It is her.
His gaze slid to Adaira, on her hands and knees, discouraged and breathing like she was about to weep.
“Adaira,” he rasped. “Adaira, it’ll be all right. The earth told us more than we could have hoped for. The lasses are alive and well. It’s only a matter of time before we find them.”
She gradually regained her composure. She pushed herself up and drew a deep breath.
“You’re right,” she said, gazing up at the tree branches. “I’m just so tired, Jack.”
“Then let me take you home,” he said, brushing grass from his tunic. He made a note of his hands; they felt fine, as did his head. Perhaps he wouldn’t suffer from the magic this time. He decided to leave the tonic bottle in his harp case.
Adaira looked at him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said such a thing. We’re all tired these days.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You can always speak your mind to me.”
She looked at him, unguarded. Her father was dying, her lasses were missing. He could see her weariness mingled with her waning hope. He could see how much she wanted to be strong for the clan, strong for Torin and Sidra. And yet she was just one woman, and Jack wondered how she held everything together on her own.
He eased himself up to his feet. He felt drained, and a bit peculiar, but then he had nearly turned into the earth itself.
Play with caution, Lorna had said.
He understood now, and he offered his hand to Adaira, drawing her upright.
“We should get back to Torin,” she said. “He’ll be eager to know what we learned.”
“Yes,” Jack said. “We should hurry.”
They approached their horses in silence, and as Jack mounted, he realized that he was marrying Adaira the following day and he had no idea what to expect.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked, gathering the reins.
“I don’t have a plan,” she replied, nudging her horse into a walk. “I’m making this up as I go.”
Jack snorted, his gelding plodding after hers. He was about to make a smart remark when he felt the pain bloom behind his eyes, a sudden brightness that stole his breath. He couldn’t see for a moment; there was nothing more than the agonizing sheen of lightning coursing through him, and he scrambled for his harp case. His hands were beginning to ache, as if he had set them in snow for hours.
Adaira was saying something. She was blithely unaware of his condition, riding ahead of him.
He felt a sharp pain in his nose; it began to bleed, and he knew he needed Adaira’s help.
“Adaira,” he whispered.
The world spun. He thought he was floating until he crashed to the ground, his shoulder smarting in pain. He could feel the grass, tickling his face. He could smell the loam of the isle. He could hear the sough of the wind.
“Jack? Jack!”
Adaira was shaking him. Her voice seemed far away, as if kilometers stretched between them.
“Tonic,” he struggled to say, blinking against the light. “Harp case.”
He listened as she searched for it. An excruciating minute passed before her fingers wove into his hair, tilting his head up as she placed the bottle to his lips.
The tonic went down like honey, sweet and thick.
Jack swallowed once, twice. He was shaking, but the pain began to fade. He blinked, and Adaira’s face came into focus, hovering over him.
“Do you need more?” she asked.
“Just … wait,” he said.
The pain dulled behind his eyes, but his headache lingered. His hands were still in misery. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he glanced down and found that claws had grown, breaking the skin beneath his nails.
He told Adaira about the salve, also in his case. She found it and rubbed the tingling ointment over his hands, into his palms and knuckles. It put him into a trance, to feel her touch him like that. A groan slipped from his lips.
He didn’t know how much time passed until he felt restored, but when he could at last behold Adaira clearly, he saw she was furious.
“You foolish, irresponsible, infuriating bard,” she said. “You should have told me!”
Jack sighed, leaning against her. He could feel the warmth of her, seeping into him, and he eased his head to her lap.
“Adaira … let’s not fight about it.”
“I’m trying to make sense of your reasoning. To withhold something this vital from me.”
Jack didn’t know how to answer her. Was it his pride? His fear that she might forbid him from playing? The realization that he was a hypocrite? The desire to find the lasses, no matter the cost he had to pay?