Sidra nodded. “This flower is called Orenna, and it only grows on a small patch of dry, heartsick land. Somewhere on the isle, in a graveyard. We have yet to find such a place in the east.”
Adaira studied the flower. Her eyes widened. “You think …”
“This flower may be growing in the west,” Sidra concluded. “I haven’t said as much to Torin yet because I’m hopeful he will find the graveyard here. But if the Orenna flower is growing on Breccan soil, not only could we use it for ourselves, but it would mean that the west is somehow involved with our missing lasses.”
Adaira released a deep breath. “Torin hasn’t felt anyone crossing the clan line, though.”
“No, he hasn’t, which does lend credence to the perpetrator being one of our own,” Sidra said. “But maybe there is a trade happening that we don’t know of. Perhaps the culprit is secretly receiving flowers from the west.”
Adaira bit her lip. Sidra could sense how conflicted she was, and yet her eyes were bright. Feverish. Now that Adaira had entertained Sidra’s thoughts, she couldn’t unsee them.
“What is the best way for me to receive this information?” Adaira asked.
Sidra set the glass vial in her palm. “I think you go to meet Moray Breccan on the clan line in three days’ time, as he has requested. Generously bring him the best of the Tamerlaine oats, barley, honey, and wine. Whatever he offers you in return, accept with gratitude, but then ask him about this flower. Say you would like to trade for its blooms. If he says he doesn’t recognize it, then he might be speaking truth or he might be lying. If he does recognize the flower, then we know the west is involved, even if it’s something as simple as passing flowers over the clan line. Either way, you have a chance to discover it for yourself by participating in the trade, and I think you have the right to take someone with you.”
Adaira was silent, regarding the flower.
Sidra glanced down at her hands, where her golden wedding band gleamed on her finger. She and Torin had had no qualms about exchanging a blood vow at their wedding. They spoke the ancient words and cut their palms. Their hands were bound together, wound to wound. Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. It was a vow not easily broken, although Sidra was beginning to wonder how long it would last without Maisie.
“The Breccans may deny you a guard,” Sidra said, watching Adaira. “Or your father. Or even a handmaiden. But they can’t deny you a husband.”
Adaira flushed, as if her mind had already gravitated toward such thoughts. She had been in no rush to marry in the past, which Sidra thought wise. But it was time for the future Laird of the East to take a partner. If she was going to forge a difficult and potentially bloody peace, she needed someone to carry her through it. To walk at her side. To confide in. To comfort her on long, lonely nights.
Sidra didn’t have to ask who Adaira was considering.
She already knew.
Adaira gave herself the rest of the day to think about it. A day she spent roaming the hills, searching for a sign. A day that produced no answers from Torin and the guard, despite their interviews and observations. When Adaira realized she wasn’t going to waver and that time was against her, she decided to move forward with her plans.
She waited until the moon rose, thinking she would be braver at night, and dressed simply in a dark dress and cloak. She rode to Mirin’s croft, following the stars.
She dismounted at the road and left her horse hobbled by a tree. Quietly walking through the yard, she located Jack’s bedroom window. He was still awake, as she hoped he would be. The candlelight seeped through his shutters, and she walked to them, a moth drawn to the fire.
Even so determined, she hesitated when she reached her destination. She stood at the window and debated with herself.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought and finally knocked.
She was tempted to turn and run when she heard him cautiously unlatch his shutters. They swung open, at last revealing Jack. His scowl melted into disbelief when he saw it was her.
“Adaira?”
“I need to have a word with you, Jack.”
He glanced about his room before returning his gaze to her, standing in the moonlight. “Now?”
“Aye. It can’t wait.”
“Well, come in then. But be quiet. I don’t want you to wake my mum.” He extended his hand to her, and Adaira accepted it, shocked by how warm his fingers were as they entwined with her cold ones.
She lifted her hem and let Jack haul her up through the window. Her boots clunked on the top of his desk, which was strewn with all manner of oddities. Twigs, rocks, clumps of moss, braids of grass, wilted wildflowers. Adaira stepped down to the floor, still holding his hand, and she turned to gaze at the strange collection.