He needed something to hold the plaid together.
He shuffled into the spare room, where his oaken chest sat against the wall. He searched through his raiment before finding a spare brooch, a golden ring of bracken with a long pin. When he returned to the kitchen, clammy and light-headed, he noticed Sidra had stopped working. Her face was flushed, her eyes staring vacantly at the table.
She looked lost, and then surprised when Torin took her arm, turning her body to face him.
“You should be in bed!” she scolded again, but she sounded like she was about to cry.
Torin began to fold the plaid, in the same way he liked to fold his own. He brought it behind her, then across her chest before cinching it in place at her right shoulder.
Yes, he thought. It was perfect on her.
He stepped back to regard Mirin’s handiwork. Sidra glanced down at it, and she still appeared confused until Torin laid his palm over her chest, where the plaid now granted her protection. He could feel the enchantment within the pattern, holding firm, like steel. He touched the place she had been kicked, where her bruises were slow to heal, as if her heart had shattered beneath her skin and bones.
She understood now.
She gasped and glanced up at him. Again, he wished that he could speak to her. Their last conversation still rattled in his mind, and he didn’t like the distance that had come between them.
Let my secret guard your heart, he thought.
“Thank you,” Sidra whispered, as if she had heard him.
It renewed his hope, and he sat at the table before his knees gave out. His gaze snagged on a pie whose center had been eaten away in a perfect circle, the spoon still in the dish. He pointed to the gaping hole, brow arched.
Sidra smiled. “The middle is the best part.”
No, the crust is. He shook his head, reaching for the spoon to eat the crisp places she had left behind.
He was halfway done when there came a bark, followed by a knock on the open door. Torin turned to see Adaira, and his heart lifted.
“Sit, Yirr,” Sidra said to the dog, and he obeyed, hushing.
Adaira carefully passed the collie and approached Torin, a slight smile on her haggard face.
“Look at you, sitting at the table and eating pie,” she teased. “One would never think you’d been wounded last night.”
She sounded lighthearted, but Torin knew how worried she truly was. He didn’t want to give her any reason to doubt his capability as captain. He drew out the chair next to him, and Adaira sat, her eyes going instantly to the demolished pie.
“You could have saved me a piece,” she said.
Torin pushed the dish toward her, and Adaira took a few bites, closing her eyes as if she had been hungry for days. When she was done, she set down the spoon and studied Torin closely.
“How are you, Torin?”
He lifted his hand to Sidra, asking her to speak for him.
“The wound on his shoulder is healing swiftly,” she replied. “But the one on his forearm is proving to be far more stubborn than I’d like. I’m hoping if he continues to rest today, he will feel much better by tomorrow.”
Adaira’s gaze dropped to his bound forearm, where blood had stained the linen. “Good. The first thing I want to say to you is that I’m giving you time off to rest and heal. In the meantime, I’ve taken command of the guard and have sent the auxiliary force to the clan line, to assist the watchmen. If the Breccans try to cross again, we’ll catch them, so don’t worry about responding if your scar flares. Do you hear me, cousin?”
Torin reluctantly nodded.
“The second thing I need to discuss with you is more complex,” Adaira said. “Is it possible for you to communicate by writing?”
Torin glanced at Sidra. She swiftly went to the cupboard to find a sheet of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill.
“I wrote to Moray Breccan this morning,” Adaira began. “I gave him an ultimatum, to return what his clan stole from the Elliotts, or else face an end to the trade agreement. And I received a response, but it wasn’t from who I was expecting.”
She withdrew a letter from the inner pocket of her cloak and set it in Torin’s hands.
He unfolded the paper and read, the words swimming on the page. His eyesight was watery, and it took him a second to focus and make sense of the elegant scrawl:
Dear Adaira,
My sincerest apologies about the raid that unfolded on your lands last night. I was utterly unaware of it, but that is no excuse on my part. I will see to it that the goods and livestock that were stolen are returned, and I will promptly execute justice on those who were involved.
We are hopeful to continue the trade you have offered us, although it is apparent members of my clan have yet to fully understand the gravity of your invitation. I will strive to amend such mindsets.
If you can meet me tomorrow at midday, I will bring the stolen goods to the clan line, at the northern signpost. Please advise the captain of your guard that I will need to briefly step over the boundary into your territory in order to return the resources. If you approve, please reply to me, and I will make preparations.
Respectfully yours,
Innes Breccan
LAIRD OF THE WEST
Torin reached for the parchment Sidra had set down before him. His mind was reeling, and he began to write. This is strange, Adi. The Laird of the West never cared to atone for the raids in the past. I don’t trust her. But as soon as the nib lifted, his handwriting became twisted and illegible.
He stared at the inky mess, despairing until Adaira touched his arm.
“It’s all right, cousin. I can imagine you don’t approve of this meeting.”
Torin shook his head. But only because the Breccans are acting strangely. They agree to peace, give us the best they have to offer, raid us, and then scramble to appease us again. If the west was playing a game, it was one that Torin didn’t understand, but it filled him with a sense of foreboding.
“I think, despite how strange this offer is, that it’s crucial that I meet with Innes tomorrow,” said Adaira. “I not only want to recover what was stolen from the Elliotts, but there are a few things that I need to put to rest. Jack is going with me, and I will—”
Torin began to wildly gesture to himself.
“Yes, I’m taking a few guards,” Adaira added.
“No,” Sidra said, watching Torin’s movements. “He wants to go with you.”
“But you’re wounded, Torin.”
He didn’t care. He laid his fist over his heart. All I ask is to stand beside you. To be present.
Adaira stared at him. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t been sleeping at night. There was a hint of sorrow in her eyes, and it worried Torin. He hadn’t seen her like this since her mother had died.
“Very well,” she said at last. “You may come with me, so long as you’re continuing to improve tomorrow.”
He nodded. He thought that was the end of Adaira’s visit, but she turned her eyes to Sidra, hesitant.
“Have you told him, Sid?”
Torin glanced between the two women. Sidra grimaced. “No, I wanted to wait until he felt better.”
Torin scowled. Adaira sighed and met his gaze again. “It’s about Eliza Elliott. We found her.”
He listened in cold shock as Adaira told him everything.
Jack sat at his childhood desk, composing a ballad for the wind by candlelight. With each passing night, he slept more and more uneasily, and he wished he could persuade his mother to take Frae and lodge in the castle until the days felt safer.