“Yes,” Sidra whispered. The safety of the girls was of the utmost importance. She didn’t dare to hope—it felt far too fragile these days—but she wanted to embrace the comfort of Maisie returning home soon. The vision nearly brought Sidra to her knees, and she blinked it away before her emotions could overtake her. “What do you need me to do, Adi?”
“I need you to first examine Eliza,” Adaira replied. “She returned home with ribbons in her hair and not a speck of dirt on her clothes. By all appearances, it seems as if she’s been well looked after, but I need you to confirm she hasn’t been abused or mistreated. She’s also unable to answer any questions about who took her or where she’s been the past few weeks, which would be a tremendous help to us if she eventually felt safe enough to talk about it. But I want her needs to come first, and I hope you can help me realize what they are.”
Sidra was silent. She rarely had to examine a child for abuse, although it occasionally did happen. It always made her feel sick, and she had to reach out and support herself on the wall.
“Sid?” Adaira whispered, coming to her.
Sidra released a deep breath. She closed her eyes and centered herself, and when she met Adaira’s concerned gaze again, she nodded. “I will do this for you. Take me to Eliza.”
“I don’t know what to do, Jack,” Adaira confessed. She was pacing her chambers, waiting while Sidra examined Eliza. It seemed like everything she had been planning, everything she had been working toward, was crumbling in her hands.
“Come and eat something, Adaira,” Jack replied. He was sitting by the hearth, where he had called up a tea tray for them. “You can’t maintain your strength if you don’t feed yourself.”
She knew Jack was right, but her stomach was wound in a knot, wondering what Eliza had been through. Wondering where the other lasses were.
She tried to take a bite of a scone but set it back down and resumed her restless pacing. “If they harmed this child … the Breccans will wish they had never been born. I will teach them not to steal lasses. I will burn the west into ashes. I will raze it to the ground.”
Jack rose and stood before her. She knew she sounded like Torin. Her cousin who was missing. The captain of the guard, whose reluctance to trust the Breccans had been well founded all along. It only made her temper flare brighter until she felt Jack’s cold hands frame her face.
“We still need proof it’s them. But there are two things we can do at the moment, Adaira,” he said in a calm voice. “The first? You should write to Moray Breccan. Don’t say a word about Eliza, but give him an ultimatum. Tell him that you will grant him one day to return what his clan has stolen from us, or else the future of the trade and your visit is forfeit. Make no declarations of war yet. The second? I’m composing a ballad for the spirits of the wind. I believe I can have it completed very soon, if I spend most of my hours devoted to it.”
Adaira studied him. Her heart was pounding in excitement as well as fear as she listened to his suggestions. “I don’t want you to play for the wind, Jack.”
He frowned, his hands falling away from her. “Why not? They are the most powerful of the spirits. They have sealed the mouths of the earth and the water. They have no doubt seen where the west is holding the girls. If I summon them, they could give us the confirmation we need to find and bring the lasses home.”
Adaira sighed. “I don’t want you to play because it drains your health.”
“And yet this is why you called me home, Adaira,” he said gently. “We are so close to solving this mystery. Please use me and my gift to find the answers you need.”
She felt torn, though she knew he was right.
A knock sounded on the door. Adaira was relieved to see it was Sidra, returning from the examination.
“How is Eliza?” she asked.
“From what I can tell,” Sidra began, “she suffered no physical trauma. She was gently looked after, well fed, and rested during her time away. But her inability to speak about what happened tells me that she is afraid, and that someone threatened her to stay silent.”
“What can we do for her to make her feel safe again?” Adaira asked.
“Keeping her with her family for now,” Sidra replied. “Ensuring life feels normal and secure for her, despite the fact they are residing in the castle and her home has been burned to the ground.”
“I’ll see to this,” Adaira replied. “Thank you.”
Sidra nodded and turned to go. Jack glanced at Adaira; she could read his eyes, the way they gleamed in warning.
“Sid, wait,” Adaira said.
Sidra paused at the threshold.
“I need to tell you about Torin.”
“Yes, where is he?” Sidra asked. “I was hoping to speak with him this morning.”
When Adaira hesitated, Jack spoke.
“We’re not certain where he is. He pursued the Breccans into the Aithwood during the raid.”
Sidra’s face blanched. “Do you think he was wounded? Or taken prisoner?”
“One of the watchmen claims to have seen him running from the forest on foot,” Adaira said. “But a fog was descending, which has made it very difficult to locate him. We believe he’s injured, and I have the guard combing the northern hills. I’ll let you know as soon as we find him.”
“You should have told me he was missing the moment you saw me,” Sidra said. Adaira had never heard her speak with such ire in her voice, and it made her shame rise.
She had waited to tell Sidra because she needed the healer to give her whole focus to examining Eliza Elliott. But perhaps Adaira had erred. She felt as if she were making mistake after mistake, and she watched as Sidra left without another word, her throat narrow. Things were falling apart, and Adaira didn’t know how to hold everything together.
When Jack retreated to his chamber, to work on the ballad Adaira didn’t want him to sing, she finally sat at her desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment and a freshly cut quill.
She didn’t know if Moray had ordered the raid. There was the slight possibility that he had not, that perhaps a group of Breccans who opposed the trade agreement were responsible. But now that Adaira suspected the west had been stealing their girls, her heart was smoldering. She felt as if peace had been a naïve illusion.
Why would the west want our lasses?
She had no answer, other than briefly imagining that life beyond the clan line was far worse than she knew. Perhaps the Breccans’ daughters were dying. And yet why would they return Eliza?
Adaira dipped her quill into her inkwell. She wrote Moray an ultimatum.
Torin lay in a patch of moon thistle, half aware of where he was, of what he was doing. He blinked and tried to move, only to have his left arm respond with excruciating pain. Grimacing, he glanced down to look at his wounds.
There were two shallow cuts on his arm, oozing foul-smelling blood.
A small voice forged from years of training commanded him to get up. Get up and walk and get these wounds cleaned before they fester any worse. And yet he didn’t want to; he battled an overwhelming urge to remain hidden and safe. Nothing would come near a thistle patch. Nothing save for Adaira and damselflies and bees. He found a little humor in the sad thought.