Torin’s breaths quickened. He took her hand and held it to his breast, slipping her palm beneath the protective enchantment of his plaid, so she could feel the beat of his heart. She stood with him beneath the boughs, and she closed her eyes, feeling the rhythm of his life.
It began to rain. A soft whisper through the orchard.
Torin drew her hand away from his chest, but then he laced his fingers with hers, and she sensed his determination. He wanted to try this with her, just the two of them. If they needed to carve their own place together, then he would attempt it. He leaned his brow to hers, and they stood breathing the same air, the same thoughts.
He traced her jaw, the rain now shining like tears on her face.
Come home with me.
Sidra nodded.
The rain had intensified by the time Torin led her back to where his horse waited in her father’s yard. The valley roads were swollen with mud, and Torin guided them carefully across the hills, Yirr trailing behind. The afternoon was melting into evening, and the sky was still churning with the storm when they returned to their croft. They were both soaked to the bone.
Sidra stepped into the common room. She would never get over how empty it was without Maisie; it always felt the worst the moment she returned home. She cleared her throat, searching for something to do. She wondered if she should spark the fire in the hearth, or if she should change her clothes first. Before she could decide, she felt Torin’s steady gaze.
He was standing very still, his flaxen hair drenched across his brow. Sidra didn’t understand why he was so attentive until she realized he was waiting for her command.
She walked to him, afraid of the desire she felt—how sharp it was within her—until she saw it mirrored in his own face.
Sidra’s fingers drifted up to the brooch at his shoulder, unclasping it. His plaid cascaded beneath her hands, and she found the buckles on his jerkin next, unfastening them one by one. She removed his raiment—belt and weapons and tunic—all the way down to his muddy boots. And then he returned the motions, but it had been a while since he had undressed her. His eager hands tangled the laces of her bodice, and he let out a wisp of frustrated breath.
Sidra smiled, but her stomach was full of wings, as if this were their first time again.
It took her a moment to loosen the knot he’d made, and she hardly had time to lower her fingers before he pulled the dress and the chemise from her, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor beside his.
Bared to each other, Torin traced her skin, as if he was memorizing her every line and curve. When she gasped, his mouth was there to catch it, settling against hers like a seal, and he tasted of rain and salt.
He carried her to the bed.
Together, they sank into the blankets. He kissed the curve of her throat, the valleys of her collarbones. His body was warm, comforting against hers. And for once, Torin took his time. She knew he had countless important things to do, but he chose her that night.
The light was fading. Sidra drank the scent of his skin—the traces of leather and wool, the loam of the isle, the sweat from endless work, and a slight touch of the wind—and it was familiar and beloved to her, as if she had found home in the most unexpected of places.
She drew him closer, deeper. The room was dark now, but she could faintly discern his face. The wonder in his eyes. Soon, they couldn’t see at all, but they felt and they breathed and they moved as one. The eyes of their hearts were open, and they beheld each other vividly, even in the darkness.
She woke before him. She had dreamt of a strange path in the hills, one she felt compelled to find. Quietly, Sidra slipped from the bed and found clean clothes in her wardrobe. Torin had suffered another nightmare last night. She didn’t know what he was seeing while he slept, but it worried her.
She found an empty basket and her foraging knife, donned her plaid and her boots, and emerged into the front yard.
It was dawn, and the light was a milky blue.
She left the croft for the hills, setting out on a muddy path, uncertain where she was going. But she dared to stray from the road into knee-deep heather as she looked for the path in her dreams. So entirely focused on looking for Torin’s cure, she nearly missed the trail of gorse that bloomed before her, a slender thread of gold that made her stop, amazed. It reminded her of the pathways she had seen in the spirit realm, and she followed its winding route, careful not to crush the blooms beneath her feet.
It led her into a glen that she had never seen before, a shifting location in the hills. The gorse eventually meandered up the rocky wall to a patch of fire spurge. The weeds boasted short red stalks, their fiery blooms reminding Sidra of the anemones that flourished in the bay. She knew this plant was vengeful if picked, inflicting painful blisters on hands bold enough to harvest it.