Then it fell quiet.
Sidra slid to the floor amid the shattered pieces of the plate she had broken. She drew her knees to her chest and numbly stared into the shadows.
Torin didn’t go to the castle, and he didn’t remain on the roads. He strayed onto the moonlit moors and wandered until he was weary, his boots rubbing blisters on his heels. He craved a drink. He wanted something to plunge him into oblivion, and his hands shook. Only then did he choose to stop. The stars watched as he wrapped himself in his plaid and lay down in the grass, hoping that slumber would distract him from his thirst.
But sleep was elusive, and his thoughts descended into dark places.
Sidra had thrown him out.
He couldn’t believe it, and he bristled until he thought about the night before. He had drunk so much whiskey that he fell asleep in the castle library. He had never come home, and he didn’t even send word to her. She must have been worried, lying in the dark, wondering where he was.
Inevitably, he thought about the laird’s quarters, now redecorated and ready for them to inhabit. Torin had known the move would be difficult for Sidra. He had known it, and yet he had still managed to butcher the conversation, approaching it with such impatience and insensitivity that he couldn’t fault her for telling him to leave.
He groaned, his anger melting into starlight. He shivered as he remembered the other recent night, when Sidra had joined with him in the dark, impassioned. And what of the flash of sadness he had seen in her? Something was bothering her, and the realization that she must not feel comfortable enough to tell him made him feel like he had a stone lodged in his stomach.
And why should she tell you? You are short-tempered and shortsighted and never come home on time. You drink too much and are stuck in the past.
He sat in the grass a while longer, reminiscing. Only weeks ago, an enchanted blade had struck him and stolen his voice. The words he had been unable to utter had burned in him like coals. How he had longed to tell Sidra all that he had been withholding from her.
He didn’t want to waste time anymore, time that he could never regain. Had he not learned this lesson in the harshest of ways by now? Wake up! the isle seemed to say to him. Open your eyes, Torin. Look at who you are becoming.
Torin rose, brushing the dew from his plaid. He didn’t want to be away from Sidra a moment longer. He didn’t want to let anything come between them.
As he began walking briskly toward home, a light flickered at the corner his eye, stealing his attention. It looked like firelight from an open door in the distance.
Torin halted. There had been no houses in sight when he entered this valley. But he couldn’t deny that he now saw a bewitching door piercing the darkness of the hills. It was beckoning him to come closer.
He approached it carefully, his hand finding the hilt of his dirk.
An arched door was carved into the side of a hill, with long tangles of grass hanging over its lintel. Torin stood before it, transfixed. He squinted at the passage beyond the door, attempting to discern where it led to, but the path turned, leading deeper into the earth. To a place Torin couldn’t see.
This was a spirit portal.
He had dreamt of uncovering one when he was a boy. After he had devoured the tales his father told him, he had begun searching for portals on the isle, though they were concealed from mortal eyes. They hid within rocks and waterfalls and trees. Within grass and tides and gardens. The doors presented themselves only to those the spirits highly regarded.
Torin now stood before an open door that would lead him into the unknown, and he was struck with fear.
Where do you lead? Why have you opened to me?
The light began to dim. The door was about to close, and Torin had to swiftly weigh the risks against the advantages of entering.
If he passed through the door, he would be granted the chance to speak to the spirits face-to-face. He knew this invitation was extended because of the blight, for which he was desperate to find answers. If he declined and let the door close, he might never have this chance again to learn the truth about what they were facing in the orchards. The blight would continue to spread from tree to human, perhaps eventually claiming them all.
But if he entered . . . there was no telling how long he would be gone. It would most likely be only a day or two, but Sidra wouldn’t know where he was. The thought of how she would worry pierced Torin like a spear. He imagined what his absence might do to her.
And yet there was one truth that he knew without doubt: she was strong enough to live without him. She would move forward, even with him gone. She would ensure that things ran smoothly with the clan until he returned.