Torin, twenty and besotted, hadn’t cared for Graeme’s advice. He and Donella did what they wanted, and it had indeed caused a stir in the clan. It had almost ruined Torin’s chances of being promoted to captain.
After Donella perished, Torin’s days had become bleak, like a winter that never seemed to end. Maisie had been a baby, squalling in his arms, and Torin had finally carried his daughter to Graeme, desperate.
Help me, Da. What am I supposed to do? She does nothing but cry. I don’t know what to do.
The words had poured out of Torin’s mouth, and he had wept, finally, like he had broken a dam. He hadn’t wept when Donella bled to death after the birthing. He hadn’t wept when he watched her shrouded body find its final rest in her grave. He hadn’t wept when he held Maisie for the first time. But all the tears had broken free the moment he set his daughter into his father’s arms and confessed his ineptitude.
How had this happened to him? Donella was gone, he had a child and no inkling how to raise her, and he was alone. This was not the path he had ever envisioned for himself.
Graeme had held Maisie, just as shocked by Torin’s weeping as Torin was himself. Bleary and heartsick, Torin had sat in his father’s chair in the common room. Graeme had then said words he didn’t want to hear, words that made him rigid.
Your daughter needs a tender hand, Torin. Find her a mother. A woman of the isle who can help you.
Find her. As if she grew on a tree. As if she were fruit to be picked.
With Donella buried and dead only three months.
Furious, Torin had snatched Maisie from Graeme’s arms and departed, vowing he would never return to his father for help.
That evening a raven had brought a note to Torin’s door. He knew it was his father’s doing; Graeme had refused to leave his croft ever since Torin’s mother abandoned them.
Warm the goat milk. Test it on your wrist to ensure it’s not too hot before you feed it to her. Walk and sing to her when she cries. Make sure she sleeps on her back at night.
Torin had ripped Graeme’s note to pieces and burned it in the hearth. But he did as his father had instructed. Slowly, Maisie cried less, but she still was far more life than Torin could handle. And then, a few months later, he had met Sidra in the valley.
He ascended the hill now, desperate once more. He made it to the crest, reaching his father’s kail yard. It was overcome with weeds, even though Sidra came once a week to tend to Graeme’s garden. Torin noticed the roof needed mending, the shutters hung crookedly, there was a bird’s nest in one of the eaves, and the rain barrel looked foggy. All seemed broken and disheveled—that is, until Torin approached his father’s door.
Then the weeds retreated with a whisper, exposing the stone pathway. The despondent vines that grew up the side of the house turned into honeysuckle climbing a trellis. Wildflowers bloomed amid the kail and herbs. The gossamer melted away, and the shutters were straight and recently painted.
Watching the cottage and yard change with his presence gave Torin pause. He was humbled, thinking of all the times he had judged the croft and his father’s past decisions from the road. The disrepair, the messiness. Why couldn’t his father take care of things? And yet all along it was beautiful and orderly; Torin had simply been unable to see it.
He wondered if Sidra saw past the glamour, and when he noticed how tidy the rows of vegetables were, he knew she did. She had probably seen the heart of this place from the beginning.
The folk of the earth guarding this yard must be very shrewd.
“Sidra? Sidra, is that you again?” Graeme called from within before Torin had even knocked. The yard must have given his presence away. “Tell Maisie I have her ship ready. Come inside, come inside! I was just about to make some oatcakes …”
Torin let himself in. The common room was messy, and this time it was not glamoured. His father had an overwhelming collection of things. There were piles of books, heaps of loose papers, waterlogged scrolls from another era set in haphazard stacks. Five pairs of fancy mainland boots with laces, hardly worn, and a jacket the color of fire, lined with plaid. Jars of golden pins, a jewelry box that held his mother’s abandoned pearls. A map of the realm pegged on the floor, because the walls were already crowded with drawings and musty tapestries and a chart of the northern constellations. All were possessions from Graeme’s former life, when he had been the ambassador to the mainland.
Torin wound through the maze, coming to the large table by the hearth, where Graeme sat waiting. In his hands was a clear bottle, holding an intricate little ship.