As soon as the meal was over, Torin rose.
“Come, Jack,” he said. “I’m heading to the city and can walk you there. Best to see the laird first and then your mum, before the wind carries any further gossip about you.”
Jack nodded.
Maisie began her chore of carrying cutlery and cups to the wash barrel, and Sidra followed the men to the threshold. Jack walked the path through the kail yard, down to the road, but Torin lingered.
“I hope four of those kittens have found their new homes by the time I return,” he said, partly teasing.
Sidra leaned on the doorframe, the wind tangling her dark hair. “They’re too young to be separated from their mother.”
“How much longer then?”
“Another month, at least.” She crossed her arms and met his steady gaze with one of her own. She was testing him, of course. To see when she could next expect him to come to her. To see how much time she had to prepare her argument for keeping Maisie home.
“That’s a long time,” he stated.
“Not really.”
But he looked at her as if it were. “Perhaps you and Maisie can begin to find people who want the kittens.”
“Of course,” said Sidra with a smile. “We will make the most of our time.”
Torin’s gaze dropped to her mouth, to that wry tilt of her lips. But he turned without another word, walking the path between the herbs only to pause at the gate, running his hand through his hair. And while he didn’t glance back at her, Sidra knew.
He would return to her long before a month had passed.
Jack remembered the way to the city of Sloane, even after ten years of absence, but he politely waited for Torin to join him on the road, his stallion clomping behind him. The two men walked in companionable silence, Jack uncomfortable with the way Torin’s garments swallowed him. Inwardly, he grumbled, but he also was grateful. The raiment was resilient against the wind, which was blowing from the east, dry and cold and full of whispers. Jack closed his ears to the gossip, but once or twice he imagined he heard The wayward bard is here.
Soon, everyone would know he was back on the isle. Including his mother. And that was one reunion Jack was dreading.
“How long do you plan to stay?” Torin asked, glancing sidelong at him.
“For the summer,” Jack replied, kicking a pebble from the road. Although he honestly wasn’t sure how long he would be forced to be here. Torin had mentioned that two girls had vanished in the past fortnight, and Jack still didn’t see how he was needed for something like that, as terrible as it was. Unless Laird Alastair wanted Jack to play his harp for the clan as a way to mourn the losses, but Torin said he still had faith the girls would be found whenever the spirits ceased their mischief and surrendered them back to the mortal realm.
Whatever the laird needed him for, Jack would do it quickly and then return to the university, where he belonged.
“You have responsibilities on the mainland?” Torin queried, as if sensing Jack’s thoughts.
“I do. I’m in the midst of my teaching assistance and hope to become professor within the next five years.” That is, if this time away on Cadence didn’t ruin his chances. Jack had worked long and hard to be in the position he held, teaching up to one hundred students a week and grading their compositions. Unexpectedly taking a term off would now open the door for another assistant to steal his classes and possibly replace him.
The mere thought made his stomach churn.
They passed the croft of Torin’s father, Graeme Tamerlaine, the laird’s brother. Jack noticed the kail yard was beset with brambles and the cottage looked dismal. The front door was framed with gossamer. Vines snaked across the stone walls, and Jack wondered if Torin’s father still lived there, or if he had passed away. And then he remembered that Graeme Tamerlaine had become a recluse in his old age and rarely left his croft. Not even for feast days in the castle hall, when all of Eastern Cadence gathered to celebrate.
“Your father …？” Jack asked, uncertain.
“Is quite well,” Torin said, but his voice was firm, as if he didn’t want to speak of his father. As if the dilapidation of Graeme Tamerlaine’s croft was the norm.
They walked onward as the road rose and fell with the lay of the hills, which were green from spring storms. Foxglove grew wild in the sun, dancing with the wind, and starlings soared and trilled against a low swath of clouds. In the distance, the morning fog began to burn away, revealing a glimpse of the ocean, endlessly blue and sparkling with light.