Her thoughts were consumed by Maisie. Where was she? Had she been harmed? Who had taken her?
“Sidra?” Graeme said gently. “Do you want to change? I have some spare garments in that oaken chest in the corner.”
“No, I’m fine, Da,” she said, distracted by her inner turmoil.
“I just thought …” Graeme paused, reaching for a decanter of whiskey. His hands shook as he poured two glasses. “It’s going to upset my son to see blood on your clothes.”
Sidra halted and glanced down at her chemise. It looked like she had been stabbed.
“Of course,” she whispered, realizing that the last thing she wanted was for Torin to see her like this. She walked through the maze of Graeme’s possessions to the trunk in the corner and knelt. Her fingers were cold as they raced over the wooden carvings, hefting the lid open.
She knew what rested within.
Torin’s mother had been gone for almost twenty-one years. Emma Tamerlaine had departed unexpectedly in the night when Torin was only six years old, leaving her son and her husband behind. She had been a mainlander; the isle was unfamiliar, frightening, and far away from her family. In the end, life here had been too difficult for her, and Emma had returned to the mainland without a backward glance.
Yet Graeme still had her raiment, as if she might return one day.
Sorrowfully, Sidra searched through the dresses. She eventually settled on a chemise, hoping Torin wouldn’t realize who it once belonged to. But why should he? He rarely saw Sidra’s own undergarments.
She held it up. The chemise was long and narrow, betraying how tall and svelte Torin’s mother had been. Sidra knew it would never fit her curves, and she was considering her options when she heard the front door blow open. The entire cottage shook in response. A breeze whispered through the chamber, overturning papers.
Sidra knew it was Torin, and she froze on her knees, Emma’s chemise gripped in her hands. Her view of the threshold was blocked by a dressing panel, but she could hear him clearly as he spoke.
“Where’s Maisie?” Torin panted, as if he had run across the hills. “Is everything well? I stopped by the house on my way and neither she nor Sidra were there.”
“Torin …” Graeme said.
Sidra shut her eyes. The house fell silent, and she wished that she could awaken. That this was only some terrible nightmare, and she wasn’t about to shatter Torin’s life.
“Sid?” he called.
She dropped his mother’s garment and stiffly rose. She looked at the floor as she stepped around the panel, at last coming into Torin’s line of sight.
It was the silence that made her glance upward.
His face was unnaturally pale. His eyes were glazed, betraying his shock. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. A gasp escaped him, and Sidra thought it sounded like he had just been stabbed, deep in the side.
Torin strode to her. He stepped through Graeme’s clutter, kicking books and trinkets out of the way. All too soon, that distance between them was gone, and Torin framed her face in his hands. She could smell the coast on his fingers—the sand and seawater. She could feel the bite of his many calluses and yet he held her so gently, as if she might break.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Who did this to you?”
Sidra swallowed. It felt like a rock was in her throat. It hurt to breathe, and her eyes burned with tears.
“Torin,” she whispered.
He knew it then. She felt how he stiffened, and his eyes began to frantically search the room.
“Where’s Maisie?” he asked.
Sidra drew a deep breath. Her sternum ached; her words crumbled.
“Where is Maisie, Sidra?” Torin asked again, his gaze returning to hers.
She had never seen him appear so afraid. His blue eyes were dilated, bloodshot.
“I’m sorry, Torin,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
His hands fell away from her. He took a step back, stumbling over a pair of boots. He heaved a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. Another sound slipped from him, soft yet guttural. Eventually, he glanced at Sidra, his face composed.
“I need you to tell me everything that happened last night,” he said. “If I’m going to find Maisie … you need to tell me every detail, Sidra.”
She was jarred by how reserved he now appeared, but she knew this was his training, to keep his emotions in check. He was speaking to her as the captain, not as her partner.
Sidra began to recount what had happened, save for Donella’s warning, thankful that she was able to speak without weeping.