Sometimes Sidra felt unworthy, as if Donella were assessing her. How well was Sidra caring for the daughter and husband she had left behind? But most of the time Sidra felt as if Donella was simply keeping her company, so fastened was her soul to this place, to this ground. The women—one dead and one living—were connected by love and blood and soil. Three cords that were so interwoven that Sidra was not surprised that Donella appeared to her and her alone.
“I have to send Maisie to school this autumn,” Sidra said as she stirred the parritch. The cottage was quiet, dusted with dawn, and the wind was just beginning to howl its morning gossip. When Donella was silent, Sidra glanced at her. The ghost sat in her favorite chair at the table, her tawny hair flowing down her shoulders. Her armor was incandescent in the light, a breath away from being wholly translucent.
Donella was so beautiful it sometimes made Sidra’s chest ache.
The ghost shook her head, reluctant.
“I know,” Sidra said with a sigh. “I have been teaching her letters and how to read.” But the truth was, all of the isle children were required to attend classes in Sloane when they turned six. Which Donella knew, despite being dead for the past five years.
“There is a way to delay it, Sidra,” Donella said. Her voice was faint, a tendril of what it had once been when she was alive, although Sidra had not even been an acquaintance to her then. The two women had taken very different paths in life, and yet it had strangely led them both to the same place.
“You think I should begin teaching her my craft?” Sidra asked, but she knew it was what Donella was thinking and it took her by surprise. “I always assumed that you would want Maisie to follow your legacy, Donella.”
The ghost smiled, but her demeanor was melancholy, even as the sunrise illuminated her. “I don’t see the sword in Maisie’s future, but something else.”
Sidra slowed her stirring. She inevitably thought of Torin, who was stubborn as an ox. On their wedding night, they had sat across from each other on their bed—fully clothed—and conversed for hours about Maisie and her future. How they would raise her together. He wanted his daughter to go to school on the isle. She would be taught everything: how to wield bow and arrow, how to read and write, how to whet a sword, how to count her numbers, how to knock a man to the ground, how to mill oats and barley, how to sing and dance and hunt. Not once had Torin mentioned Maisie learning Sidra’s craft of herbs and healing.
As if sensing her doubt, Donella said, “Maisie has already learned from watching you, Sidra. She enjoys tending the garden at your side. She likes to help you when you make your salves and tonics. She could become a great healer beneath your instruction.”
“I enjoy her company,” Sidra admitted. “But I’ll have to talk to Torin about it.” And she didn’t know when she would see him next.
What she did know was Torin’s dedication to the East Guard. He preferred the night shift, and he slept during the day in the dark, quiet bowels of the castle because he wanted to be in the barracks with the other guards. She understood his commitment, the thoughts that dictated his mind. Why should he, even though he was captain, be sleeping at home when his guards were sleeping in the barracks?
Occasionally, he ate his dinner with her and Maisie, which meant it was their breakfast. But even then, his love and attention were given to his daughter, and Sidra did everything he had married her for—to keep the croft and help him raise his child. Every now and then, before the moon had fully waxed and waned and when Maisie was visiting her grandfather on the croft next to theirs, Torin would come to her. Their couplings were always spontaneous and brief, as if Torin only had a few moments. But he was always gentle and attentive to her, and sometimes he lingered with her in the bed, tracing the wild tangles of her hair.
“I think you will see him again sooner than you think,” Donella said. “And he will not deny you anything, Sidra.”
Sidra was stunned by that idea, thinking the ghost was exaggerating. But then Sidra wondered, Well, when have I ever asked Torin for anything? And she realized that she rarely did.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll ask him. Soon.”
The front door blew open. Donella evanesced and Sidra, startled, whirled to see none other than Torin enter the cottage, windblown and ruddy. His tunic was damp from dew, his boots coated in sand, and his gaze found her instantly, as if he knew exactly where she would be—by the fire, stirring his daughter’s breakfast.
“Who were you talking to, Sid?” he asked, frowning as his eyes swept the room.
“No one,” she said, flustered. Torin had no idea she could see and speak with Donella, and Sidra didn’t think she would ever be brave enough to tell him. “You’re home. Why?”
Torin hesitated. She had never questioned why he was visiting. Of course, if he was here, he was hungry after working all night. He wanted his dinner and to hold his daughter.
“I thought I’d sup with you and Maisie,” he said, his voice lowering. “And I have a visitor with me.”
“A visitor?” Sidra dropped her spoon, intrigued. If she had been listening to the wind that morning, she might have heard the gossip it bore over the fells. But she had been preoccupied with the ghost of Torin’s first love.
She walked around the table, the draft stirring her unbound hair, and only stopped when a young man entered the cottage, his shoulders hunched in apparent discomfort. He held something in his arms; it looked like an instrument hiding in an oilskin sleeve, and Sidra’s heart leapt in joy until she noticed how disheveled he was. He had Torin’s plaid draped across his shoulders, but his garments beneath were plain and hung from him like an ill-fated fortune. He cast a long shadow, one made of worry and resentment.
But these were the moments Sidra lived for. To aid and heal and unravel mysteries.
“I know you,” she breathed with a smile. “You’re Mirin’s son.”
The stranger blinked and straightened, astonished she had recognized him.
“Jack Tamerlaine,” Sidra continued, recalling his name. “I’m not certain if you remember me, but years ago, you and your mum visited my family’s croft in the Vale of Stonehaven, to purchase wool. My cat had gotten herself stuck in the old elm tree in our kail yard, and you were kind enough to climb up after her and bring her safely down to me.”
Jack still appeared bewildered, but then the lines marring his face eased and a hint of a smile played on his lips. “I do remember. Your cat nearly scratched my eyes out.”
Sidra laughed, and the room instantly brightened. “Aye, she was a cranky old tabby. But I did care for your scratches afterward, and it seems I did a fair job at it.”
The chamber fell silent. Sidra was still smiling, and she felt Torin’s gaze. She turned her attention to him only to see he was regarding her with pride, and it surprised her. Torin never seemed to pay any heed to her skills of healing. That was her work, as the East Guard was his, and they kept those pieces of themselves separate. Save for those rare moments when Torin needed stitches or to have his nose reset. Then he submitted, albeit begrudgingly, to her hands and care.
“Come inside, Jack,” Sidra invited, seeking to make Jack feel welcome, and Torin shut the front door. “I’ll have breakfast on the table in a moment, but in the meantime … Torin, why don’t you find Jack something to wear?”