“Promise me one thing, Jack,” Mirin said, breaking into his reveries by taking hold of his face with her hands.
“Anything,” he said, waiting.
“Don’t tell them you’re Niall’s son.”
He nodded, but his hope began to wither. His excitement dimmed. He would have to go unclaimed once more. He would have to act as if the west held no roots for him. His mother’s request made him feel old and weary.
“Keep your blood ties a secret,” Mirin whispered, urgently.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” Jack said. “They’ll never know.”
Chapter 13
“Eat your kail, Maisie,” Sidra said, watching her daughter from across the table.
“Daddie doesn’t make me eat it,” Maisie stated, glaring at the greens on her plate.
Sidra resisted the temptation to look at Torin’s empty chair, his plate filled with a now-cold dinner. “Your father would if he were here. Eat your kail, please.”
“But they taste like dirt.”
“They taste like the earth,” Sidra said in a gentle tone. Spirits below, she was so tired. Her head was throbbing, her foot was aching. . . . “They taste of life and bright sunshine and the secrets that hide deep down in the soil. Secrets that make you strong and smart once you eat them.”
Maisie’s pout eased. She poked at her kail with careful interest, but as soon as she put it in her mouth, she spat it out onto the table.
“Yuck!”
“Maisie Tamerlaine,” Sidra said sharply. “That is enough. You have always eaten your kail.”
Maisie frowned and shook her head. “I don’t wanna eat it.”
Sidra closed her eyes and rubbed the pain in her temples. Her patience was fraying, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so exhausted, so worn out.
She tried to tell herself this weariness arose from how hard she had worked that day to find a remedy. She had ground her herbs and mixed blends she had never tried before. She had steeped them into stout teas and turned them into salves. She had rested her foot on a cushioned stool. She had also exercised the foot, walking across the hills to visit her patients. She had wrapped her foot in warm linen and then held it beneath cold river water until it went numb.
Sidra was attempting everything she could think of, hoping to halt and reverse the blight that was spreading on her heel. But she feared that only time could reveal if any of her methods were successful, and time was not on her side. Judging from how swiftly Rodina’s hand had been overtaken, she predicted that she might have another week before the blight claimed her entire foot.
Rodina had also said that recently she had more headaches and stomach troubles, which Sidra was now experiencing. Her entire body felt exhausted, and she had no appetite. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep.
You’re tired because you worked so much today. You slept poorly the night before. The weather is changing . . .
She tried to convince herself that there was some other reason for her fatigue. That her gnawing exhaustion and headache and short temper were not due to the blight gradually creeping along the arch of her foot.
“What’s wrong?”
Maisie’s voice brought Sidra back to the evening. How long had she been sitting there, eyes closed, leaning into her hand? Long enough for a stubborn six-year-old to grow concerned. Sidra tried to smile at her daughter, to reassure her, even though she felt as if she might crumble into tears.
“I think I’m just tired, Maisie.”
“Then eat your kail, Mummy.”
Sidra blinked, realizing she had not eaten much of her dinner. Her stomach was churning.
She had to tell Torin tonight. She had to tell him she was infected. If he ever came home, that is. He had failed to come home the night before, and his absence had worried her, more than she liked. She had remembered all the nights she slept alone, when he worked the night shift.
Sidra suddenly felt divided. She wanted to see him and was waiting for him intently, listening for the sound of his boots on the front stoop. She was waiting for the door to swing open. To feel his gaze touch her, his hands not far behind. Until she imagined his face when he learned the truth.
How do I tell him?
“Are you sick, Mummy?” Maisie persisted, her brow furrowed in concern.
“I just have a little headache, sweet lass.”
Sidra had been very careful that day. When Maisie was at the house with her, she had kept her stockings and boots on, to hide all trace of her infection. It was only when Maisie visited Torin’s father, Graeme Tamerlaine, at his croft next door that Sidra worked herself into a sweat trying to uncover an antidote.