Sidra’s fingers drifted up to the brooch at his shoulder, unclasping it. His plaid cascaded beneath her hands, and she found the buckles on his jerkin next, unfastening them one by one. She removed his raiment—belt and weapons and tunic—all the way down to his muddy boots. And then he returned the motions, but it had been a while since he had undressed her. His eager hands tangled the laces of her bodice, and he let out a wisp of frustrated breath.
Sidra smiled, but her stomach was full of wings, as if this were their first time again.
It took her a moment to loosen the knot he’d made, and she hardly had time to lower her fingers before he pulled the dress and the chemise from her, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor beside his.
Bared to each other, Torin traced her skin, as if he was memorizing her every line and curve. When she gasped, his mouth was there to catch it, settling against hers like a seal, and he tasted of rain and salt.
He carried her to the bed.
Together, they sank into the blankets. He kissed the curve of her throat, the valleys of her collarbones. His body was warm, comforting against hers. And for once, Torin took his time. She knew he had countless important things to do, but he chose her that night.
The light was fading. Sidra drank the scent of his skin—the traces of leather and wool, the loam of the isle, the sweat from endless work, and a slight touch of the wind—and it was familiar and beloved to her, as if she had found home in the most unexpected of places.
She drew him closer, deeper. The room was dark now, but she could faintly discern his face. The wonder in his eyes. Soon, they couldn’t see at all, but they felt and they breathed and they moved as one. The eyes of their hearts were open, and they beheld each other vividly, even in the darkness.
She woke before him. She had dreamt of a strange path in the hills, one she felt compelled to find. Quietly, Sidra slipped from the bed and found clean clothes in her wardrobe. Torin had suffered another nightmare last night. She didn’t know what he was seeing while he slept, but it worried her.
She found an empty basket and her foraging knife, donned her plaid and her boots, and emerged into the front yard.
It was dawn, and the light was a milky blue.
She left the croft for the hills, setting out on a muddy path, uncertain where she was going. But she dared to stray from the road into knee-deep heather as she looked for the path in her dreams. So entirely focused on looking for Torin’s cure, she nearly missed the trail of gorse that bloomed before her, a slender thread of gold that made her stop, amazed. It reminded her of the pathways she had seen in the spirit realm, and she followed its winding route, careful not to crush the blooms beneath her feet.
It led her into a glen that she had never seen before, a shifting location in the hills. The gorse eventually meandered up the rocky wall to a patch of fire spurge. The weeds boasted short red stalks, their fiery blooms reminding Sidra of the anemones that flourished in the bay. She knew this plant was vengeful if picked, inflicting painful blisters on hands bold enough to harvest it.
She stood and stared up at the beautiful, monstrous weed, let out a deep breath, and began to climb with her basket and knife. But the gorse hissed and wilted at her approach, and she understood the price that was required—she would have to harvest and carry the fire spurge with her bare hands. She dropped the basket and blade, then continued her ascent.
Sidra didn’t hesitate when she reached the spurge. The moment her hand closed around the first bloom, the pain swelled within her. She cried out, but she didn’t release it. She tugged until the blossom broke free and the pain burned, bright and intense, as if she had set her hand on fire. Trembling, she took hold of another, unable to swallow her cries of agony as she harvested.
Her hands took the pain for Torin; her voice rose for his lost one.
And if she thought that she could measure the depth of her love for him before, she was mistaken.
It ran far deeper than she knew.
CHAPTER 22
When Jack arrived at the castle the following morning, harp in hand, Adaira knew he was ready to play. As she expected, they had a quick argument about the spirits.
“You think we can trust them?” Jack questioned. He sounded irritated, as if something was bothering him.
“We’ve trusted all the others,” Adaira replied, studying his frown. He looked tired, and she wondered if he had been restless last night.
“Yes, Adaira. We nearly drowned the first time, and the second? I was one breath away from being immortalized as grass.”
“None of the folk are safe,” she said, feeling her anger rise. “There is always the danger of them harming or deceiving us, although what do you expect when you dance with something wild, Jack?”
He didn’t reply, and Adaira’s temper began to wane.
“Do you really want to play for the wind, old menace? If not … I understand.”
He sagged, the fight leaving him. “Yes, of course I want to play for them.”
Then what is wrong? she wanted to ask. The words were ready on her tongue when he spoke first.
“You’re right. I’m just tired. Let’s go while we still have plenty of daylight.”
Adaira led Jack to the slopes of Tilting Thom, the highest peak on the isle. The way up was narrow and steep, but she could think of no better place for Jack to sing wholeheartedly for the wind, even with the hint of peril. He followed close behind her on the path, but she could hear his labored breaths and turned to see the fear marring his countenance, how he clung to the rock face with each step. She realized only then that he was afraid of heights.
“Is this a wise choice?” he asked, ragged. “The wind could blow us off the cliff.”
“It could,” she said. “But I have faith that it won’t.”
He scowled at her, his face alarmingly pale.
“Come,” she beckoned, and reached for his hand. “You will soon understand why I have chosen this place.”
Jack threaded his fingers with hers and let her lead him onward, but he added, “You do know, Adaira, that the air tastes different on a mountain, and it might affect my voice.”
She hadn’t thought of that, but she wouldn’t admit it now. She took a deep breath—the air was sharp and thin and cold, tasting like woodsmoke and juniper and salt from the sea. She only smiled at him, guiding him farther up the path. She had been here many times before, often alone, sometimes with Torin when she was younger.
Halfway up Tilting Thom, they arrived at the perch—a wide ledge perfect for sitting and enjoying the view. Behind it was a small cave cut into the mountain’s craggy face. The shadows gathered within it, and Jack’s fingers slipped from hers as he came to a halt close to the cave’s maw, as far away from the edge as he could manage.
But Adaira stood on the sun-warmed rock of the ledge and said to him, “Look, Jack. What do you see?”
He reluctantly joined her, standing close at her back. She felt his warmth as he shared the same view with her. Through low swaths of clouds, the isle spread before them with verdant patches of green and brown and dark pools of lochs, with silver threads of rivers and stone walls of paddocks, with clusters of cottages and woods and rocks. The sight of it never failed to humble Adaira, to stir her blood.
And then Jack realized why she wanted to summon the spirits here. “A glimpse of the west,” he said.