Jack stifled a groan. He didn’t want to talk about this, and he raked his hand through his hair. “Yes. What of it, Adaira?”
She was quiet, studying his face as if she had never seen him before. “Do you truly believe such words? Do you wholeheartedly claim the mainland as your home?”
“I had no choice but to make it my home,” he said. “You know this as well as all the others in the clan. My nameless father never claimed me. And I wanted, more than anything, to belong somewhere.”
“Did it ever cross your mind that we were waiting for you to return, Jack? Did you ever think of us, and that maybe we longed for you to come back and fill the hall with music again?”
Her words stirred his blood, and that frightened him. He scowled, felt the coldness creep across his face as he regarded her.
“No. I never once thought that. I believed the clan was glad to be rid of me.”
“Then we have failed you,” Adaira said. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
Jack shifted his weight. A question was nipping at his thoughts. He didn’t want to voice it, but holding it in soon felt unbearable. He asked, “Do you know why your parents sent me to the mainland? Out of all the other children to give this chance to … why me?”
“I do. Don’t you realize I know all the secrets of the east?”
Jack waited. He didn’t want to beg, but Adaira was letting this silence draw out far too long for his liking. “Why then, heiress?”
“I can tell you, Jack. But I will have to take you back in time to do so,” she said, tucking strands of hair behind her ear.
Again, she was quiet, watching his impatience rise.
“Then take me back,” he requested, tersely.
“I’m sure you remember that night,” she began. “The night you and I clashed at a particular thistle patch. The night you chased me across the hills.”
“The night you shoved a handful of thistles into my face,” he corrected dryly. Of course, they would see this story from different perspectives. But standing so close to Adaira now, breathing in the waning light of a summer evening and listening to the isle’s wind howl beyond the door … he remembered that night vividly.
Jack had been ten, eager to prove himself worthy of the East Guard. The moon thistle challenge was held every three years, to determine which aspiring recruits knew the lay of the isle, as well as the danger of magical plants.
He had taken the time to scout the hills the day before, to find the perfect patch of moon thistles. And when Torin had blown the horn at midnight, commencing the challenge, Jack had dashed to his secret patch, only to discover that Adaira had beaten him to it. She had harvested nearly all of the thistles and when she broke into a run, he had chased her, thinking they could split them. Instead, Adaira had turned around and shoved the thistles into his face.
The pain had been unbearable. Like fire, trapped beneath his skin. Jack had instantly floundered in the grass, wailing until Torin found him and dragged him home to Mirin. But the worst had yet to come. Moon thistles were enchanted plants. A prick from their needles promised a nightmare later, in sleep. Jack had suffered through thirteen terrible nights after Mirin had drawn all the spindles from his swollen face.
A hint of a smile played over Adaira’s countenance. Jack watched the corners of her lips curve.
“I still remember those nightmares you gave me, heiress,” he said.
“And you think you were the only one bewitched by moon thistles, my old menace?” she countered. “This is the other side of the story you have yet to learn: I ran home, because you gave me no other choice. You ruined my chances of joining the guard. And when I arrived at my bedchamber, I realized my palms gleamed with thistle needles.” Adaira held up her hands, studying them as if she still felt the sting. “So many I couldn’t count them all, nor could I extract them myself. I went to my mum, because she often remained awake, late into the night. When I showed her my palms, my mum asked me, ‘Who did this to you, Adi?’ And I told her, ‘The lad called Jack.’
“She began to remove them, needle by needle, and she said, ‘You mean the lad who becomes quiet when my music floods the hall.’ I didn’t understand what she meant by that. But on the next full moon feast, I watched you when my mum sat on the dais and began to play her harp. I watched you, but I didn’t see anything remarkable within you. Because you were not the only one who became quiet when she played. You were not the only one who hungered for her songs. All of us did. And yet she saw the flame within you. A light she had been waiting for. She knew what you would become before you did.