Torin strode to her. He stepped through Graeme’s clutter, kicking books and trinkets out of the way. All too soon, that distance between them was gone, and Torin framed her face in his hands. She could smell the coast on his fingers—the sand and seawater. She could feel the bite of his many calluses and yet he held her so gently, as if she might break.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Who did this to you?”
Sidra swallowed. It felt like a rock was in her throat. It hurt to breathe, and her eyes burned with tears.
“Torin,” she whispered.
He knew it then. She felt how he stiffened, and his eyes began to frantically search the room.
“Where’s Maisie?” he asked.
Sidra drew a deep breath. Her sternum ached; her words crumbled.
“Where is Maisie, Sidra?” Torin asked again, his gaze returning to hers.
She had never seen him appear so afraid. His blue eyes were dilated, bloodshot.
“I’m sorry, Torin,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
His hands fell away from her. He took a step back, stumbling over a pair of boots. He heaved a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. Another sound slipped from him, soft yet guttural. Eventually, he glanced at Sidra, his face composed.
“I need you to tell me everything that happened last night,” he said. “If I’m going to find Maisie … you need to tell me every detail, Sidra.”
She was jarred by how reserved he now appeared, but she knew this was his training, to keep his emotions in check. He was speaking to her as the captain, not as her partner.
Sidra began to recount what had happened, save for Donella’s warning, thankful that she was able to speak without weeping.
He listened, his eyes fixed on her. Every few breaths, he would study her blood-smeared chest, the snarls of her matted hair, and Sidra would feel how cold she was.
“The spirit spoke?” Torin interrupted when she reached that part.
Sidra hesitated. She glanced across the room at Graeme, whom she had all but forgotten about. Her father-in-law stood by the door, still holding the two glasses of whiskey. He nodded to her, quietly encouraging her to tell Torin …
“It wasn’t a spirit,” Sidra said.
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
She explained about spirit blood.
“Are you certain, Sidra?” Torin asked. “This isn’t your blood?”
“I gave him a flesh wound in the back,” she said flatly. “This is not my blood, nor is it a spirit’s.”
“Then if it was a man …” Torin exhaled through his teeth. “Describe him to me. How tall was he? What did his voice sound like?”
Sidra struggled to put her memory, which felt distorted by night and terror, into something that Torin could identify.
He listened, bent toward her words, but she could sense his frustration. “You didn’t recognize his voice, but he asked for my daughter in particular?”
“Yes, Torin.”
“So he knows me. He must be a clansman, someone I’ve brushed shoulders with, or trained in the guard. Someone who knows the lay of the east.” Torin pressed a knuckle to his lips and shut his eyes. He still looked far too pale, as if the blood had drained from him.
“Torin,” Sidra whispered, reaching for his hand. She knew what he was feeling. That horrible wave of distress, to know it was a man stealing the lasses. To ask oneself, Why would a man kidnap little girls?
His eyes opened. He held Sidra’s gaze for a beat, but there was no hope, no reassurance in him. There was only anguish, and she felt responsible for it. She should have fought harder. She should have run faster. She should have screamed for Graeme.
Her hand fell back to her side, but Torin reached for her fingers, drawing her across the room and out the front door.
“If you wounded him, he could not have gotten far. Show me the exact place where it happened,” he said.
Sidra tripped as she matched his pace. She was still barefoot, and the brightness of the sun was a shock to her. She squinted, then realized that several of Torin’s guards were present, waiting by the road. They instantly moved forward when they saw her bloodied clothes.
“It was here, Torin,” she said, stopping halfway down the hill. The heather around her was crushed, a testament to her struggle. “I stabbed him. And he …” She bit off the rest, but Torin’s eyes were keen.
“What did he do next, Sidra?”
She resisted the urge to embrace herself and shivered. “He kicked me. In the chest. I rolled to there and lost the dirk on the way down.”
Torin followed the trail, kneeling in the place where Sidra had sprawled. He was pensive, studying the ground. His fingers found a few drops of blood in the heather, and it gave Sidra hope. Torin would be able to find the culprit. When he rose, she could see the color had returned to his face. His eyes were blazing, his steps full of purpose as he came to her.
“I want you to stay with my da for the rest of the day,” he said. “Please don’t leave his croft. Do you hear me, Sid?”
Sidra frowned. “No. I planned to help you search, Torin.”
“I would prefer if you stay with Graeme.”
“But I want to search. I don’t want to be locked away in a house, waiting on news.”
“Listen to me, Sidra,” Torin said, taking hold of her shoulders. “You were brutally attacked last night and injured. You need to rest.”
“I’m fine—”
“I won’t be able to focus on the search if I’m worried about you!” His words were sharp, cutting through her resolve. “Please, just do as I ask, this one time.”
Sidra took a step away. His hands slipped from her shoulders, and he sighed. But he didn’t stop her when she turned and ascended the hill, and she didn’t look back.
She passed through the gate into the yard. Graeme was standing in the doorway, still holding the two glasses of whiskey.
He took one look at Sidra’s face and said, “I’ll make us some oatcakes.”
She watched him step inside, grateful that he was granting her a moment alone. She took a step deeper into the yard and realized the glamour wasn’t fading, as it always did when she approached Graeme’s place.
The garden remained in utter disarray. Weeds grew in thick clots. Vines snaked across the pathway and up the cottage. Gossamer hung in golden webs. It shocked her. She had always seen through the glamour in the past. All the love and care she had given to this ground … it was like it had never happened.
The devastation she had been burying rose. Sidra’s tears began to fall as she knelt amid the wildness.
My faith is gone, she thought, sensing that was the reason why the yard was so changed, why she saw the glamour.
She watched the sunrise gild the weeds.
She began to viciously uproot it all.
CHAPTER 11
Jack was sleeping when the pounding on the front door shook the cottage. He startled and sat up in bed, blinking against the sunlight. His head still ached from spinning music into magic for the water, and he winced as heavy footsteps shook his mother’s house.
His first thought was that a raid was unfolding, and he stumbled to his feet, tangled in the blanket. The room spun until he reached out to lean on the wall, belatedly realizing that it was the middle of the day. The Breccans never came in the light, and he could hear his mother calmly speaking just beyond the door.