“It might be another month or so,” Adaira replied. “I’m unable to give you a determined date at this time.”
She wanted to settle the mystery of the missing girls first, Jack knew. She wouldn’t even consider leaving the east until the lasses were returned to their families.
“Very well,” Moray said. “We can wait, although I do believe we need to establish a place for trade to happen, and the best way to do so will be through a visit. I don’t think we can continue to pass goods back and forth in this cave.”
“No,” Adaira agreed. “I do want to see the west and your people. But perhaps you could visit us first?”
Yes, Jack thought. Let the Breccans take the initial risk.
Moray’s smile stretched wide. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, for a number of reasons. The first is that my clan would never allow it, given how many Breccans have been killed on Tamerlaine soil by your captain and his guards. But if my people see you come to us first, Adaira, it would diminish that fear.”
“I fail to see the rationale in that,” Jack said tersely. “Your people have been killed in the east because we have had to defend ourselves from your violence.”
Moray cast a languid glance at him. “Is that so? Perhaps you should ask your captain then. Ask him how many innocent Breccans he’s killed over the years.”
Jack’s blood turned cold. His hands felt like ice when he recalled his first night on Cadence. Sitting in a sea cave with Torin.
You meet every stray who crosses the clan line with instant death?
“Then I will come to you first,” Adaira said, seeking to smooth out the tension that was gathering between them. “I’ll write when the time is acceptable for the visit. But in the meantime, I do have one more request of you, Moray.”
“Speak it, heiress.”
She held up the vial with the Orenna blossom. “I’ve been seeking this flower in the east, and I wonder if you recognize it. Perhaps it flourishes in the west? If so, this flower is something that I would like to trade with you for.”
Moray squinted as he studied it. “It’s hard to see clearly from here”—Jack almost rolled his eyes—“but I don’t recognize it. Despite that, I’ll ask others in the clan, to see if they know of it. What’s the flower called, by chance?”
“Orenna,” Adaira said. “It has four petals and is crimson in color, veined with gold. An enchanted flower, as it continues to live long after it has been cut. I appreciate any advice or knowledge you could give about it.”
“I’ll do what I can, heiress,” Moray said. “Now, I should depart, but I’ll await word from you?”
Adaira nodded.
The trade had finally ended. They had survived it unscathed, and Jack took a stiff step away. It felt wrong to turn his back on Moray, but Adaira did, gathering the blanket and the bottle of strange western alcohol.
Jack held out the crate, and she placed the items within. Moray was still in the cave fiddling with his boat when they departed out the eastern side. They walked away, past their footsteps still pressed in the sand, although the tide was threatening to wash them away.
The wind had died, and the air was strangely calm.
“Do you think he was lying, Jack?” she asked in a low voice. “About the flower?”
Jack shifted the crate to his other hip. “I’m not sure. He wasn’t what I expected.”
“Yes. I’m not sure what I think about him yet,” Adaira agreed. “But if we’ve proven anything today … it is possible to move products over the clan line without alerting Torin. It feels fanciful to even think this, but one of our own might be secretly obtaining the flower from the west, delivering them in the tides. Just as we did today.”
The thought was disturbing.
When they had almost reached the rock path, Jack drawled, “So. They want to give us blankets we don’t need and get us drunk. An excellent trade, if I may say so myself.”
Adaira only laughed. It was surprise and joy, mingled into one.
Jack discovered he loved the sound of it.
Sidra stood in her yard, staring at the vegetables, herbs, and flowers. She hadn’t watered them or harvested their fruit. Weeds were beginning to snake across the soil.
She should kneel. She should work, put her hands in the loam.
But she didn’t have the heart to.
Sidra went inside, past Yirr curled up on the stoop, keeping watch. She stood at the table, staring at her pestle and mortar. Her dried herbs, stems, leaves, and flowers. A language she had grown up speaking, and yet it now felt scrambled and dissonant.
The house was so quiet. She wanted to drown in such silence. Gazing into space, Sidra didn’t know how long she had been standing there when the door creaked open.
Yirr hadn’t barked to alert her that someone had entered the yard.
Sidra’s heart leapt into her throat as she turned, afraid until she saw it was Torin. His face was ruddy, whether from sunburn or anger, she wasn’t sure yet. He smelled of summer wind and grass, and she realized he was holding a handful of tonic bottles. The ones she had made for his guard to decrease their need for sleep and to sharpen their focus on the search.
“I’m sorry, Torin,” she said reflexively. She was sorry for the anguished gleam in his eyes, for how his body was losing its strength, hour by hour. She was sorry to see how exhausted he was, and how he was grinding himself down to pieces.
“What are you sorry about?” he countered briskly, as if he were sick of her apologies. “Could you make another batch of these for my guards?”
She didn’t want to make anything with her hands. But she nodded and accepted the bottles from him, setting them on the table. “I’ll bring a new batch by the barracks later.”
“I’ll wait for them now,” he said.
He wanted to watch her work. He had never cared for such things before, and Sidra felt anxious as she began to gather fresh herbs.
“You should sit,” she said. “This will take a while.”
She hoped he would change his mind and leave. There was always someone else who needed him more. Another task more pressing than her.
Torin drew out a chair and sat.
He was quiet for a full five minutes as Sidra set a pot to boil over the fire and began to mix her herbs.
“If a Breccan was wounded and knocked on your door,” Torin began, “would you heal them?”
Sidra glanced up. She wasn’t sure what answer he wanted to hear from her. And then she realized it wasn’t what Torin was asking for. He yearned to know her truths, even if they were sharp and difficult for him to fathom.
“Yes,” she said.
“If a Breccan wounded me and then knocked on your door with pains of their own, would you heal them?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then you should prepare yourself for it,” he said. “Prepare your salves for our enemies. To heal their wounds, as well as the ones they’ll give to us in return. It’s imminent.”
“What are you speaking of, Torin?”
“The trade that you advised my cousin to go forward with? It happened today, and according to Adaira, it was a success. She now wants to establish a permanent trade with the Breccans, as if one good encounter can wash away all the terror and raids they’ve bestowed upon us for decades.”