Torin motioned for Jack to follow him into the spare chamber. Most of Torin’s garments were at the barracks, but he kept his finest raiment at the cottage in a chest lined with juniper boughs—tunics and jerkins and the rare set of trousers, as well as several plaids.
Sidra hurried to set the table, drawing forth her reserves, which she always kept within reach in case Torin unexpectedly joined them. She set down boiled eggs and crocks of butter and sugared cream, a wheel of goat cheese and a pot of wildflower honey, a plate of cold ham and salted herring, a loaf of bread and a jar of currant jelly, and lastly, her pot of parritch. She was pouring cups of tea when Torin reemerged into the main chamber, holding Jack’s instrument as if it might bite him. Sidra opened her mouth to ask him how Jack had come into his care when the bedroom door banged open and out bounded Maisie, her brown curls tangled from sleep, her bare feet slapping on the floor.
“Daddie!” she cried and jumped into Torin’s arms, mindless of the instrument.
“There’s my sweet lass!” Torin caught her with one arm, a broad smile on his face. Maisie settled on his hip, wrapping her arms and legs about him, as if she would never let him go.
Sidra walked to them, carefully taking Jack’s instrument from Torin, listening as father and daughter spoke to one another in their singsong way. Torin asked about the flowers Maisie had planted in the kail yard, how her writing lessons were progressing, and then came the moment Sidra was waiting for.
“Daddie, guess what happened.”
“What happened, sweetheart?”
Maisie glanced over his shoulder to meet Sidra’s gaze, smiling roguishly. Spirits below, that smile, Sidra thought, her heart welling. She felt her love for Maisie so strongly she couldn’t breathe for a moment. Even though the lass was not made from her own flesh and blood, Sidra imagined Maisie had been spun from her spirit.
“You lost your front tooth!” Torin said in delight, noticing the blank spot in Maisie’s grin.
“Aye, Daddie. But that’s not what I was going to tell you.” Maisie set her smile on him, and Sidra braced herself. “Flossie had her kittens.”
Torin’s brow rose. He looked straight to Sidra. A father who sensed he was standing in a bog.
“Did she now?” he said, but he continued to stare at Sidra, knowing she had set this convenient trap for him. “How wonderful, Maisie.”
“Yes, Daddie. And Sidra said I must ask you if I can keep them all.”
“Sidra said that?” Torin, at last, glanced back to his daughter. Sidra could feel her cheeks getting warm, but she set Jack’s instrument in his chair and resumed her tea pouring. “She loves her cats, doesn’t she?”
“I love them too,” Maisie said vibrantly. “They are so cute, Daddie! And I want to keep all of the kittens. Can I, can I please?”
Torin was silent for a beat. Again, Sidra could feel the heat of his gaze on her as she moved from teacup to teacup.
“How many kittens are there, Maisie?”
“Five, Daddie.”
“Five? I … I don’t think you can keep them all, sweetheart,” Torin said, to which Maisie let out a whine. “Listen to me, Maisie. What about the other crofts that need a good cat to guard the kail yards? What about the other lasses who don’t have any kittens to hold and love? Why don’t you share? Give four kittens to other lasses and keep one for yourself.”
Maisie slumped, scowling.
Sidra decided to add her input, saying, “I think that is a great plan, Maisie. And you can always go and visit the other kittens.”
“Do you promise, Sidra?” Maisie asked.
“I promise.”
Maisie smiled again and wiggled her way down from Torin’s arms. She sat in her chair, eager for breakfast, and Sidra turned back to the fire, to set her kettle on the hook. She felt Torin approaching, then heard him whisper into her hair, “How are you ever going to have a guard dog here if the croft is overrun with cats?”
Sidra straightened, felt the air pull between them. “I’ve told you, Torin. I need no guard dog.”
“For the hundredth time, Sid … I want you to have a dog. To guard you and Maisie at night when I am away.”
They had argued about this for an entire season now. Sidra knew why Torin was so insistent. Every warm night that passed only heightened his anxiety about a potential raid. And if it wasn’t the Breccans sparking his worries, it was the malevolent folk. Trouble had been wandering the isle lately, in the wind and the water and the earth and the fire. Two young girls had gone missing, and she understood why he was so persistent. Neither she nor Torin wanted to see Maisie at risk of being ushered away by a faerie spirit. But Sidra didn’t believe a guard dog was the solution.
A dog could scare spirits away from a yard, even the good ones. And her faith in the folk of the earth ran deep. It was because of that devotion that Sidra could heal the worst of wounds and illnesses in the east. It was why her herbs, flowers, and vegetables flourished, empowering her to nourish and heal the community and her family. If Sidra dared to bring a dog into the fold, it might convince the spirits that her faith in them was weak, and she didn’t know what sort of consequences that would lend to her life.
She had been raised believing in the goodness of the spirits. Torin’s faith had steadily crumbled over the years, and he hardly spoke a kind word about the folk these days, intent on judging them all by the malicious few. Anytime Sidra broached the subject of the spirits with him, Torin turned cold, as if he were only half listening to her.
She wondered if he blamed the spirits for Donella’s untimely death.
Sidra turned to meet his gaze. “I have all the guard I need.”
“And what am I to say to that?” he uttered, low and angry. Because he was rarely there, he knew she wasn’t speaking of him.
“You take offense where there is none,” she said gently. “Your father is next door. If there is any trouble, I will go to him.”
Torin drew a deep breath, but he didn’t say another word about it. He only studied her, and Sidra had the prickling sensation that he could read her face and the slant of her feelings. A moment passed before he stepped away, conceding this battle for now. He sat in his straw-backed chair at the head of the table and listened as Maisie chattered about the kittens, but his eyes lingered on Sidra, as if he were seeking a way to convince her about the dog.
She had almost forgotten about Jack until the spare chamber door squeaked open, and Maisie, glancing at the visitor, stopped talking midsentence.
“Who are you?” she blurted.
Jack seemed unruffled by the girl’s bluntness. He came to the table, found his chair with the instrument waiting, and sat, stiff as a board in Torin’s clothes. The plaid was heavy and awkward, fastened at his shoulder. The tunic could have fit two of him within its generous size. “I’m Jack. And you are?”
“Maisie. That’s my daddie and that’s Sidra.”
Sidra felt Jack look at her. “Sidra,” not “Mum” or “Mummy.” But she had never made any pretense to Maisie of being her mother, no matter how young and tender the girl was. That had been part of Sidra’s bargain with Torin: she would raise Maisie and love her wholeheartedly, but she would not lie and pretend she was the girl’s blood mother.