CHAPTER 9
Sidra dreamt she walked the shores of Cadence. In the beginning, Maisie was at her side, and then the little lass turned into a fish and leapt into the sea and Sidra was alone, standing on blood-soaked sand. She was worried about Maisie until she saw Donella in the distance. It surprised her at first. Torin’s first wife had never appeared in her dreams, but Sidra waved as Donella Tamerlaine strode to her, dressed in armor and draped in the brown and red plaid of the guard.
“Donella? Why are you here?” Sidra asked, and her heart betrayed her. It began to hammer as she wondered if Donella had returned to take Torin and Maisie back.
“Sidra? Sidra, wake up,” Donella said urgently. The sand crushed beneath her boots and she reached for Sidra’s arm, to shake her. “This is a dream. Awaken.”
Donella had never touched her before. The ghost’s hand felt like ice on her arm, and Sidra gasped and woke.
Her pulse was thick in her throat.
Gradually, Sidra’s awareness sharpened. The cottage was dark with night and quiet save for the howl of the wind. She was lying in bed, and Maisie was snoring, curled up close beside her. She was exhausted after a long, strange day.
But her arm … it ached. Sidra rubbed it, noticing that Donella’s ghost was in the room with her, hovering at the bedside, transparent like a stream of moonlight.
“Donella?”
“Make haste, Sidra,” the ghost spoke. Her voice was not nearly as strong as it had been in the dream. In reality, it was delicate, like a fading note of music. “He’s coming for her.”
“Who?” Sidra rasped.
“Rise and go to Torin’s oaken chest. At the very bottom, you will find a small dirk,” Donella said, motioning for Sidra to hurry. “I had this blade forged for Maisie before I died. Take it in your hand and run with her to Graeme’s croft. Hurry, hurry. He’s coming, Sidra.”
Donella surrendered to the moonlight on the floor, and Sidra wondered if she was still dreaming. But she did as the ghost had instructed. She slid from the bed and rushed into the next chamber, kneeling before Torin’s oaken chest. Her fingers were slow from sleep, but she searched through his clothes and the juniper boughs until she found the dirk Donella had spoken of, snug in a leather sheath and hiding at the very bottom.
One of Una’s creations.
Sidra took the hilt in her hand and hurried back into her bedroom, bare feet slapping on the floor. The wind had fallen quiet; its absence made her skin prickle as she gathered Maisie into her arms. There was no time to slip on stockings or boots or to wrap her and Maisie in a cloak. Sidra could hear the lock of the front door turning as she carried Maisie out the back.
“Sidra?” Maisie mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “Where are we going?”
“We are going to visit Grandda,” Sidra whispered as she carried the lass through the yard, trying to be as quiet as possible.
“But why?” Maisie asked loudly.
“Shh. Hold tight to me.” She found the path to Graeme’s cottage in the moonlight. It wound up the knoll, knee deep in heather, and Sidra began to run, even though her legs were trembling. She pressed Maisie’s objections to her chest, sparing a frantic glance over her shoulder.
Something stood in her yard. It was a shadow, tall and built like a man. It tilted its head; she could feel it looking at her.
Terror turned Sidra’s blood to ice as the shadow began to pursue her, impossibly swift. She struggled to breathe, to rush up the hill carrying a child in her arms. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun the darkness.
“Maisie? Listen to me. I want you to run straight to Grandda’s door and knock as hard as you can on it. Wait for him to answer. I’ll be right behind you.” Sidra’s chest smoldered as she set Maisie on the ground. “Remember how we like to play chase? I’m it, so you must run as fast as you can and don’t look back. Go now!”
For once in her life, Maisie didn’t object. The girl took off running up the hill, and Sidra stood and held her ground. She unsheathed the dirk and turned to meet the spirit.
It slowed when it realized Sidra was waiting with a flash of steel in her hand.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Her voice wavered.
The shadow came to a halt, a few paces away. She realized it was wearing a hood. Its cloak snapped in the sudden gust. “The captain’s daughter. Give her to me and I won’t harm you.”
The voice was pitched deep and smooth. Her eyes strained in the darkness, eager to catch a glimpse of its face.
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
There was a low flicker of laughter. But Sidra wasn’t afraid. She stood resolute on the path, barefoot, wearing nothing but her chemise, a small dagger in her hand. The moment the shadow lunged to take her to the ground, Sidra hissed and stabbed.
It anticipated her movements, blocking with its forearm, solid as flesh.
Before Sidra could respond, the shadow backhanded her. The pain was sharp; her neck snapped, and she struggled to remain upright.
She stumbled but regained her balance just in time to see it was heading up the trail, pursuing Maisie. Sidra chased it, her ears ringing. She lunged and aimed, stabbing the shadow in the back.
She heard the cloak rip. She felt the blade puncture skin. She watched the world unspool as the spirit spun, looming over her.
“You bitch,” it hissed.
She was raising her hand to strike again, the dirk catching the stars when she felt the kick to her chest. The shadow’s boot struck her on the sternum so hard that she couldn’t breathe. She collapsed and rolled in the heather. Her hands were numb as they dropped the dirk, scrambling for purchase.
She eventually came to a stop, gasping for breath. The pain was bright; she saw spots, eating the edges of her vision.
She had to get up. She had to find Maisie.
Sidra wheezed and tried to rise. She didn’t know how much time had passed, because it felt as if everything had stopped around her. The wind, the moon’s descent. Her own heart.
The shadow arrived, standing over her. She heard a whimper and her gaze snapped up. Maisie was in its arms, struggling.
“Maisie,” Sidra rasped.
She held out her hand, willing to give anything. But she never had the chance to speak. She felt a blow to the side of her head.
She folded into the darkness.
When Sidra woke facedown in the heather, she thought she was dreaming. The sun was just about to rise; it was bitterly cold, but the eastern horizon was swelling with light. A bird was trilling nearby, as if urging her to open her eyes. To get up.
She slowly pushed herself up to her knees. Her chest ached. There was blood dried on the front of her chemise, and she stared at it, her mind reeling as she tried to remember.
And then it hit her. The realization struck her harder than the spirit’s boot to her chest.
“Maisie!” she screamed, her voice hoarse. “Maisie!”
She stumbled to her feet. The world spun for a moment—melting stars and a vermilion sunrise and the flap of a bird’s wings.
“Maisie!” She began to tear through the heather. Her hands were so cold she could hardly feel them. “Maisie, answer me! Where are you? Maisie!”
Where had the spirit taken her?
She swallowed a sob as she frantically searched.
“Sidra? Sidra!”