“Maisie. That’s my daddie and that’s Sidra.”
Sidra felt Jack look at her. “Sidra,” not “Mum” or “Mummy.” But she had never made any pretense to Maisie of being her mother, no matter how young and tender the girl was. That had been part of Sidra’s bargain with Torin: she would raise Maisie and love her wholeheartedly, but she would not lie and pretend she was the girl’s blood mother.
Every spring, Sidra would take Maisie and a handful of flowers to Donella’s grave, and she would tell the lass about her mother, who had been lovely and brave and gifted with the sword. Even though it sometimes left a lump in Sidra’s throat, she would tell Maisie the story of how her father and mother had trained and sparred on the castle grounds, first as rivals but later as friends and then lovers.
“And how did you meet Daddie?” Maisie would always ask, savoring the stories.
Sometimes Sidra would tell her, sitting in the sunshine and long grass, and sometimes she would save that particular saga, which was not nearly as dashing as the ballad of Torin and Donella.
But that was a story for another day.
“What’s that?” Maisie asked, pointing to Jack’s instrument.
“A harp.”
Sidra realized that Jack was favoring his left hand. “Are you wounded, Jack?”
“It’s nothing,” Jack replied, just as Torin said, “Yes. Can you tend to him, Sid?”
“Of course,” Sidra said, reaching for her basket of healing supplies.
“Maisie, why don’t you show your father the kittens?” Maisie was delighted. She took hold of Torin’s hand and tugged him out the back door. With their departure, the house was quiet again. Sidra approached Jack with her basket of salves and linen.
“May I tend to your hand?”
Jack turned his palm skyward. “Yes. Thank you.”
She drew her chair close to his and began her ministrations. Gently, she washed away the sand and dirt and was just beginning to fill the cut with her healing salve when Jack spoke.
“How long have you and Torin been together?”
“Almost four years now,” Sidra replied. “I married him when Maisie was just a year old.” She began to wrap his hand with linen, and she could sense the queries rising in him. He was a wanderer who had just returned home, struggling to arrange the pieces of the isle together. Sidra continued, for his sake, “Torin was first married to Donella Reid. She was a fellow member of the guard. She passed away after Maisie’s delivery.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes. It was a difficult loss.” Sidra envisioned Donella and realized Jack was sitting in the ghost’s chair, the sunshine pouring in from the window on the far wall. Before, the light had shone through Donella’s visage, but it gilded Jack now. He looked just like Mirin, Sidra thought. Which meant he must not favor his mysterious father at all. A father the gossips were still hungry to speculate about.
“There,” Sidra said, finishing her care. “I’m going to send you off with this bottle of salve and honey. You should dress your wound morning and night for three days.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, accepting the offering. “How can I repay you for your kindness?”
Sidra smiled. “I think a song would suffice, once your hand has recovered. Maisie would love to hear your music. It’s been a long time since we have enjoyed such a luxury.”
Jack nodded, carefully flexing his fingers. “I would be honored.”
The back door swung open, and the windstorm that was Maisie and Torin returned. Sidra noticed that Torin had a few fresh scratches on his knuckles, from the kittens, no doubt, and a peevish gleam in his eyes. Also from the kittens.
“Let’s eat,” he said gruffly, as if he were in a hurry.
Sidra sat, and they began to pass dishes around the table. She observed that Jack ate very little, that his hands shook, that his eyes were bloodshot. She listened as Torin spoke of the isle and realized that Jack didn’t know any of the current news. He meekly asked about Laird Alastair, about the crops and the guard and the tension with the west.
“I often worry about my mum, living so close to the clan line alone,” he said. “It’s good to hear things have been peaceful here.”
Sidra paused, but she met Torin’s gaze. Does Jack not know …？ She was opening her mouth to say it, but Torin cleared his throat and changed the subject. Sidra relented, realizing if Jack didn’t know, it wasn’t her place to inform him, even though she now worried about him finding out later.