Adaira laid her hand on the door. It unlocked as soon as the wood absorbed her blood, and she carefully eased the door open. She took a tentative step inside, her eyes sweeping her surroundings.
The one chamber of the cottage had packed dirt floors and timber beams overhead. Furniture from a time long past was coated in dust and strung with gossamer. There was a hearth, a kitchen nook with rusted iron pots, a small bed in one corner covered with moth-eaten blankets, and a table scattered with ancient books. A bowl sat at the head of the table, surrounded by scattered parchment, as if the last person who lived here had been interrupted at breakfast.
There was a strange silence to the place, almost like the sound of water, of being held beneath the surface. Or maybe it was the silence of the wind beyond the walls, as if this little island on the loch had frozen in time. The air was heavy and far too still.
Adaira stopped at the table and looked at the sheets of parchment scattered across it. They held a musical composition. For a moment, she could only stare down at the inked notes in disbelief, her heart quickening.
Innes had said the west locked away its music and instruments. Adaira had just found part of it.
She walked deeper into the shadows. Through the dusky light, she saw the far wall. It glistened, as if it breathed.
Adaira’s hand found her sword hilt. She dared to take a step closer, frowning. And then the sight of what hung on the wall struck her like a fist and she halted, wide-eyed as she stared at an array of harps.
A few of them still had their strings and hung on the wall. Most of them had cracked from the weight of being untouched for years and lay in scattered pieces on the floor. But there was something else on the wall, gleaming in the light.
As Adaira stared at the slender segments, her blood turned to ice.
Bones.
A skeleton was hanging on the wall.
Chapter 20
Sidra sat in a chair before Moray Breccan’s cell. The dungeons were cold and dimly lit. Water dripped from the ceiling, and the air was laced with every scent imaginable—wet stone, burning pitch, stale hay mattresses, and human refuse.
She almost vomited, but by sheer will held everything down.
Moray sat on the edge of his cot, watching her intently through the iron bars. In the beginning, he had been shackled to the wall. Eventually, Torin had ordered Moray’s wrists and ankles set free, but he was still confined to his small cell. It had taken a while longer, but Torin had then agreed to let Moray request a few books from the library and given him a proper blanket to keep warm with and a plaid, void of all enchantments, to wrap around his shoulders.
Of course, the plaid was red and green, colors the Tamerlaines favored. It took a few days in the frigid bowels of the castle for Moray to finally relent and start wearing it.
“Have you heard from Cora?” Moray rasped.
Sidra continued to stare at him. She would never forget that he had kicked her in the chest and beaten her into the heather. That he had taken her daughter, provoking the worst anguish Sidra had ever known.
“Have you heard from my sister?” Moray persisted.
“Adaira is well,” Sidra said in a clipped tone. “Why have you asked to speak with me?”
“May I write a letter to her?”
“No.”
“If I dictate a letter, would you transcribe it for me?”
“No,” Sidra said again.
Moray’s eyes seemed to grow darker, like night descending on a loch. But Sidra held his stare, unflinching.
“Where is the laird?” he finally asked, and his tone was smug. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your husband. How does he fare?”
“I’ll tell him you asked after him,” Sidra said, beginning to rise.
Moray panicked and stood, holding out a grimy hand. “Wait, Lady! There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
Sidra resumed her seat, but only because her foot was throbbing. “If it’s more books you want, you’ve had plenty. If it’s another blanket, I’ll consider it. If it’s to write your parents, my answer is no.”
“How much longer?” Moray asked, slowly sitting back down on his mattress. He pulled the Tamerlaine plaid tighter around his shoulders. “How much longer will I be here, and is there a way I can prove my honor? Perhaps you could choose your finest, strongest warrior and let us fight to the death, see which of us prevails?”
Sidra was shocked, and he must have seen it in her expression.
“Let the sword decide if I deserve to live or die,” he said.
“No.”
She didn’t tell him this, but the council had decided to keep him imprisoned for a decade. Ten full years. By then, the anger the Tamerlaines felt toward Moray’s sins would be diminished, and they would return him to the west with a long list of conditions. But most important, Adaira would be able to finally come home if she wanted.