“They’re reading Adaira’s post?” she drawled in disbelief.
“Yes,” Jack replied. “And I should have realized it sooner. All of us should have. Tell Torin not to write anything sensitive in his letters, because the Breccans are reading it.”
“How do you know this, Jack?”
Jack explained, showing the wax stain on Adaira’s recent letter, which he had brought with him. “They remove her seal, or ours, read the letter, and reseal it.”
“That’s . . . I can’t even think of a word to say!”
“Despicable?” Jack offered.
“Yes,” Sidra hissed. “Poor Adi. Do you think . . . ?”
“She’s all right, but now it makes sense why her letters have been few and far between.”
The kettle began to hiss on the hearth. Sidra made to rise, but felt a sharp twinge in her left foot. It was so unexpected that she almost lost her balance, and Jack quickly stood, hand outstretched to catch her.
“I’m fine,” she said, waving away his concern. “Here, do you want a cup of tea before you go?”
“No, but thank you for the wax and the flame,” Jack said. “I also came here to ask you for a tonic or two.”
“What for?” Sidra asked, removing the kettle from the iron hook.
Jack was quiet for a beat, drawing her attention. He was gazing down at the letter in his hand, with its blob of a seal, but when he glanced up once more, a faint smile was on his lips.
“I’m going to sing for the spirits again.”
Sidra waited until Jack had departed and the cottage was quiet once more.
Exhausted, she sat down in the chair that Donella had once haunted when the ghost had paid her seasonal visits. She poured herself a cup of tea and watched the steam rise in the morning light.
You’re procrastinating.
She sighed and unlaced her boot, letting it slip from her foot. She reached for her stocking, drawing it down her leg. There were any number of reasons why her foot had emitted that sharp ache, and she wanted to reassure herself, to brush away her worries. There had been nothing to see that morning when she dressed. She knew, because she had been keeping a close eye on it.
With the stocking peeled away, Sidra stared down at the curve of her foot, then blinked, shock tangling like briars in her chest. There was a small spot that could nearly pass for a bruise but wasn’t. A mottled touch of purple and gold on her heel. Blight was seeping beneath her olive-toned skin.
Sidra drew the stocking back onto her foot.
Chapter 8
Adaira had never seen such a sad, dismal library. She stood before the bare shelves, sifting through the scant collection of tattered books. Pages were torn and stained, ink was smudged, and the spines were cracked, barely holding on by their threads. She paused, gently leafing through one of the books, but she didn’t feel like reading. Her temples still throbbed faintly from the Aethyn dosage, and her vision remained blurred around the edges.
“I thought I would find you here.”
She turned, not at all surprised to see her father standing before one of the rain-streaked windows, a tall silhouette against the storm light. With Innes away for the next two days, hunting with the nobility, Adaira had expected David to keep an eye on her.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She set the book back on the shelf. “Do Breccans borrow books from this library only to keep them?”
“You are disappointed with our collection?”
Adaira chewed on her lip, glancing around at the bareness. “I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.”
“That’s because you are in the old library.”
“There’s another?”
He only inclined his head, a quiet invitation, before he walked away. Adaira followed him through the stone-carved aisles, staring at his fawn-brown hair, brushed long and loose beneath the silver circlet on his brow. He was dressed in a blue tunic and armor—a leather breastplate with fine stitching, vambraces on his forearms, boots that gleamed with enchanted stealth threads, the gloves he never took off his hands. A sword was sheathed at his side, as if he had been heading to the armory before taking a detour to the library.
He stopped in the shadow of a door made of pale, radiant wood.
Adaira said, “This door is locked. I’ve already tried it.”
“Of course it’s locked,” David replied in a wry tone, as if he were amused that she had attempted to pass through it. “Give me your hand.”