Mortified, he rose and brushed the dirt from his clothes, hoping no one but the spirits had seen him fall. His shoulder was dislocated. He knew it was, and he gritted his teeth as one of the younger guards came trotting up the road behind him.
“Do you need help fetching your horse, Torin?”
“No.”
Torin’s stallion had wandered off toward one of the shepherd’s houses. He motioned the guard to go on his way as he strode to reclaim his horse.
“Ah, that’s convenient,” the guard called after him.
“What is?” Torin ground out.
“Well, Senga Campbell and her granddaughter live there.”
Senga Campbell was the castle healer. She personally attended to the laird and his family and was renowned for her skill. Despite that, Torin hadn’t known she had a granddaughter, and he failed to make sense of what the guard was saying.
“Very well. She has a granddaughter.” Torin threw up his hands and then winced.
“Her granddaughter is a healer as well, you know. I’m sure she’d be happy to reset your shoulder for you.” The guard cantered off down the road with his amusement, and Torin swore as he finally chased his horse down in the Campbells’ yard.
Their house was quiet. It seemed that no one was home, and Torin paused when he noticed their garden. He had never seen a more organized and beautiful kail yard.
He tethered his horse to the gate and walked to the front door, frightening a cat from the stoop. He knocked and waited, listening as someone moved within the house.
It was Sidra who answered the door.
She was dressed in simple homespun. A smudge of dirt was on her cheek. Her long black hair was loose and spilled over her shoulders. A stray flower was caught within the tangles. All of his thoughts unexpectedly scattered at the sight of her, and he said nothing.
“Who is at the door, Sidra?” an older woman’s voice—Senga’s—rasped from within.
“I don’t know who he is,” Sidra said, to Torin’s great shock. Nearly everyone knew who he was. He was the laird’s nephew, and an esteemed member of the East Guard … “He is a man, and his horse just ate all the carrots in my garden.”
Torin flushed. “Forgive me. But I seem to have dislocated my shoulder.”
“You seem to have?” Sidra echoed, and her eyes drifted to it. “Ah, yes. You have. Come in. My nan can help you.”
“Is that Torin Tamerlaine?” Senga asked, recognizing his voice as he followed Sidra into the cottage. The revered healer sat at the table, grinding herbs with her pestle and mortar. But she hadn’t been the one to reset his shoulder. It had been Sidra.
Torin keenly felt the touch of her hands through his sleeve as she brought his shoulder back into its socket. It caught him by surprise; he had been numb for so long now. He had been merely existing for the past eight months. And yet he noticed Sidra’s hands like they were sunlight, burning away the last of his fog.
“This is very unusual,” he said as Sidra knotted a sling about his arm. “Me being tossed from my horse, that is. I can’t remember the last time it happened. It rarely happens, you know. Or perhaps you wouldn’t know, since this is our first time meeting.” He was stammering, as if the words were thistledown in his mouth.
Sidra only smiled.
Her grandmother was listening to them, even though they sat on the other side of the chamber, beside the slow burning embers of the hearth. Senga had ceased crushing her herbs, and the house fell quiet. There was only the sound of birdsong, drifting in through the cracked shutters, and a calico cat purring on a folded plaid.
“Why have I never seen you before?” Torin whispered to Sidra.
She met his gaze. Her eyes were the color of wildflower honey. She had freckles on her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose. One was at the corner of her lips.
He felt as though he should know her. As though he would remember if he had seen her before. Her grandmother frequently visited the city, caring for his uncle and cousin. Shouldn’t Senga’s apprentice be with her?
“I confess,” Sidra began in a husky voice, “that I have seen you before, Torin Tamerlaine. Years ago, when Lady Lorna still lived and played for the clan on feast nights in the castle hall. But I believe you and I belonged to different circles at the time, didn’t we?”
He didn’t know what to say, because she was right. He wondered what else he had missed and overlooked in the past. “And what of now? Do you still come to the city these days, Sidra Campbell?”
She glanced away to fiddle with a bowl of herbs, as if she wanted a distraction. But she said, “My nan cares for the laird and his daughter in the city. I remain here in the vale, to care for the shepherds and the crofters.”
“And for stupid men like me, I suppose.”
Sidra’s smile deepened, awakening a dimple in her left cheek. “Aye. And for men like you.” She seemed to remember her grandmother’s presence, because she said, “Here, let me walk you to the door.”
Torin followed and asked how much he owed her.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Sidra replied, leaning against the doorframe. “But perhaps a basket of carrots.”
The next day Torin sent two baskets of carrots to Sidra’s door. To atone for the ones his horse had eaten and to express his gratitude to her.
That was how the isle brought them together.
Sidra stirred in the bed.
Torin listened as she turned on her back. He felt the warmth of her body as they touched. She stiffened in response.
“Torin?” she whispered, uncertain.
“Yes, it’s me.”
She was quiet, but her posture relaxed against him. He believed she had fallen back asleep until she whispered, “I’m ready.”
“Ready for what, Sid?”
“For you to bring me a guard dog.”
CHAPTER 13
Jack spent the next day studying Lorna’s music for the earth. He gathered pieces of nature, holding them in his hands, breathing their fragrance, studying their intricacy alongside her music. She had written a stanza for the grass, for the wildflowers, for the stones, for the trees, for the bracken. There were many different elements to this ballad, and Jack wanted to perfect them all, thinking that so long as he respected the earth and strove to honor it, there would be no need for him to be worried when he played.
But there was one problem.
His hands still ached, down to his fingertips.
“Jack?” Mirin knocked on the bedroom door. “May I enter?”
He hesitated, wondering if he should hide the strange harvest on his desk. In the end, he let it be, although he turned over Lorna’s music. “Yes. Come in, Mum.”
Mirin stepped inside, holding a bowl. She approached his desk, and while she noticed the stray pieces of nature scattered before him, she said nothing until she set the soup down.
“You need to eat.”
Jack eyed the nettle soup. “I’m not hungry, Mum.”
“I know you’re not,” said Mirin. “But you still need to eat.”
“I’ll eat later.”
“You should eat now,” she insisted. “It’ll help you recover faster.”
Jack glanced up at her, sharply. But when he saw the worry lining Mirin’s expression, he let his protest fade.