“We are safe here, Frae,” Mirin said, but her voice was hoarse, and there was fear buried within it. “Don’t cry, my love. We are strong; we are brave. And this will be over soon.”
Frae wanted to believe her. But her thoughts became a roar, and all she could think was, This is just a dream. Wake up! Wake up …
The back door blew open.
The Breccan warriors spilled into the house like a flood, their blue plaids the color of the sky just before dawn. Frae clung to Mirin and watched as they searched the house. They took note of Frae and her mother in the corner, the sword in Mirin’s hands, but the Breccans didn’t approach them.
Frae recognized Captain Torin stepping into the house, blood streaming down his face. One of the Breccans held a dirk to his throat.
This was bad. This was very bad, Frae thought, and she whimpered and buried her face in Mirin’s hair.
It suddenly grew quiet and still in the house, as if ice had formed. Frae lifted her head to see what had inspired this strange reverence.
A tall man stood in the chamber. He was dressed like the other Breccans, but there was something different about him. His face was softer, kinder. His hair was red like fire. Like copper. Like her own, Frae realized, and grabbed the end of her braid. His hands were bound behind him, and Frae wondered what he had done to become a prisoner of his own kind.
The man stared at Mirin, anguished.
Frae could hear her mother’s breath catch. The sword clattered from her hands, and Frae tugged on Mirin’s chemise, thinking she shouldn’t have dropped it.
“Mum!” Frae whispered, tremulous.
But she sensed her mother was far away as she stared at the Breccan and the Breccan stared at her.
“Mirin,” the man said. Her name was sweet in his voice, as if he had spoken it many times before, as a whisper, as a prayer. “Mirin.”
Frae was astounded. Her mother knew him?
Frae felt his gaze shift to her, and she couldn’t fight the draw of his stare. He looked different in the firelight, but she recognized him with a gasp. He had stood in the yard weeks ago. It had been him she had seen, the man who had visited the garden with his horse, staring at the cottage by starlight.
He began to weep as he looked at Frae. Deep, broken sounds emerged from him. They made Frae’s tears surge again, and she didn’t know why it felt like someone had punched her.
“You’ve looked upon them both,” a Breccan with a scar on his face said to the red-haired man, “as per our agreement. And the legends will remember you not as a keeper, not as a man of valor and strength, but as a fool. They will call you traitor to your clan, Niall Breccan. Oath breaker.” He motioned to the men gathered around him. “Now take him back and lock him in the keep.”
Three Breccan warriors surrounded the weeping man. They drew him away, and before Frae could wipe the blurriness from her eyes, he was gone, dragged from the house.
Gone, as if he had never been.
Mirin flinched, as though she wanted to follow him. She began to lean forward, her hands reaching outward, her breaths turning fast and shallow. Frae’s terror swarmed. She clung to her mother’s arm, holding her back.
The Breccan with the scar on his face began to walk around the chamber. He studied Mirin’s loom, running his grimy fingers over it. He studied the dried wildflower chain hanging from the hearth. His eyes then settled on Mirin and Frae, and he smiled. “This house will do just fine for the exchange. The winds work here as they do in the west, don’t they? Tell the captain to summon Cora. Or should I call her Adaira for now?”
Torin was hauled up to his feet and dragged out the front door into the garden.
Frae hunched in her corner, holding tightly to Mirin as she cried. She was frightened until she thought of Adaira, and she wiped away her tears and her runny nose. She had heard the mean Breccan’s story yesterday, when he had been bound to the chair. She had heard every word, even though she struggled to fully understand what it meant.
But there was one thing that Frae did know, and it settled over her like a warm plaid.
Adaira would come. Adaira would save them.
Torin stood in Mirin’s garden, a blade shining at his throat.
“Summon her,” the Breccan ordered.
Torin couldn’t form a coherent thought. Blood continued to drip from his beard, and he felt dazed. They had arrived so swiftly by river. The Breccans had overcome him and his guards with hardly any effort. And even though he had been prepared for the worst—for the Breccans to descend in their customary way—Torin had been bested.
The defeat spread through him like a disease, softening him from the inside out. He could hardly stand upright.
“Summon her,” the Breccan said again, shifting the dirk so Torin could feel its sting against his neck.
Torin gazed at the stars. When he felt the wind pass by, he spoke her name, and he put the last of his hope into the sound.
“Adaira.”
Adaira stirred, uncertain what had woken her. Jack lay close, his breaths deep with dreams, his arm draped across her waist. She listened to the crackling silence and watched the curtains billow in the slight breeze. The night felt serene, and she languidly shifted, her legs sliding along Jack’s.
Her eyes were closing when she heard it again. Torin’s voice, calling for her.
Adaira stiffened.
She knew Torin was stationed at the river. If he was summoning her, then the Breccans must have come in the night, disregarding the agreement she had with Innes. Which meant they had arrived with vengeance.
“Jack,” Adaira said, sitting up. His arm was heavy; his hand glided across her stomach. “Jack, wake up.”
He groaned. “Adaira?”
“Torin’s summoning me.”
Jack went still, listening as the wind carried Torin’s voice a third and final time.
“Is he on my mother’s lands?” he asked.
“Yes,” Adaira said. “We need to ride there immediately.”
Jack launched himself from the bed, scrambling in the dark to find his trail of clothes on the floor. Adaira rushed to light a candle and opened her wardrobe. She decided to dress for potential battle and grabbed a woolen tunic, a leather jerkin studded with metal, and an enchanted plaid woven of brown and red. She had a moment of grief as she pinned the plaid at her shoulder. It might be the last time she wore these colors, and she swallowed the lump in her throat as she hastened to tether her boots up to her knees.
“Were there guards at my door when you arrived?” she asked, glancing across the room at Jack as he also finished dressing.
Jack met her gaze. “Yes.”
“They might not let me leave.”
“You’re serious?” Jack sounded angry. “Even under Torin’s orders?”
Adaira nodded, motioning for Jack to align himself with the wall, out of sight. He did so, and Adaira steeled herself as she unbolted and cracked open her door.
One of the guards turned to look at her.
“Will you stand aside and let me pass?” Adaira asked.
“We have orders to ensure you stay in your chamber until further notice,” he said.
“Is this my cousin’s order?”
The guard was silent, choosing not to answer her. Adaira knew Torin would never lock her in her room and offered the guard a watery smile. They had lost faith in her, and she tried to ease the pain of this revelation as she shut the door.