“Will you write to her again, Jack?” Torin asked. “And let me know when she replies?”
Jack was silent for a moment, but his countenance had gone pale, and his cheeks had a strange, hollow look, as though he were holding his breath. Jack was worried about Adaira too then. He was trying to maintain a sense of calm for Torin’s sake.
“Yes, I’ll let you know,” the bard said. “I should be going now, to prepare the orchard’s song.”
Torin nodded his gratitude, but he lingered in the room a few minutes after Jack had quit the wing. Eventually, Torin returned to the main bedroom. He stared at the shrouded furniture, the bed his uncle had died in.
There was a vast difference between someone dying and someone leaving. Alastair was dead, but Adaira had chosen to leave. And while Torin knew she had done so to keep peace on the isle, to prevent winter raids, to enable the Tamerlaines to imprison Moray without conflict, her decision still roused a medley of feelings in him. He couldn’t help but dredge up the familiar, icy resentment toward his mother. His own flesh and blood who had abandoned him without a backward glance when he was a boy.
But the truth was . . . he was angry at himself, for letting Adaira strike such a terrible bargain with Innes Breccan and exchange herself for Moray. For letting Adaira surrender her right to rule and become a prisoner of the west. He was angry at the Tamerlaine clan for turning on her so quickly when she had done nothing but sacrifice for them. He was angry that he had no idea what was happening to her on the other side of the isle.
What sort of laird was he?
He dragged the coverlet off the bed, then the sheets and pillows. He ripped away the blankets that covered the furniture until he exposed a desk with stacked parchment, quills, and a tall bottle of whiskey that threatened to overturn. Torin caught the glass bottle in his hand, knowing it was Alastair’s favorite. He stared at it, tempted to hurl it against the wall and watch it shatter into hundreds of iridescent pieces. But he sighed instead, and the blistering ice within him melted into melancholy.
Surrendering, Torin sat on the floor. Dust motes spun in the air around him. He listened to his breaths heave, filling the lonely room with uneven sound.
He knew what a laird should be.
A voice for the clan. Someone who listened to individual needs and problems in order to help meet and solve them. A leader who strove to improve all aspects of life, from education to healing measures to croft acreage to building repairs to laws to resources to justice. Someone who knew their people by name and who could readily greet them by such if they passed on the road. Who ensured that the east remained in balance with the spirits, and who likewise was a shield against the Breccans and their raids.
Adaira had carried out all of these responsibilities, effortlessly, and Torin wished he had paid closer attention to how she and her father had done it. Even now, kilometers away, Adaira was the shield for the east while he sat on a floor, trying to wrap his mind around all that had gone wrong.
There was a firm knock on the iron-latticed door.
Torin winced. But he was too weary to speak, too weary to drag himself up to his feet. He watched as the wood creaked open and Edna appeared.
“Laird? I heard a noise,” she said. This wizened woman had seen it all in her many years of caring for the fortress, yet her eyes went wide as new moons when she saw Torin sitting on the floor. “Is everything all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” he said, holding up his hand to stop her from approaching. “I was simply getting the room ready for Sidra. We’ll be moving in soon.”
“Oh.” To her credit, Edna sounded more pleased than shocked. “That is wonderful news, Laird. We’ve been hoping the two of you and your sweet lass would be joining us here. Is there a date when I should have things ready?”
Torin imagined Sidra stepping into this chamber. This was the room where he was destined to sleep beside her, a chamber where he would draw sighs from her mouth and hold her against his skin, night after night. These were the walls that would watch and shelter them for the remainder of their days on the isle.
“Next week,” Torin said, clearing his throat. “And don’t worry about this . . . mess. I’ll tend to it.”
“As you want, Laird.” Edna bowed her head and slipped away, latching the door behind her.
Torin groaned, leaning his head back. He stared up at the timber beams of the ceiling. It was both a salve and a misery to be alone, but he eventually remembered the bottle of whiskey beside him.
The glass caught the fading sunlight, casting Torin’s hand in amber.