She needed her tonic. The tonic would help her.
Frae had sprung from the bed before remembering . . . there was no fire. She wouldn’t be able to brew her mother’s tonic. She had stood in the frigid room, staring at the darkened hearth, staring at Mirin’s loom, staring into the unknown.
She had never known such fear before, and it rooted her to the floor. Her quick, shallow breaths almost felt like she was not breathing at all, as though an iron hand gripped her heart. Frae wished Jack was there to help her. To tell her what to do to save their mother.
She was shivering, trapped in her terror, when a knock sounded on the front door.
Startled, she had a moment of panic. Who would be visiting at such an hour? During the worst storm Frae could ever remember?
She cowered, too frightened to answer. But then she thought, What if it’s Jack, or Sidra? What if someone has come to help? Frae rushed to the door, unbolting it with icy hands.
She was surprised to find a red-headed man on the stoop, a blue plaid draped across his chest. At his side was an elderly woman, squinting against the wind. Frae blinked and stepped back in fear, but then she realized she had seen this man before. He had once stood in the backyard, protecting her from a raid. He had been dragged into the house as a prisoner, and he had wept her mother’s name.
“May we shelter with you, Frae?” he asked.
She nodded, uncertain how he knew who she was. And it was strange how relieved she felt the moment the man and the old woman stepped into the cottage. She was no longer alone, and even though they wore blue plaids, she trusted them both.
The man had to help her latch the door against the gust. After that, she didn’t know what to say. There was no fire, no tea, and she gazed up at the man, dimly discerning his face in the meager light.
“Is your mum home, Frae?” he asked, and Frae could tell he was looking for her.
“She’s sick,” Frae whispered.
She heard the man inhale, as if her words had cut him, like a knife. “Can you lead me to her?”
Frae guided him to the bedroom. It was still very dark, but she could hear Mirin’s labored breaths and led the man toward her. Frae watched as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Mirin?” he said, his voice deep and gentle. There was no answer. He called her again, urgently. “Mirin, open your eyes. Come back to us.”
Frae hoped his voice would rouse her, but Mirin continued to sleep.
“I think she needs her tonic,” Frae whispered, crestfallen. “It’s the magic, making her sick.”
The man shifted to glance at her. “Can we make it without fire?”
“No.”
He was quiet for a long, terrible moment. But then he turned back to her mother, and Frae could see only his hair, gleaming in the twilight.
“Come, lass,” the elderly woman said, taking Frae’s hand. “I’ve got some ginger cake set out, and a book eager to be read.”
Frae joined the woman on the divan. They sat close together for warmth, and when the woman offered Frae a slice of rich, fragrant cake, Frae accepted. Mirin would probably scold her for eating food from a Breccan stranger, but Frae, finding comfort in its sweetness, devoured it in just a few bites.
She saw a book laid open before her, a book she had never seen before, and she thought it must belong to the woman.
“What is your name?” Frae asked.
“My name is Elspeth,” the woman said. “My house isn’t far from yours.”
“Do you live up the river?”
“Yes.”
Frae imagined it—the river connecting her and Mirin to Elspeth. She glanced down at the book and asked, “May I read it?”
“I hoped you would, although the light is quite dim in here,” said Elspeth. “I don’t want you to strain your eyes.”
“It won’t strain them. Mum says I have very good eyesight.” Frae set the book on her lap and read aloud through the gloom. Soon she was entranced by the story, and her worries slipped away—her worries about Mirin, about who the red-headed man was to them, about the storm. Her worries about Jack ever returning to them.
Later, she would wonder which came first: the storm breaking or the fire returning. She couldn’t be sure—perhaps they happened simultaneously. But suddenly the flames blazed in the hearth with a crack, and the rushlights found their flames and burned brightly on the table. The wind abated, and sunlight began to stream in through the cracks in the shutters.
Frae gasped. She was gazing at the fire in wonder when she heard footsteps behind her.