The fire in the hearth was burning low, casting rosy hues on the walls, making monstrous shadows out of Sidra’s drying herbs, which hung in clusters from the ceiling beams. Yirr was curled up on the rug, one eye open. The fragrance of supper still lingered in the air: warm bread and roasted quail and potatoes, rosemary and apple cider. The floor was swept clean, and the rain tapped against the shutters.
Sidra appeared in the doorway to their bedroom, illumined by candlelight, her dark hair brushed into loose waves. She was wearing her chemise and stockings, and her eyes were swollen. He had woken her. How late was it? He seemed to have lost track of time.
“Is Maisie . . . ?”
“She’s with your father tonight,” Sidra replied. She stared at Torin a moment, and he feared she would ask him what had happened. But she didn’t. She only whispered, “Have you eaten? I can warm you up some supper.”
“I’m ravenous,” he said, but he caught her before she could move to the kitchen. He had felt scattered in a hundred different directions until he took her in his arms and her softness, her warmth, met his body and sharpened him, brought him into focus. He heard the catch of her breath when he pressed his mouth to her neck, his fingers unlacing the ribbons of her chemise.
“Torin,” she gasped. He felt her stiffen as her raiment began to loosen. This response from her was unfamiliar, unexpected.
At once, he stopped.
“Sid? What is it?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, anxious to see her face. When her eyes remained downcast, he gently lifted her chin, so her gaze would find his. “Is something troubling you?”
He thought perhaps it was the news of the fire dying in Mirin’s hearth. Or the fear of the blight spreading further. Every passing hour seemed to bring something heavy and strange.
Sidra drew in a deep breath, and he swore he saw a flash of sorrow in her eyes. But then it was gone like a storm breaking. She smiled at him, the smile that made him forget everything apart from her, and she took his hands and guided him into their room.
He marveled yet again that he had won her love, that the isle had made their paths cross. Her fingers slid free from his and he stopped, intently watching as she backed away from him. She blew out the candles, one by one. Darkness unfurled, and the room felt far too vast, the distance between them almost painful.
Torin’s heart quickened as he listened to her clothes hit the floor somewhere to his left. Her bare feet drew close to him again; her hands reached out and found him, unfastened his belt, lifted his sodden tunic away.
Somehow, they made it to the bed. Torin’s skin was gooseflesh beneath her confidence, his hair still dripping from the storm. But Sidra’s mouth was hot, crushing against his. He had her memorized; he did not need light, nor did she.
His fingertips traced the curve of her back. He could hear her breathe in the darkness, shallow and quick, in contrast to his own breathing. She moved like there was nothing in this world but the two of them and he surged forward to bury his face in her neck. There was a faint scent of earth on her skin—loam and herbs and crushed flowers—and he kissed her mouth, her collarbones, the crook of her elbow, tasting her sweat. He was both lost and found within her, and when she cried out, he swiftly followed her over the edge.
Afterwards, it took Torin a few moments to remember the fleeting sadness he had seen in Sidra’s eyes. She lay against him, her hair streaming across his chest, her skin damp against his.
He traced the flare of her hip, waiting for his heart to calm. “What did you need to tell me, Sid?”
“Hmm?”
“Before. When I came home. You started to say something . . .”
She shifted away from him. Torin tightened his hold on her, and she chuckled at his insistence and kissed his shoulder. “I wanted to ask how the orchard song went. Was Jack successful? Did you speak to one of the spirits about the blight?”
Torin groaned, the memory flooding back into him. “No.”
He told her of the debacle, how Jack had defied his orders to halt the ballad. How the lightning struck a few paces away from the bard, and how everything seemed to shatter in that moment—earth, sky, rain, light. Shatter and then come back together in alarming clarity.
“I don’t know what to do, Sid,” he whispered, his fingers sliding into her hair. “I don’t know what to do, and all I can think is how unfit I am to be laird. This must be a punishment for something. The isle must find me lacking.”
“Enough.” Sidra’s voice was sharp. “You’re a good laird to our clan.”