As Jack played Lorna’s ballad he felt as if he was slowly sinking into the earth. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he drooped like a flower wilting beneath a fierce sun. It was like the sensation of falling asleep. He swore he saw daisies blooming from his fingertips, and every time he plucked his strings the petals broke away but regrew just as swiftly. And his ankles … he couldn’t move them, the tree roots had begun to take hold of him. His hair was turning into grass, green and long and tangled, and as the song ended he struggled to remember who he was, that he was mortal, a man. Someone was coming to him, bright as a fallen star, and he felt her hands on his face, blissfully cold.
“Please,” the woman said, but not to him. She beseeched the wildflower spirit with her long dark hair and crown of vibrant gorse. “Please, this man belongs to me. You cannot claim him.”
“Why, mortal woman,” one of the pennywort lads said from the ground, his words raspy as summer hay falling to a scythe. “Why did you sit so far away from him? We thought he sang to be taken by us.”
Jack snapped out of the haze. Adaira was kneeling beside him, her hand shifting to his arm. He was stricken to see that he truly had been turning into the earth—grass, flowers, and roots. His harp clattered from his tingling hands; he struggled to breathe as he watched his body return to him.
“He is mine, and he played to bring you forth by my command,” Adaira said calmly. “I long to speak to you, spirits of the earth. If I may have your permission, Lady Whin of the Wildflowers.”
Whin regarded Adaira for a long moment. She shifted her honeysuckle eyes to the Earie Stone, an old face who also was watching Adaira.
“It is her,” Whin said, her voice light and airy.
“No, it cannot be,” the Earie Stone countered. His words were hard to discern, crunching like gravel.
“It is,” Whin persisted. “I have waited a long time for this moment.” She turned her attention back to the mortals, and Jack felt Adaira shiver.
“I’m Adaira Tamerlaine,” Adaira said, and her voice was strong in spite of her fear. “My bard has summoned you so I may ask for your help.”
“What help, mortal lady?” one of the alder maidens asked.
“Four lasses have gone missing in the east,” Adaira began. “We are desperate to find them, to reunite them with their families. I have questions that I would like to ask you.”
“We can only answer so much, Adaira of the Tamerlaines,” Whin said. “But ask, and if we may speak, we will.”
“Can you tell me where the lasses are?” Adaira said.
Whin shook her head. “No, but we can say they are all together in one place.”
Adaira’s breath caught. “They’re alive, then?”
“Yes. They live and they are hale.”
Jack felt the relief trickle through him. He hadn’t realized how afraid he had been to learn the girls were dead until that moment.
“The man who has been kidnapping them,” Adaira rushed to continue. “Who is he, and is he working alone?”
Whin glanced back to the Earie Stone. Wildflowers fluttered with her every movement. Jack watched the blossoms drift from her arms, her hair. He sensed the spirits were about to retreat; his performance had not been strong enough to hold them long in their manifest forms.
“We cannot say who he is, but he is not working alone,” Whin replied.
Adaira yearned to ask more. To make demands. Jack could see it in the clenching of her jaw and the curl of her fingers.
“Can you tell me where Orenna grows?”
A shadow of agony passed over Whin’s face. She opened her mouth, but wildflowers tumbled from her lips. At her feet, the pennywort lads began to unravel, and the alder maidens began to groan back into trees.
“Please,” Adaira cried, ragged. She removed her hand from Jack and knelt before the Earie Stone and Whin. “Please help me. Please guide me. Where can I find the lasses?”
“Oh mortal woman,” said Whin, sorrowful. Her flowers began to wilt as she faded. “I cannot tell you. My mouth is barred from speaking truth to you. You will have to find the answers elsewhere.”
“Where? In the wind?” Adaira asked, but she was never answered.
The folk of the earth transformed into trees, stones, grass, and wildflowers. A clump of heather was the only evidence the spirits had manifested, a lingering trace of Lady Whin.
Jack felt sore and bruised as he continued to sit and stare at the Earie Stone. All he could think of was Lady Whin’s statement. A statement that was nearly identical to what the water spirits had uttered …
It is her.
His gaze slid to Adaira, on her hands and knees, discouraged and breathing like she was about to weep.
“Adaira,” he rasped. “Adaira, it’ll be all right. The earth told us more than we could have hoped for. The lasses are alive and well. It’s only a matter of time before we find them.”
She gradually regained her composure. She pushed herself up and drew a deep breath.
“You’re right,” she said, gazing up at the tree branches. “I’m just so tired, Jack.”
“Then let me take you home,” he said, brushing grass from his tunic. He made a note of his hands; they felt fine, as did his head. Perhaps he wouldn’t suffer from the magic this time. He decided to leave the tonic bottle in his harp case.
Adaira looked at him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said such a thing. We’re all tired these days.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You can always speak your mind to me.”
She looked at him, unguarded. Her father was dying, her lasses were missing. He could see her weariness mingled with her waning hope. He could see how much she wanted to be strong for the clan, strong for Torin and Sidra. And yet she was just one woman, and Jack wondered how she held everything together on her own.
He eased himself up to his feet. He felt drained, and a bit peculiar, but then he had nearly turned into the earth itself.
Play with caution, Lorna had said.
He understood now, and he offered his hand to Adaira, drawing her upright.
“We should get back to Torin,” she said. “He’ll be eager to know what we learned.”
“Yes,” Jack said. “We should hurry.”
They approached their horses in silence, and as Jack mounted, he realized that he was marrying Adaira the following day and he had no idea what to expect.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked, gathering the reins.
“I don’t have a plan,” she replied, nudging her horse into a walk. “I’m making this up as I go.”
Jack snorted, his gelding plodding after hers. He was about to make a smart remark when he felt the pain bloom behind his eyes, a sudden brightness that stole his breath. He couldn’t see for a moment; there was nothing more than the agonizing sheen of lightning coursing through him, and he scrambled for his harp case. His hands were beginning to ache, as if he had set them in snow for hours.
Adaira was saying something. She was blithely unaware of his condition, riding ahead of him.
He felt a sharp pain in his nose; it began to bleed, and he knew he needed Adaira’s help.
“Adaira,” he whispered.
The world spun. He thought he was floating until he crashed to the ground, his shoulder smarting in pain. He could feel the grass, tickling his face. He could smell the loam of the isle. He could hear the sough of the wind.