“I didn’t realize you knew how to cook parritch,” she said.
Torin made a motion with his hand, as if to say, What islander doesn’t know how to make parritch?
The oats smelled a bit burned, but Sidra added some cream and berries and was able to force a few spoonfuls down before Torin tasted his own cooking. His face puckered, but he scraped the bowl clean, wasting nothing.
His appetite was back. He was doing chores around the house, which he had never done before. Sidra knew he was trying to prove to her that he was better, so she would permit him to escort Adaira at noontide.
Together, they washed the bowls and the cauldron, where burnt oats were now welded to the bottom. They both dressed for the day, and Sidra asked Torin to drape and pin the plaid over her again. She read through her grandmother’s old healing account while Torin returned to the yard, determined to free the garden of weeds. He left the back door open so he could behold Sidra from time to time as he moved down the rows.
She watched him, thinking how much he had changed over the past few days.
She closed her eyes when the ache within her turned vibrant, as if she had stepped into the point of a sword.
She had given her vow to him four years ago. She had chosen to weave her future with Torin’s, because she knew life would be good with him. She would have a little companion in Maisie. She would have her own croft at last; her father and brother would no longer hover over her. She would have a cottage to conduct her profession of healing, a kail yard to grow all the things she loved. And it felt like her own place, because Torin was rarely there, which Sidra liked in the beginning.
But he would come if she needed him. All she had to do was stand in her garden and speak his name into the wind, and he would come when the whisper on the breeze found him. When he recognized her voice within it, whether the wind blew from the north, the south, the east, or the west. Sometimes it took hours for him to arrive, but he always faithfully answered her.
She remembered one particular instance. A spring evening when she had summoned him, how he had appeared only moments after she breathed his name. He had arrived with dusk-tangled hair and worried eyes, thinking something was wrong. There had been nothing amiss, only the two of them standing in a quiet cottage with elderflower wine on the table and a chemise with loose draws at Sidra’s collarbones, ready to fall.
Even then, it had not been love but something like hunger. Sidra had never hoped for the impassioned love that bards sang of, the sort that warmed blood like fire. She had always trusted Torin, even knowing who and what he was, but she had never expected him to love her as he once had loved Donella.
He and Donella had been of one mind. He and Sidra were stark opposites; he killed while she healed.
Sidra opened her eyes. They were brimming with tears, and she blinked them away, trying to set her focus on her grandmother’s words. She read one salve recipe of Senga’s, and then notes about how to cure a cough before she closed the book.
How can I heal him when I haven’t healed myself?
She needed to tell Torin how she was feeling. She needed to be honest with him, to share the most vulnerable parts of herself. But Sidra realized she was afraid.
She was afraid to be so open with him, uncertain how he would respond. Would he want to break their vows? Would he want to let her go? Would he want to continue life with her, just the two of them?
The thought of drifting away from him created such agony within her that she had no choice but to admit that she had indeed been pierced by a blade, one that made a heart wound she didn’t know how to mend.
There was a glimmer on the other side of the table. Donella materialized with her diaphanous beauty, and Sidra stiffened. The ghost had never visited her while Torin was on the grounds, and Sidra didn’t know what to think of it now. If he happened to glance into the house, would he catch a glimpse of her?
“Donella,” Sidra greeted her, speaking in a low tone so her words wouldn’t drift beyond the door.
“He is afraid, Sidra,” Donella said, and her voice was faint, as if she were about to fully fade. As if her wandering soul had found its peace at last.
“What does he fear?” Sidra thought she knew the answer, but she decided to ask it, knowing Donella had insight she didn’t.
“He is afraid of losing you, first in heart, then in body. And if you follow me to the grave, he will not be far behind you. His soul has found its counterpart in yours, and he belongs with you, even after Death’s sting.”
Sidra flushed, her blood coursing through her. She let a moment pass before she whispered, “I don’t know if he wants to stay with me. I can’t … I can’t even heal him when he needs me the most.”