“You must heal yourself first, Sidra,” Donella said.
Sidra, wide eyed, stared at the ghost. Without another word, Donella evanesced with a sigh.
She decided she couldn’t bear to dwell on those parting words. Sidra made a second breakfast, which Torin was thankful for. They ate in the sunlight on the back stoop, watching the kittens scurry across the garden path.
“I’ll find a home for them soon,” Sidra said, ignoring the welt in her throat.
Torin touched her knee. No, they’re fine, she read in his hand, in his eyes.
She nodded, and they remained there a while longer, quiet and warmed by the sun.
When Adaira came for Torin, Sidra stood in the front yard with Yirr, watching them depart. Their entourage soon melted into the hills, pressing north, and Sidra stood like a statue until the afternoon brought an unexpected squall.
The rain dampened her dress, brought her to her senses.
She turned to go inside, but the house felt too empty without Maisie and Torin. She didn’t want to wait inside its shell; she wanted to disregard the overwhelming voice in her mind. One that was whispering for her to look inward, to acknowledge her many pieces.
To heal herself.
I’ll go to Graeme’s, she thought, shutting the door and beginning to walk the hill between their crofts, Yirr trotting dutifully behind her. Graeme would be able to distract her with his stories of the mainland.
But she stopped in the heather, her heart pounding.
This was the place where her faith had first cracked. The ground where she had been attacked and had come to know firsthand the sinister ways of the world. And she heard a beloved voice in her mind, as if it were carried on the wind. Her grandmother said, Go to the place where your faith began.
Sidra stood in the storm until the rain hid her tears, and yet she didn’t go to Graeme’s, which would have been the easiest path. She yearned for her grandmother, and she turned and walked south with Yirr, into the mist of the valley.
Adaira waited on the abandoned northern road that led into the west. The old signpost was weathered and gray but still stood, even after centuries of being forgotten. Waist-high weeds had grown up through the packed dirt, marking the clan line with thorny stems and yellow blooms.
The Aithwood surrounded them, granting Adaira only a slender view of the Breccans’ land. From where she stood, it looked the same as the east, a thick gathering of pines, junipers, oaks, and rowans, with a rug of bracken on the forest floor. She wondered what it would feel like to step foot on her enemy’s territory. If they would truly welcome her, or if Moray had been playing her for a fool.
She still had yet to hear from him, but she could only surmise that his mother had learned of the raid and read his post, coming across Adaira’s ultimatum.
It was odd, how obliging the Laird of the West was being. Innes had never been so before now. She had always permitted the raids to continue in their cycle of violence and thievery.
But what would you do if your clan was starving in winter? Adaira asked herself, her eyes fixed on the overgrown curve of western road. What would you do if your people were bloodthirsty, their children skin and bones when the ice arrived?
Adaira wasn’t sure, but she wouldn’t be stealing lasses from the clan who was feeding them.
She didn’t know what Torin would advise, but Jack had been adamant that Adaira withhold the information about the missing girls.
“If Innes knows about it,” he had said to her that morning, “then she is complicit and she isn’t an ally to us in this matter, no matter how gracious she appears today. It would be better for us to gain our confirmation another way, and to take our lasses back by surprise.”
Such as a raid.
Adaira almost laughed, envisioning Tamerlaines secretly crossing into the west, to take back what belonged to them. But it was a heady imagining, and it had haunted her sleep at night.
She felt that Jack’s advice was sound, and while she wanted to make an emotional decision about the girls, she knew she had to be patient and be wise. Above all, she didn’t want the lasses harmed or moved to a different location.
She had to maintain the appearance of ignorance.
Adaira continued to wait. They had arrived early. Jack and Torin stood close behind her on the road, and ten other guards were stationed, deep into the woods but within sight. She didn’t anticipate a skirmish, but neither had she thought a raid would happen in summer.
Sweat traced down the curve of her back. It was warm in the forest, and the wind was quiet that day.
At last, Adaira could hear the Breccans approach. Clomps of hooves and the rattle of a wagon disturbed the peace of the woods, and she flexed her hands.