She stood and stared up at the beautiful, monstrous weed, let out a deep breath, and began to climb with her basket and knife. But the gorse hissed and wilted at her approach, and she understood the price that was required—she would have to harvest and carry the fire spurge with her bare hands. She dropped the basket and blade, then continued her ascent.
Sidra didn’t hesitate when she reached the spurge. The moment her hand closed around the first bloom, the pain swelled within her. She cried out, but she didn’t release it. She tugged until the blossom broke free and the pain burned, bright and intense, as if she had set her hand on fire. Trembling, she took hold of another, unable to swallow her cries of agony as she harvested.
Her hands took the pain for Torin; her voice rose for his lost one.
And if she thought that she could measure the depth of her love for him before, she was mistaken.
It ran far deeper than she knew.
CHAPTER 22
When Jack arrived at the castle the following morning, harp in hand, Adaira knew he was ready to play. As she expected, they had a quick argument about the spirits.
“You think we can trust them?” Jack questioned. He sounded irritated, as if something was bothering him.
“We’ve trusted all the others,” Adaira replied, studying his frown. He looked tired, and she wondered if he had been restless last night.
“Yes, Adaira. We nearly drowned the first time, and the second? I was one breath away from being immortalized as grass.”
“None of the folk are safe,” she said, feeling her anger rise. “There is always the danger of them harming or deceiving us, although what do you expect when you dance with something wild, Jack?”
He didn’t reply, and Adaira’s temper began to wane.
“Do you really want to play for the wind, old menace? If not … I understand.”
He sagged, the fight leaving him. “Yes, of course I want to play for them.”
Then what is wrong? she wanted to ask. The words were ready on her tongue when he spoke first.
“You’re right. I’m just tired. Let’s go while we still have plenty of daylight.”
Adaira led Jack to the slopes of Tilting Thom, the highest peak on the isle. The way up was narrow and steep, but she could think of no better place for Jack to sing wholeheartedly for the wind, even with the hint of peril. He followed close behind her on the path, but she could hear his labored breaths and turned to see the fear marring his countenance, how he clung to the rock face with each step. She realized only then that he was afraid of heights.
“Is this a wise choice?” he asked, ragged. “The wind could blow us off the cliff.”
“It could,” she said. “But I have faith that it won’t.”
He scowled at her, his face alarmingly pale.
“Come,” she beckoned, and reached for his hand. “You will soon understand why I have chosen this place.”
Jack threaded his fingers with hers and let her lead him onward, but he added, “You do know, Adaira, that the air tastes different on a mountain, and it might affect my voice.”
She hadn’t thought of that, but she wouldn’t admit it now. She took a deep breath—the air was sharp and thin and cold, tasting like woodsmoke and juniper and salt from the sea. She only smiled at him, guiding him farther up the path. She had been here many times before, often alone, sometimes with Torin when she was younger.
Halfway up Tilting Thom, they arrived at the perch—a wide ledge perfect for sitting and enjoying the view. Behind it was a small cave cut into the mountain’s craggy face. The shadows gathered within it, and Jack’s fingers slipped from hers as he came to a halt close to the cave’s maw, as far away from the edge as he could manage.
But Adaira stood on the sun-warmed rock of the ledge and said to him, “Look, Jack. What do you see?”
He reluctantly joined her, standing close at her back. She felt his warmth as he shared the same view with her. Through low swaths of clouds, the isle spread before them with verdant patches of green and brown and dark pools of lochs, with silver threads of rivers and stone walls of paddocks, with clusters of cottages and woods and rocks. The sight of it never failed to humble Adaira, to stir her blood.
And then Jack realized why she wanted to summon the spirits here. “A glimpse of the west,” he said.
They could both see it—a fleeting view of the western half of the isle. The clouds hung low and thick over it like a shield, but a few patches of green and brown were sneaking through the weak points of gray. Adaira felt her heart skip, apprehensive as she imagined Annabel, Catriona, and Maisie in those small breaks of sunlight.