“I thought I’d sup with you and Maisie,” he said, his voice lowering. “And I have a visitor with me.”
“A visitor?” Sidra dropped her spoon, intrigued. If she had been listening to the wind that morning, she might have heard the gossip it bore over the fells. But she had been preoccupied with the ghost of Torin’s first love.
She walked around the table, the draft stirring her unbound hair, and only stopped when a young man entered the cottage, his shoulders hunched in apparent discomfort. He held something in his arms; it looked like an instrument hiding in an oilskin sleeve, and Sidra’s heart leapt in joy until she noticed how disheveled he was. He had Torin’s plaid draped across his shoulders, but his garments beneath were plain and hung from him like an ill-fated fortune. He cast a long shadow, one made of worry and resentment.
But these were the moments Sidra lived for. To aid and heal and unravel mysteries.
“I know you,” she breathed with a smile. “You’re Mirin’s son.”
The stranger blinked and straightened, astonished she had recognized him.
“Jack Tamerlaine,” Sidra continued, recalling his name. “I’m not certain if you remember me, but years ago, you and your mum visited my family’s croft in the Vale of Stonehaven, to purchase wool. My cat had gotten herself stuck in the old elm tree in our kail yard, and you were kind enough to climb up after her and bring her safely down to me.”
Jack still appeared bewildered, but then the lines marring his face eased and a hint of a smile played on his lips. “I do remember. Your cat nearly scratched my eyes out.”
Sidra laughed, and the room instantly brightened. “Aye, she was a cranky old tabby. But I did care for your scratches afterward, and it seems I did a fair job at it.”
The chamber fell silent. Sidra was still smiling, and she felt Torin’s gaze. She turned her attention to him only to see he was regarding her with pride, and it surprised her. Torin never seemed to pay any heed to her skills of healing. That was her work, as the East Guard was his, and they kept those pieces of themselves separate. Save for those rare moments when Torin needed stitches or to have his nose reset. Then he submitted, albeit begrudgingly, to her hands and care.
“Come inside, Jack,” Sidra invited, seeking to make Jack feel welcome, and Torin shut the front door. “I’ll have breakfast on the table in a moment, but in the meantime … Torin, why don’t you find Jack something to wear?”
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.”