“Yes, yes, you’ve seen with your eyes,” Graeme interrupted. “But there are other sights, Torin. There are other ways to know this isle and the secrets of the folk.”
Torin was silent. He could feel a flush creeping over his face; his breath hissed through his teeth. “How, then, shall I open my eyes? Since I doubt an invitation would be extended to me.”
Graeme said nothing, but he started to search through a pile of old books. Eventually he found one and set it into Torin’s palm.
Torin was inwardly hoping it held a map of some sort. A chart of fault lines and hidden doors in the east. He was vastly disappointed. The book was handwritten and incomplete, half of it missing, and its pages were worn and crinkled, some peppered by ash stains, some smudged by water, as if it had passed through many hands.
He struggled to read one of the pages, but his irritation waned when he recognized a name. Lady Whin of the Wildflowers. He was tempted to reach for the wooden figurine, still hiding in his pocket, as he read about the earth spirit.
Lady Whin of the Wildflowers was never one to boast But when Rime of the Moors woke late from winter’s chill She challenged him outrightly for the strath by the coast And Rime, steady and proud, deemed her words fair Thinking he could beat her with the last moon of Yore When the heart of the cold beat bright in the air
“These are nursery stories,” Torin said, turning the page only to find it smudged, but he was confident Whin had outwitted Rime. “Where’s the other half of the book?”
“Missing,” Graeme said, pouring himself a cup of tea.
“You have no idea where it is?”
“If I did, don’t you think I would have recovered it, son?” Graeme added a hearty splash of milk into his tea, meeting Torin’s gaze over the rim of the cup as he sipped. “Take it, Torin. Read it. Perhaps the answer you need rests within those pages. But I expect you to return this book to me in a timely manner. That is, unless Sidra and Maisie want it. Then they can keep it.”
Torin arched his brow, only mildly offended. He noticed the slant of sunlight on the floor, realizing he had stayed much longer than he had intended.
“Sidra and Maisie thank you for the book then.” He lifted it as a toast, despite the fact that this visit had been a waste of his time. As he wound his way back through the clutter, Torin was surprised that Graeme accompanied him to the door.
“It once belonged to Joan Tamerlaine,” said Graeme. “It was written before the clan line was formed.”
Torin paused at the gate, frowning. “What are you talking about?”
“The book in your hand, son.”
Torin glanced down at it again. “This was Joan’s?”
“Aye. And it’s in the west.”
“What is?”
“The other half of the book.” His father shut the door without another word.
Jack sat at his desk that night, studying Lorna’s ballad by firelight. He had come to know her notes well. They hummed in his thoughts, eager to be played, and he was just about to extinguish his candle when his shutters rattled.
He froze.
He had no blade to defend himself. His eyes darted around the room, landing on his old slingshot. He rose and grabbed it, although he had no river rocks to shoot, and he pushed open the shutters with a burst of anger.
There was a caw, a flap of dark wings.
Jack’s breath loosened when he realized it had only been a raven. The bird retreated before circling back, then landed on his desk with an indignant screech.
“What do you want?” he asked, noticing the roll of parchment that was fastened to its leg. He gently unraveled it, but the bird continued to wait, and Jack read:
Forgive me for missing our meeting today. As you might imagine, I was swept away by Catriona’s disappearance. But I still desire to speak with you, my old menace. Let me come to you this time. Tomorrow evening at Mirin’s, before you play for the spirits.
There was no signature, but only one person called him “old menace.” Adaira must be expecting a reply, because her raven still waited, watching him with beady eyes.
Jack sat at his desk and wrote:
Your apology is accepted, heiress. My sister will be thrilled to see you tomorrow. My mother will insist on feeding you. Come hungry.
He began to sign his name but thought better of it. With a wry tilt on his lips, he wrote:
—Your one and only O.M.
He rolled it up and bound the parchment with twine to the raven’s leg. The bird took flight with a flap of dark blue wings.
Jack dreamt of the spirits of the sea that night. He dreamt of opening his mouth to sing for them and drowning instead.