The two of them had to be creative these days, stealing quick moments in corners and in dusty storerooms and even on the kitchen table when Maisie was napping.
“No, let her sleep with us tonight,” Sidra said.
She inevitably thought about James and Trista, and how their arms must be aching that night. Sidra had felt an echo of that pain not so long ago, and she couldn’t help but gaze at Maisie for a long moment before she corked her ink and set down her quill.
A few minutes passed as Sidra reread her recordings. She suddenly noted how silent the room was; not even the wind blew beyond the walls. It felt eerie, like the quiet before a deadly storm, and Sidra turned in the chair, wondering if Torin had also fallen asleep. He was awake, staring into the shadows of the room, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be far away, lost in troubled thoughts.
“You wanted to speak to me earlier,” Sidra said, pitching her voice low so Maisie wouldn’t wake. “About Hamish.”
Torin’s attention sharpened. “Yes. I didn’t want his parents to hear what I am about to tell you.”
Sidra stood with a shiver. “What is it?”
“Come to bed first. You are too far away from me.”
Despite the dread that weighed her down, she smiled. She began to blow out the candles, one by one, until only a rushlight remained, illuminating the way to her side of the bed.
She slipped beneath the quilts and faced Torin, their daughter dreaming between them.
Torin was quiet for a beat. He caressed Maisie’s hair, as if he needed to feel something soft, something tangible. But then he began to speak of the blighted orchard. The glittering, oozing sap. The rotten, underripe fruit. Fallen from trees that Hamish had cared for.
Sidra’s heart was in her throat. The words felt thick as she stated, “He caught the blight from the trees. From the spirits.”
Torin met her stare. His eyes were bloodshot. There was silver in his beard, in a few strands of his hair. His soul felt ancient and sad in that moment, and Sidra reached out to trace his hand.
“Yes,” Torin whispered. “I think he did as well.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with Jack’s music?”
Torin fell pensive. Sidra could read his mind.
When Torin had become laird, Jack had confided in both of them that Lorna Tamerlaine had once played for the spirits of the sea and earth every year. Her offering of praise had kept the east thriving, and as the clan’s current bard, Jack would do the same. It was a secret only the laird and the bard held, out of respect for the folk, but it would be impossible to keep such a secret from Sidra, as she had already come to suspect that Jack was singing for the spirits. It made him ill every time.
“He sang for the earth and the sea,” Torin said. “When he and Adaira were looking for the girls last month.”
“But he also played for the wind, which caused it to storm for several days.”
Torin grimaced. “So maybe the northern wind is displeased with something we’ve done?”
“Yes, maybe,” Sidra said. “But I’d like to see this orchard for myself.”
“Do you think you’ll find answers within it, Sid?”
Sidra’s lips parted, but she hesitated. She didn’t want to give reassurance just yet. Not when it felt like she was treading deep waters.
“I’m not sure, Torin. But I’m beginning to believe the blight is a symptom of something far more troubling, and only the spirits of the infected trees hold the answer. Which means . . .”
Torin sighed, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. “We need Jack to sing for the earth again.”
Chapter 2
“Shit.”
Jack’s boot slid in a pile of manure. He nearly lost his balance and swung his arms out to catch himself, but not before he saw his little sister’s wide-eyed stare. Frae had come to a halt, as if his curse had frozen her to the kail-trampled ground.
“I didn’t mean that,” Jack rushed to say to her. But he had never been good at spinning lies. This entire day was shit—the past month had been shit—and he and Frae were both trying to chase the neighbor’s cow out of their yard, while preserving as much of the garden as possible.
The cow bellowed a moo, stealing Frae’s attention again.
“Oh no!” she cried as the heifer began to tromp the beans.
Jack shifted to drive the cow forward, where the yard gate sat open. The animal panicked and spun around, churning up the stalks, and Jack had no choice but to step into the pile of manure again, trying to cut her off.