She spoke of people like his mum. Like Una.
Jack was quiet, but he dreamt of the same things. He had always hated the way his mother sacrificed her health to make those uncanny plaids. One day she would push herself too far, too hard, and the cough she tried to hide would morph into a claw, ripping her up from within.
Furthermore, if a trade could be established between the two clans, then Jack would no longer have to worry about his mother’s croft being raided. This very storehouse that he was standing in, which beckoned a Breccan like low-hanging fruit come winter, could be secure.
Adaira mistook his silence. “You disapprove, bard?”
He frowned at her. “No. I think it’s a good idea, Adaira. But I’m worried that the Breccans don’t want peace the same way we do, and that they might fool us.”
“You sound like Torin.”
Jack didn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or not. Once, he had wanted to be Torin, and Jack almost laughed, thinking about how different he was now. “Your cousin disapproves of your idea?”
“He thinks establishing a trade will be a nightmare,” Adaira replied. “The clan line presents the greatest obstacle—do we cross it into their territory, or do we allow them to cross into ours? Either way, Torin says it’s ‘bound to be something that goes awry and bloody.’”
“He’s not wrong, Adaira.”
Her brow creased. Jack studied her, watching the thoughts whirl through her. She was parting her lips to say more when they both heard Frae calling for them.
Jack peeked out the solitary window. He could just discern his sister walking in the backyard, shouting their names.
He didn’t want Frae to see him and Adaira emerge from the storehouse. He waited until his sister turned to face the river before he opened the door. Adaira slipped out into the evening, with Jack close behind, and they approached the yard gate side by side, as if they had been walking the property.
“Here we are, Frae,” Adaira said.
Frae whirled to face them. “It’s time for supper,” she said, touching the ends of her braids. “I hope you like winkle soup, heiress.”
“It’s my favorite,” Adaira replied, reaching for Frae’s hand.
Jack watched as a smile stole across his sister’s face. She was awed to be holding the heiress’s hand.
Warmed, he followed as Frae led them into the firelight.
Mirin had laid out a lovely spread for Adaira. The best plates and glasses, the oldest wine, and polished silverware that gleamed like dew. They had been cooking most of the day, preparing food for the Mitchell family in their time of grief, and the house was still heated from it, the air holding a trace of berries and the briny scent of the winkles Jack had gathered from the shore at low tide.
Frae had picked fresh flowers and lit the candles, and Jack settled in his customary chair. Adaira took the seat directly across from him. His mother was speaking, filling bowls with the soup, but Jack’s mind was distant. He was thinking of all the things Adaira had just said to him. To play for the east. To stay the full turning of the year.
To trade with their enemies.
“I can’t believe you’re here in our house,” Frae said.
Jack’s reveries broke as he watched his sister shyly grin at the heiress.
“I know, it’s been a very long time since I’ve visited,” said Adaira. “But I remember when you were born, Frae. My da and mum and I came to see you for the first time.”
“Did you hold me?”
“I did,” Adaira replied. “You were the best bairn I ever held. Most children cry in my arms, but not you.”
Mirin began to cough. The sound was deep and wet, and she tried to muffle it behind her palm. Adaira’s smile faded, as did Frae’s. Jack sat frozen as he watched his mother cough, her thin shoulders shaking.
“Mum?” he stood, fearful.
Mirin calmed and motioned for him to sit. But he saw the flash of blood on her palm, even as she seamlessly wiped it away on the underside of her apron. He had never seen her bleed after a coughing spell, and it chilled him. Her health must have steadily declined in the years he was away.
“I’m fine, Jack,” Mirin said, clearing her throat. And then it was as if it had never happened. She took a sip of wine and guided the conversation away to other matters, engaging Adaira. Jack let out a long breath and returned to his chair. But he noticed once again that his mother hardly ate.
After supper, he cleared the table and washed the dishes, insisting that Frae and Mirin entertain Adaira by the hearth. He listened to the women talk as he dunked the plates in the wash barrel. Frae proudly displayed her slingshot to Adaira again before pointing upward and saying, “See all those divots in the rafters overhead? Jack made those.”