“No one important,” Jack replied, despite the glaring truth that Adaira was the Heiress of the East.
He almost asked Torin about her, but thought better of it. Jack hadn’t envisioned his childhood rival in years, but he now imagined Adaira as wed, maybe with a few bairns of her own. He imagined she was even more beloved than she had been as a youth.
Dwelling on her reminded Jack there was a gap in his knowledge. He didn’t know what had been happening on the isle while he was away, steeped in music. He didn’t know why Laird Alastair had summoned him. He didn’t know how many raids had occurred, if the Breccans were still a looming threat when the ice came.
Emboldened, he met Torin’s stare. “You meet every stray who crosses the clan line with instant death?”
“I wouldn’t have killed you, lad.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Torin was quiet, but he didn’t break their gaze. The firelight flickered over his rugged features, but there was no regret, no hint of shame in him. “It depends. Some stray Breccans are truly fooled by the spirits’ mischief. They misstep and they mean no harm. Others are scouting.”
“Have there been any raids recently?” Jack asked, dreading to learn if Mirin had been lying to him in her past letters. His mother lived close to western territory.
“There hasn’t been a raid since last winter. But I expect one will come soon. Once the cold arrives.”
“Where did this most recent raid happen?”
“The Elliotts’ croft,” Torin replied, but his eyes were sharp, as if he were beginning to piece together the lack of Jack’s knowledge. “You’re worried about your mum? Mirin’s farm hasn’t been raided since you were a lad.”
Jack remembered, although he had been so young he sometimes wondered if he had dreamt it. A group of Breccans had arrived one winter night, their horses turning the snow muddy in the yard. Mirin had held Jack in the corner of their house, one hand pressing his face into her chest so he couldn’t see, the other wielding a sword. Jack had listened as the Breccans took what they wanted—winter provisions and livestock from the byre and a few silver marks. They broke pottery, overturned piles of Mirin’s weavings. Quickly they went, as if they were underwater, holding their breaths, knowing they had only a moment before the East Guard arrived.
They hadn’t touched or spoken to Mirin or Jack. The two of them were inconsequential. Nor had Mirin challenged them. Calm she had been, inhaling long draws, but Jack remembered hearing the beat of her heart, swift as wings.
“Why have you come home, Jack?” Torin asked quietly. “None of us ever thought you would return. We assumed you had created a new life for yourself, as a bard on the mainland.”
“I’m only here for a brief visit,” Jack replied. “Laird Alastair asked me to return.”
Torin’s brows arched. “Did he now?”
“Yes. Do you know why?”
“I think I know why he’s summoned you,” Torin said. “We’ve been facing a terrible trouble. It’s been weighing heavily on the entire clan.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. “I don’t see how I can do anything about the Breccans’ raids.”
“It’s not the raids,” Torin replied. His eyes were glazed, as if he had seen a wraith. “No, it’s something much worse than that.”
Jack began to feel the cold creep into his skin. He was remembering the taste of isle-bred fear, how it felt to be lost when the land shifted. How storms could break at a moment’s notice. How the folk could be benevolent one day, and malevolent the next. How their capricious natures flowed like a river.
This place had always been dangerous, unpredictable. Wonders bloomed alongside dreads. But nothing could prepare him for what Torin said next.
“It’s our lasses, Jack,” he said. “Our girls are going missing.”
CHAPTER 2
Sometimes Sidra saw the ghost of Torin’s first wife sitting at the table. The visits occurred when one season ended and another began, when change could be felt in the air. Donella Tamerlaine’s ghost liked to bask in the morning light, dressed in leather armor and plaid, watching as Sidra stood in the kitchen by the fire, cooking breakfast for Maisie.
Sometimes Sidra felt unworthy, as if Donella were assessing her. How well was Sidra caring for the daughter and husband she had left behind? But most of the time Sidra felt as if Donella was simply keeping her company, so fastened was her soul to this place, to this ground. The women—one dead and one living—were connected by love and blood and soil. Three cords that were so interwoven that Sidra was not surprised that Donella appeared to her and her alone.