“This blade is enchanted,” he stated. “What with?”
Mirin tilted her head. “I don’t know. Your father never told me, and I have never properly used it.”
His father. This was the first time Mirin had spoken that word in so many breaths, and Jack didn’t know what to make of it. Was it her way of inviting him to ask the questions he had been burying for years?
Jack slid the blade back into its scabbard. “Mum …” He lost his courage. He struggled to speak the words, and he glanced at Mirin. “Did my father … did he hurt you? Is that why you sent me away to the mainland? So you wouldn’t have to be reminded of him when you looked at me?”
Mirin reached across the distance and took his hand. Her affection was a shock to him at first. “No, Jack. You and Frae were both made in love.” She paused, and Jack could hear her breaths, rasping as her cough flared. “I loved your father, as he did me.”
Loved. She cast the word in the past, and Jack wouldn’t press her for more answers. Not as he once would have done before, bitter and impatient and angry. He gently squeezed her fingers, and Mirin smiled at him, a sad but honest smile, before her hand slipped away from his.
“You’re busy working, I see,” she said in a lighter tone, indicating the ink stains on his fingers.
“Yes. A new ballad.”
“I can’t wait to hear it then,” Mirin said, stepping away. “Don’t let me keep you any longer from your music.”
Jack wanted to say that she wasn’t keeping him from anything. That he would like for her to stay and talk with him a while longer. To make up for all the years lost to them.
But he also sensed the worry in his mother. She was anxious, although she was too proud to admit it.
She slipped from the room, latching the door behind her. Jack stood frozen, studying the dirk.
He knew that he would never ask his mother again about the name of his father, but there was now another way for him to learn the truth.
It was resting in his hands, a blade created from steel and enchantment.
CHAPTER 20
Sidra woke to an empty bed. She lingered in the blankets for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dawn. She slid her hand to Torin’s side of the mattress and found it cold, as if he had been gone for a while.
Her heart was heavy as she rose. She was surprised to find a fire burning in the hearth, a cauldron of parritch cooking, and the tea kettle simmering. But there was no sign of Torin in the cottage, and Sidra frowned as she peeked out the front shutters. The yard was empty, save for the plants, dancing to the morning breeze.
She went to the back door and cracked it open.
He was there, kneeling in the garden. Sidra watched for a moment, startled as she realized Torin held a kitten in one hand while he weeded with the other. He was uprooting all the wild things she had let grow in her herbs and vegetables, setting them aside in a pile. She glanced down when she felt something claw at her stocking. The other cats had gathered on the stoop, where he had set out a bowl of milk for them.
She didn’t know what to think, but she was smiling when she looked at Torin again.
He hadn’t heard the door open, and he steadily continued to work, eventually setting the kitten down so he could gather up all the weeds. He stood and walked to the edge of the garden, where he tossed the weeds over the stone wall. Sidra was amused by that—she always took the weeds to a pile down the hill—and stepped out to greet him.
Torin saw her as he returned. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, as if he were embarrassed to be caught gardening.
“You’re up early,” Sidra remarked, hoping to hear his voice.
He only lifted his dirt-steaked hand, and she noticed the wound on his forearm was still weeping. Her mood instantly fell, and she beckoned him inside.
Torin washed his hands before sitting at the table, enduring her ministrations. She saw that the wound on his shoulder had closed up overnight, leaving behind a cold, gleaming scar. The cut of fear. But the wound that had stolen his voice and words still festered, and Sidra swallowed as she applied a new salve and rebandaged it.
“Perhaps I should find another healer to tend to you,” she said, gathering the soiled linens.
Torin was quick to stop her, grasping her chemise. He shook his head, adamant. His faith in her was absolute, as if it had never crossed his mind that she might be unable to restore his voice. To distract her from her statement, he rose and served the parritch.
Sidra sat when he motioned her to, and she let him fill her bowl with clumpy oats.