“You bitch,” it hissed.
She was raising her hand to strike again, the dirk catching the stars when she felt the kick to her chest. The shadow’s boot struck her on the sternum so hard that she couldn’t breathe. She collapsed and rolled in the heather. Her hands were numb as they dropped the dirk, scrambling for purchase.
She eventually came to a stop, gasping for breath. The pain was bright; she saw spots, eating the edges of her vision.
She had to get up. She had to find Maisie.
Sidra wheezed and tried to rise. She didn’t know how much time had passed, because it felt as if everything had stopped around her. The wind, the moon’s descent. Her own heart.
The shadow arrived, standing over her. She heard a whimper and her gaze snapped up. Maisie was in its arms, struggling.
“Maisie,” Sidra rasped.
She held out her hand, willing to give anything. But she never had the chance to speak. She felt a blow to the side of her head.
She folded into the darkness.
When Sidra woke facedown in the heather, she thought she was dreaming. The sun was just about to rise; it was bitterly cold, but the eastern horizon was swelling with light. A bird was trilling nearby, as if urging her to open her eyes. To get up.
She slowly pushed herself up to her knees. Her chest ached. There was blood dried on the front of her chemise, and she stared at it, her mind reeling as she tried to remember.
And then it hit her. The realization struck her harder than the spirit’s boot to her chest.
“Maisie!” she screamed, her voice hoarse. “Maisie!”
She stumbled to her feet. The world spun for a moment—melting stars and a vermilion sunrise and the flap of a bird’s wings.
“Maisie!” She began to tear through the heather. Her hands were so cold she could hardly feel them. “Maisie, answer me! Where are you? Maisie!”
Where had the spirit taken her?
She swallowed a sob as she frantically searched.
“Sidra? Sidra!”
She heard Graeme shouting for her in the distance. She winced as her chest throbbed, and she glanced up to dimly see Torin’s father appear at the crest of the hill.
Overcome, she couldn’t speak. Graeme hadn’t left his house or his yard in all the years that Sidra had known him, and the emotion caught in her throat as he began to run down the hill.
“Sidra!” Graeme saw her. “Sidra, is that you? Are you all right, lass?”
“Da, I …” She didn’t know what to say. Her blood was still pounding when Graeme finally reached her. She must have appeared far worse than she realized, because Graeme’s face tensed. His eyes went wide as he looked at her.
“Daughter,” he whispered. “What happened?”
“A spirit took Maisie,” she said, struggling to keep her hysteria at bay.
His mouth went slack. “A spirit did this to you?”
“A spirit came for her, and I fought it, and it took her … we have to keep searching. She might still be here …” Sidra returned to the heather, even though every movement, every breath was like a knife in her chest.
“Maisie!” she shouted, over and over, seeking a trail, a spirit door, a scrap of clothing. Anything that would guide her.
Graeme firmly took her arm, drawing her close. “Sidra? Where are you wounded? We need to tend to you first, lass.”
Sidra paused. She didn’t realize how badly she was trembling or how cold she was until she felt his warmth and his strength. She frowned, struggling to understand why Graeme was staring at her with such stricken eyes until she glanced down, remembering the blood that stained her chemise. It had dried to a dark hue, crinkling the wool, but it was red as the blood in her veins.
“I’m not wounded,” she whispered. “This … this isn’t my blood. I struck the spirit with a dirk, and it bled.”
Sidra met Graeme’s gaze. She thought of the story she had read to Maisie, the night before. A story about Orenna having to prick her finger in order to bloom. How her blood ran thick and gold.
“The spirits …” Sidra began, but her voice faded.
Graeme read her thoughts, granting her a somber nod. “Don’t bleed as mortals do.”
Sidra stared at the bloodstains again. She felt as if the world had just cracked beneath her feet.
It wasn’t a spirit stealing the girls.
It was a man.
“Sidra,” Graeme rasped, still holding her arm, “we need to call for Torin.”
Sidra’s heart plummeted. The mere thought of telling Torin what had transpired … she felt like weeping. This was what he had married her for. This was woven into her vows to him. She had promised to raise, love, and protect his daughter.