They rode through the last of the storm to the vale, which was bright and sunny and sweltering. The bracken sparkled with leftover rain and the small creeks were swollen, cutting serpentine paths through the valley floor.
There was no sign of Torin.
From there, Yvaine and Sidra pressed northward, checking caves, thickets, the coast.
“I don’t think he would have wandered this far,” Sidra said, fighting the nausea that was rolling through her again. She had taken a few sips from Yvaine’s flask and eaten a portion of food from her saddlebags when the two of them rested in very brief moments for the horses’ sake. But the truth was that they had been riding hard for four hours now, and the sun was beginning to sink toward the west.
“Where do you want to go next then?” Yvaine asked.
Sidra guided them back toward the nook of the marsh. She was worried that Torin might have wandered into it, though it was a far-fetched possibility because Torin knew the east like the lines on his palm. He never got lost, even when hills shifted. Even in the dark, the nook wouldn’t have taken him by surprise.
But Sidra still wanted to see it with her own eyes. When they arrived there, she beheld the marsh’s calm presence. Birds swooped overhead and damselflies dusted the surface of the shallow water. Clusters of bog myrtle and stalks of golden-starred asphodel danced in the breeze.
Sidra thought back on how Graeme had described Torin’s call as a sigh of resignation, which Sidra had a difficult time envisioning. Torin wasn’t a man who was quick to surrender, and for the first time since Yvaine had knocked on her door and broken the news, Sidra began to consider that maybe Torin had gone somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t wounded and lying in a gully. Maybe he was hale and alive and had simply . . . left.
The thought struck her like a splinter. Sidra tried to uproot it. Cast it aside. But her resistance only made the realization nestle even deeper.
There was another realm that ran parallel to theirs, and it was beginning to bleed into their world through the blight. Sidra needed to be realistic. There was a good chance that the spirits had ushered Torin elsewhere, whether it be a shifting glen or a hill that she couldn’t see. If so, Sidra was powerless to find him.
“Sidra,” Yvaine said, interrupting her thoughts. “I think it’s time I take you back to Graeme’s. The sun is setting, and it looks like another storm is blowing in for the night.”
“I can keep searching,” Sidra protested, but her voice was faint. Her head was splitting again, her back aching.
“No,” the captain said firmly. “I need you to eat a good meal and rest tonight, safe at Graeme’s. I’ll come for you at first light tomorrow morning, and we’ll discuss this further.”
“Discuss what?” Sidra snapped, but her anger was a short-lived spark. She met Yvaine’s gaze, saw the same truths lurking in the captain’s face.
Torin wasn’t dead or missing. He had gone somewhere—somewhere they couldn’t locate.
Sidra sighed.
She rode with Yvaine back to Graeme’s croft, just as eventide’s storm billowed like ink across the sky. She thanked Yvaine and the horse that had carried her all afternoon, then watched the captain ride away toward Sloane.
Sidra trudged through the garden to Graeme’s front door. Her legs were sore from hours of riding, and she couldn’t tell if she was starving or nauseous again, not until she stepped into the cottage.
Maisie was sitting at the table, about to eat supper. Graeme had something sizzling in the skillet, and he glanced up, relieved to see her.
“There you are,” he greeted Sidra. “Just in time for dinner. Here, I’ve got you a plate ready . . .”
The aroma of the food hit her like a fist, instantly making her gag.
Sidra covered her mouth and turned. She stumbled back into the kail yard, trying to make it to the gate, but she couldn’t. She knelt and heaved between the rows of vegetables, her fingers sinking into the wet soil. Again and again she vomited, until she was scraped empty and the rain was falling like whispers on the leaves around her.
Shaking, with tears dripping from her lashes, she wiped her mouth and closed her eyes. Breathe, she told herself, as the thunder rumbled above her and the wind stilled.
She felt a warm, steady hand on her shoulder. She knew it was Graeme, and she sat back on her heels.
“I’m sorry,” she began to say, but he tightened his hold on her, wordlessly halting her apology.
“I take it you didn’t find him,” Graeme said sadly.
Sidra stared into the distance, watching night deepen. “No. There’s no sign of him.”