She closed her eyes beneath his caress. When his hand eased away, she looked at him and whispered, “Does that mean we cannot exist as one?”
He had been waiting for her to ask this. He had yearned to answer her in the orchard, when she had made it evident that they were vastly contrasting souls.
“No,” Torin said. “It means that without you, I am nothing.”
He felt her shiver. His hands were on her hips, and he was tempted to draw her closer. But there was still more he needed to say.
“You said to me that you felt like you had failed me and Maisie.” He paused, his throat suddenly narrow. “You have never failed me, or our daughter. I know life feels different now, but you are free to choose what you want. If you desire to go your own way, then I will see our vows broken and I will let you go. But if there is a place for me within your heart … will you stay?”
Sidra framed his face. Her eyes were like dew, and her voice as warm as a summer night, when she whispered, “Yes.”
Torin took her hands and kissed the blisters on her palms. To see the agony she had taken for him made him ache, deep in his soul.
They came together just as dawn began to illuminate the windows. Torin held Sidra in the lavender light, his hands spread across the curve of her back. His fingers traced the eaves of her shoulders.
He couldn’t describe what he felt for her, but it possessed the power to sunder his bones. To lay him open and vulnerable. There were still corners of himself that Torin was ashamed of. He was afraid to fully let her in, to let her see him at his worst, to let her touch the bloodstained palms in his dreams. But then he opened his eyes and beheld her, joined to him. To his present. To his pain and his past. Weaving her fate with his, willingly.
“Torin,” she breathed. Her black hair spilled across her shoulders as she moved.
“Sidra,” he whispered.
No sound had ever been sweeter to him.
Jack was worried that if he didn’t speak to Mirin that day, Adaira would. He woke up with a headache, but the worst of his pain had subsided. He washed the grime from his eyes and dressed. His plaid was wrinkled from the disaster on the summit. A hole had emerged in the wool, as if the secret tucked within the pattern was quickly rising to the surface, and the sight of it stirred Jack’s apprehension. He draped the plaid across himself, choosing to display its disrepair. His mother would see it and know why he needed to speak with her.
He packed up his warped harp and carried it on his back. He didn’t know what to do with the instrument, but he didn’t want it lying around his chambers as a visible reminder of Bane’s power. He found comfort in feeling the harp’s familiar weight; the instrument, though damaged, still felt like a shield, and he was now ready for whatever the day might bring.
Jack found Adaira in the library, sitting at her father’s desk. Books and papers were spread before her, as was a collection of broken quills. Her father’s signet ring flashed on her hand. Jack had noticed the first time she wore it, because Adaira rarely wore jewelry. Her hands were often bare, and only the half coin that connected her to him typically hung from her neck.
She looked as though she hadn’t slept, and he paused, uncertain what to say. He had stayed in his castle chambers the past two nights, not only because Sidra had ordered him to do so, but also so that he could remain close to Adaira. He had sent a guard to remain with Mirin and Frae in his stead, unwilling to take any chances.
“You look better today,” Adaira said, her eyes quickly looking him over. “Are you going to speak with Mirin?”
Jack nodded. He could see her desire to bring the girls home simmering in her mind. She had delayed the trade with Innes because of her father’s death, but the exchange was supposed to happen on the morrow. They might have the Orenna and know the location of the girls by the next evening.
Everything was coming together at last, and yet Jack had never felt such heavy misgivings.
“I’ll send for you when I’m finished,” he said.
“Good. Thank you,” Adaira said, before returning her attention to the papers.
Jack watched her for a beat longer. She had scarcely spoken to him since her father died. He had wanted to play a lament in the hall after the burial, to comfort her and the clan, but found he was too light-headed to do it. He had wanted to go to Adaira in her chambers at night, to be with her in her grief, but discovered he was too anxious to approach without her invitation.
And so he had done nothing but lie in his bed, forcing down Sidra’s tonics in hopes that they would restore him.
Realizing that Adaira was preoccupied with her task, Jack turned and departed. He went to the stables, requested the gentlest horse available, and then rode a slow, plodding gelding to his mother’s land.
Mirin greeted him at the door, as if she had known he was coming.
“We don’t need a guard here at night, Jack,” she said. “Although I appreciate the thought.”
Jack dismounted and walked into the kail yard. He didn’t want to have this conversation. This was his last true moment of ignorance. After this hour had shed its minutes, he would know the truth about his blood and what his mother had done, and it would change him.
“I need to have a serious conversation with you, Mum,” he said.
A frown crossed Mirin’s brow when she noticed the disrepair of his plaid, the garment she had fortified with a secret only she knew. Her gaze shifted to his face next, and she seemed to finally see him, how battle-weary he appeared. She saw the silver that now graced his hair, as if he had been touched by death’s finger.
“Jack!” Frae cried, slipping past their mother to embrace him in the yard. “I thought you’d never come home.”
“I had things to do in Sloane, but I should be back for a little while. Here, let me ask you something, Frae.” He crouched down to meet her gaze, noticing how much his knees hurt with the action. “I need to talk privately to Mum. Do you think you can stay in the yard for a little while?”
Frae’s eyes widened. She sensed the tension, glancing from him to Mirin.
Their mother gave her a nod of permission, and Frae offered Jack a small smile.
“All right,” she said, holding up her slingshot. “But afterward, can you practice with me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come find you when I’m done. Please don’t leave the yard.”
Frae skipped off toward the byre, where the cows were eating their hay. Jack straightened, waiting for Mirin to invite him in.
She did, but her face was pale.
It felt like he hadn’t been home in ages. The first thing he did was begin to close all of the shutters.
“Leave one open so I can see Frae,” Mirin said sharply.
Jack glanced at his mother. “This is not a conversation you want to ride the wind. Or for Frae to overhear.”
Mirin gripped the front of her dress. “What is this about, Jack?”
He latched the final shutter, motioning for Mirin to sit on the divan. She did so, albeit reluctantly, and he took the chair across from her, setting the harp on the floor. He listened to the rasp of her inhalations. How they caught on the web of secrets she held.
He was staring at her when he asked, “Is there a chance my father has taken the Tamerlaine lasses?”
Mirin froze. But her eyes widened as they met Jack’s. He saw the shock in her; she had never entertained this thought. “Your father? No, Jack.” But her voice softened, as if she was beginning to see what he did. “No, that cannot … he would not …”