His stomach felt full of stones by the time they decided to rest.
Sidra banked the fire and crawled into bed, lying on her side. Torin took his time removing his boots and dirty clothes, then eased onto the mattress beside her. He blew out the candle and stared up into the darkness. Sidra’s back was angled to him; he felt the distance between them like a chasm.
He didn’t know how to cross this divide, how to comfort her when his own soul was in anguish. His mind wandered the same tracks it had taken all day. He kept envisioning Maisie, terrified and hurt. Why couldn’t he find her?
Torin went taut as the tension in his body intensified. He couldn’t draw breath. His panic was a winged creature, beating within his rib cage. It wanted to consume him, but he focused on what was tangible around him—the soft mattress, the scent of lavender on the pillow, the rise and fall of Sidra’s breaths.
She sniffed, like she was weeping and trying to hide it from him.
Torin’s thoughts returned to her. He wanted to touch her but didn’t know if she wanted the same. He chose to remain still, fettered by uncertainty, his face marked with pain as he listened to her tears finally ebb.
He remembered the first time he had met Sidra, four years ago.
He had been riding through the Vale of Stonehaven, a rarity, as it was one of the more peaceful places of the isle, inhabited by shepherds and their wandering flocks. He hadn’t patrolled the valley since his first year as a guard, but for some reason he had taken the eastern road on his way home from a shift.
He was thinking about Maisie. She was eight months old, and Graeme was caring for her by day. But the arrangement couldn’t go on forever. Torin knew he could do better by his daughter. That he should do better.
His stallion spooked at a shadow, a play of wind in the oak branches above him. Torin was tossed from the saddle and promptly found himself facedown in the dirt, his left shoulder throbbing. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had been thrown by his horse.
Mortified, he rose and brushed the dirt from his clothes, hoping no one but the spirits had seen him fall. His shoulder was dislocated. He knew it was, and he gritted his teeth as one of the younger guards came trotting up the road behind him.
“Do you need help fetching your horse, Torin?”
“No.”
Torin’s stallion had wandered off toward one of the shepherd’s houses. He motioned the guard to go on his way as he strode to reclaim his horse.
“Ah, that’s convenient,” the guard called after him.
“What is?” Torin ground out.
“Well, Senga Campbell and her granddaughter live there.”
Senga Campbell was the castle healer. She personally attended to the laird and his family and was renowned for her skill. Despite that, Torin hadn’t known she had a granddaughter, and he failed to make sense of what the guard was saying.
“Very well. She has a granddaughter.” Torin threw up his hands and then winced.
“Her granddaughter is a healer as well, you know. I’m sure she’d be happy to reset your shoulder for you.” The guard cantered off down the road with his amusement, and Torin swore as he finally chased his horse down in the Campbells’ yard.
Their house was quiet. It seemed that no one was home, and Torin paused when he noticed their garden. He had never seen a more organized and beautiful kail yard.
He tethered his horse to the gate and walked to the front door, frightening a cat from the stoop. He knocked and waited, listening as someone moved within the house.
It was Sidra who answered the door.
She was dressed in simple homespun. A smudge of dirt was on her cheek. Her long black hair was loose and spilled over her shoulders. A stray flower was caught within the tangles. All of his thoughts unexpectedly scattered at the sight of her, and he said nothing.
“Who is at the door, Sidra?” an older woman’s voice—Senga’s—rasped from within.
“I don’t know who he is,” Sidra said, to Torin’s great shock. Nearly everyone knew who he was. He was the laird’s nephew, and an esteemed member of the East Guard … “He is a man, and his horse just ate all the carrots in my garden.”
Torin flushed. “Forgive me. But I seem to have dislocated my shoulder.”
“You seem to have?” Sidra echoed, and her eyes drifted to it. “Ah, yes. You have. Come in. My nan can help you.”
“Is that Torin Tamerlaine?” Senga asked, recognizing his voice as he followed Sidra into the cottage. The revered healer sat at the table, grinding herbs with her pestle and mortar. But she hadn’t been the one to reset his shoulder. It had been Sidra.