin said, and he couldn’t help himself: he soaked in the sight of his father.
Graeme looked softer, older than he had five years ago. He had always been tall and broad, just like his brother Alastair. But whereas Alastair was dark headed and vibrant and given to swords, Graeme was fair and reserved and drawn to books. One brother had risen as laird, the other as his support, his representative to the south.
Graeme’s beard was silver now. His hair was caught in a messy plait. His clothes were wrinkled but clean. The lines at the corners of his eyes said that he must have been smiling more often than not, most likely when Sidra and Maisie visited.
He was a great contrast to his brother. Alastair had become so gaunt and wan over the years that Torin wondered if Graeme would even recognize his brother if he saw him.
“Why have you come?” Graeme asked, as politely as he could.
“For advice.”
“Oh.” Graeme carefully set down Maisie’s ship-in-a-bottle, and his hands moved over the sea of clutter on his table. Bottles waiting to be filled, tiny iron instruments, slivers of wood, tins of paint, pieces of cloth. This, then, is how he fills his days, Torin thought. “Here, sit … sit there. Do you want tea?”
“No.”
“Very well. How can I advise you then?”
“Another lass has gone missing,” said Torin. He felt that beat again, thrumming in his pulse. Time was running out. “This is the third one in three weeks. I found a small trail of footprints, but there is no further trace of her save for two red flowers, as if her blood turned into petals. I’ve been searching for days and nights now. I’ve searched the sea caves and eddies, the glens, the mountains, the shadows between fells. The girls have vanished, and I need to know how to make the folk return them.”
“The spirits?” Graeme frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“Because the spirits have taken this child, just as they took the other two lasses. They are slipping the girls through portals I cannot see.”
Graeme was pensive. He let out a slow breath and said, “You blame the spirits.”
Torin shifted his weight, impatient. “Aye. It is the only explanation.”
“Is it?”
“How else would a bairn completely vanish?”
“How else, indeed.”
“Are you going to answer me or not? Surely you have some thread of knowledge about spirits in all of … of this.” Torin waved his hand to the stacks of books and papers. Most of it was mainland trash, but even so, Graeme Tamerlaine had once known everything. He had been full of wondrous stories, of spirits and mortals alike. He could have been a druid if he had set his heart on it.
Graeme raked his fingers through his beard, still lost in his thoughts. “We see what we want to see according to our faith, Torin. Spirits or no.”
Torin felt his pride flare. His father always knew what to say to irritate him, humble him. To make him feel as if he were eight years old again.
“Faith or no, I know spirits can wreak havoc when they wish,” Torin said. “Just this morning, I spoke with a woman who looked to be ninety but whose voice was that of a young maiden’s. When she was a lass, she saw a gleam of gold in the bottom of a loch and swam down to claim it, only the loch was endless, the trick of a water spirit. And when the lass returned to the surface, a hundred years had passed. Everyone she had known and loved in her life before were dead and gone, and she has no place here.”
“A sad tale, indeed,” Graeme said, sorrowful. “And one you should take caution from, as your answer lies within the lesson she endured.”
“What? That the spirits take delight in tricking us?”
“No, of course not. There are many of the folk who are good, who give us life and balance on the isle.”
“Then what is my answer, sir?”
Speak plainly, Torin wanted to demand, but he held his temper behind his teeth, waiting for his father to explain.
“If you seek a portal, a passage that will lead you into the spirits’ realm,” Graeme began, “you need one of two things: an invitation, or your eyes opened.”
Torin mulled that over before saying, “But my eyes are open. I know this land, even with its capricious nature. I have combed through every glen, every cave, every—”
“Yes, yes, you’ve seen with your eyes,” Graeme interrupted. “But there are other sights, Torin. There are other ways to know this isle and the secrets of the folk.”
Torin was silent. He could feel a flush creeping over his face; his breath hissed through his teeth. “How, then, shall I open my eyes? Since I doubt an invitation would be extended to me.”
Graeme said nothing, but he started to search through a pile of old books. Eventually he found one and set it into Torin’s palm.
Torin was inwardly hoping it held a map of some sort. A chart of fault lines and hidden doors in the east. He was vastly disappointed. The book was handwritten and incomplete, half of it missing, and its pages were worn and crinkled, some peppered by ash stains, some smudged by water, as if it had passed through many hands.
He struggled to read one of the pages, but his irritation waned when he recognized a name. Lady Whin of the Wildflowers. He was tempted to reach for the wooden figurine, still hiding in his pocket, as he read about the earth spirit.
Lady Whin of the Wildflowers was never one to boast But when Rime of the Moors woke late from winter’s chill She challenged him outrightly for the strath by the coast And Rime, steady and proud, deemed her words fair Thinking he could beat her with the last moon of Yore When the heart of the cold beat bright in the air
“These are nursery stories,” Torin said, turning the page only to find it smudged, but he was confident Whin had outwitted Rime. “Where’s the other half of the book?”