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?”