Adaira mistook his silence. “You disapprove, bard?”
He frowned at her. “No. I think it’s a good idea, Adaira. But I’m worried that the Breccans don’t want peace the same way we do, and that they might fool us.”
“You sound like Torin.”
Jack didn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or not. Once, he had wanted to be Torin, and Jack almost laughed, thinking about how different he was now. “Your cousin disapproves of your idea?”
“He thinks establishing a trade will be a nightmare,” Adaira replied. “The clan line presents the greatest obstacle—do we cross it into their territory, or do we allow them to cross into ours? Either way, Torin says it’s ‘bound to be something that goes awry and bloody.’”
“He’s not wrong, Adaira.”
Her brow creased. Jack studied her, watching the thoughts whirl through her. She was parting her lips to say more when they both heard Frae calling for them.
Jack peeked out the solitary window. He could just discern his sister walking in the backyard, shouting their names.
He didn’t want Frae to see him and Adaira emerge from the storehouse. He waited until his sister turned to face the river before he opened the door. Adaira slipped out into the evening, with Jack close behind, and they approached the yard gate side by side, as if they had been walking the property.
“Here we are, Frae,” Adaira said.
Frae whirled to face them. “It’s time for supper,” she said, touching the ends of her braids. “I hope you like winkle soup, heiress.”
“It’s my favorite,” Adaira replied, reaching for Frae’s hand.
Jack watched as a smile stole across his sister’s face. She was awed to be holding the heiress’s hand.
Warmed, he followed as Frae led them into the firelight.
Mirin had laid out a lovely spread for Adaira. The best plates and glasses, the oldest wine, and polished silverware that gleamed like dew. They had been cooking most of the day, preparing food for the Mitchell family in their time of grief, and the house was still heated from it, the air holding a trace of berries and the briny scent of the winkles Jack had gathered from the shore at low tide.
Frae had picked fresh flowers and lit the candles, and Jack settled in his customary chair. Adaira took the seat directly across from him. His mother was speaking, filling bowls with the soup, but Jack’s mind was distant. He was thinking of all the things Adaira had just said to him. To play for the east. To stay the full turning of the year.
To trade with their enemies.
“I can’t believe you’re here in our house,” Frae said.
Jack’s reveries broke as he watched his sister shyly grin at the heiress.
“I know, it’s been a very long time since I’ve visited,” said Adaira. “But I remember when you were born, Frae. My da and mum and I came to see you for the first time.”
“Did you hold me?”
“I did,” Adaira replied. “You were the best bairn I ever held. Most children cry in my arms, but not you.”
Mirin began to cough. The sound was deep and wet, and she tried to muffle it behind her palm. Adaira’s smile faded, as did Frae’s. Jack sat frozen as he watched his mother cough, her thin shoulders shaking.
“Mum?” he stood, fearful.
Mirin calmed and motioned for him to sit. But he saw the flash of blood on her palm, even as she seamlessly wiped it away on the underside of her apron. He had never seen her bleed after a coughing spell, and it chilled him. Her health must have steadily declined in the years he was away.
“I’m fine, Jack,” Mirin said, clearing her throat. And then it was as if it had never happened. She took a sip of wine and guided the conversation away to other matters, engaging Adaira. Jack let out a long breath and returned to his chair. But he noticed once again that his mother hardly ate.
After supper, he cleared the table and washed the dishes, insisting that Frae and Mirin entertain Adaira by the hearth. He listened to the women talk as he dunked the plates in the wash barrel. Frae proudly displayed her slingshot to Adaira again before pointing upward and saying, “See all those divots in the rafters overhead? Jack made those.”
He thought it was a good time to bring out the pie and set a pot of tea to boil.
“Did they teach you how to serve tea and cook at the university?” Mirin asked with amusement, watching Jack handle the kettle.
“They didn’t,” he replied, pouring a cup for Frae and Mirin. For Adaira. “But mainland fare is quite dry. So I asked the cook one night if I could use the kitchen after hours, to make my own food for the next day. He agreed, and so I began to cook for myself whenever my lessons gave me a moment to breathe. I remembered everything you taught me, Mum, even though I once disliked cooking. Cream and honey?” he seamlessly asked Adaira as he handed her a cup.
She was sitting on the divan beside Frae. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the tea, but her eyes were wide, as if she were battling shock, watching him serve tea. “Just cream,” she said. He walked to the buttery in the corner of the kitchen to get the chilled glass of cream, then brought it to her.
“Jack? Jack, the pie!” Frae whispered between her fingers.
He winked as he returned to the kitchen for one of the two pies he and Frae had baked together that afternoon. One for them, and one for the Mitchell family. At first it had felt strange to bake for people he didn’t know, until he remembered the old ways of the isle. For any event, be it joyful or sorrowful—a death, a marriage, a divorce, a sickness, a birth—the clan rallied and prepared food to express their love for those involved. Cottages became gathering places for hearty, comforting food whenever tears or laughter flowed. Jack had forgotten how much he liked that tradition.
He served Adaira the first slice and grinned when she cast a wary look his way.
“You made this?”
“Aye,” he said, standing close to her, waiting.
Adaira took her spoon and poked at the pie. “What’s in it, Jack?”
“Oh, what all did we dump in there, Frae? Blackberries, strawberries, pimpleberries—”
“Pimpleberries?” Frae gasped in alarm. “What’s a pim—”
“Honey and butter and a dash of good luck,” he finished, his gaze remaining on Adaira. “All of your favorite things, as I recall, heiress.”
Adaira stared up at him, her face composed save for her pursed lips. She was trying not to laugh, he realized. He was suddenly flustered.
“Heiress, I did not put pimpleberries in there,” Frae frantically said.
“Oh, sweet lass, I know you didn’t,” Adaira said, turning a smile upon the girl. “Your brother is teasing me. You see, when we were your age, there was a great dinner in the hall one night. And Jack brought me a piece of pie, to say he was sorry for something he had done earlier that day. He looked so contrite that I foolishly believed him and took a bite, only to realize something tasted very strange about it.”
“What was it?” Frae asked, as if she could not imagine Jack doing something so awful.
“He called it a ‘pimpleberry,’ but it was actually a small skin of ink,” Adaira replied. “And it stained my teeth for a week and made me very ill.”