To his disappointment, the doors fed into storerooms, meeting chambers, and an extraordinary number of bedrooms, some of which were inhabited by the servants.
Now, hours later, Torin could sense that Jack was weary and anxious to return home. But Torin had never been one to give up a fight or a search easily. Leaning against one of the crates, he said, “There’s a set of chambers we haven’t searched yet. Alastair’s wing.”
Jack’s dark eyes were inscrutable. But with a sweeping motion of his hand, and a hint of exasperation, he urged Torin to lead the way.
Yes, they should have searched the laird’s wing first, perhaps even before the music turret, but Torin had been hesitant to enter those quarters. They were full of old memories that he both wanted to forget and yearned to relive. They were also the rooms that he and Sidra and Maisie were supposed to be living in now that he was laird, and he wasn’t certain what he would find within them.
Torin walked up a flight of carpeted stairs, then down a wide, tapestry-clad corridor. This part of the castle was quiet, catching the late afternoon sun. But as Torin approached the laird’s door, he paused, listening. He could hear distant voices. The servants, going about their tasks. The chamberlain, Edna, chiding someone. A peal of laughter and the clang of pots as dinnertime approached.
“Any day now,” Jack said.
Torin startled. How long had they been standing here? He exhaled through his teeth, face flushing, and slipped the iron key into the door.
Not even Adaira had lived in these quarters. The last time Torin had graced them, Alastair had been on his deathbed, gasping for breath. Asking for his daughter, who was absent, somewhere on the slopes of Tilting Thom with Jack as he sang for faeries.
Torin let the doors swing open.
He stared into deep shadows, smelling a faint trace of polish, as if Edna had ordered the floors to be scrubbed clean. Slowly, he passed over the threshold, letting his memory guide him to the far wall. One by one, he threw open the curtains, exposing arched windows. Rivers of sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the large bed and its red baldachin, the paintings and tapestries that muffled echoes and lent color to an otherwise drab place, the furniture covered in white sheets.
Jack followed. Seemingly unconcerned with the main room, he headed for the door on the northern wall that led to a honeycomb of inner chambers. It was unlocked, and he slipped through it, with Torin close behind him. They came upon several wardrobes, a bathing chamber with tiled floors and stained-glass windows, two more bedrooms, a sitting chamber with a hearth, and a small library.
Torin found himself thinking, Maisie would love it here. But when he tried to imagine Sidra dwelling in these chambers, all he could think was how far she would have to walk to emerge into the castle kail yard. Down cold corridors and flights of stairs, passing beneath countless lintels. They were closer to the clouds than the soil in this wing. Having grown up in a valley, roaming with her father’s flock and daily tending to the garden alongside her nan, Sidra would feel the distance.
“This one’s locked,” Jack called, his statement followed by the impatient clang of an iron handle.
Frowning, Torin walked deeper into the wing’s corridor. He found Jack standing beneath a tapestry that hung from the wall, pulling on a door that Torin would have never noticed.
“How did you know a door was there?” he asked sharply.
Jack emerged from the tapestry’s weight, gossamer in his hair. “Adaira and I used to have a secret door that connected our chambers. I assumed there would be something similar here.”
Torin grunted, hating the doubt that snaked through him. Doubt that made him feel like an imposter. But with Jack holding up the weaving so he could find the door, he moved forward with the key.
It unlocked with a sigh.
Torin couldn’t hide his shiver, the gooseflesh that rippled over him as he stepped into the hidden chamber. It was hexagonal in shape, full of bookshelves and diamond-paned windows. Long, colorful ribbons hung from the rafters above, some anchored with dried flowers and thistles, others strung with handmade stars. A threadbare rug depicting a unicorn was spread over the floor, and in the center of it was a side table, a high-backed chair, and a small harp, resting on the cushions.
“There,” Torin said, his mouth suddenly dry. “Can you play this one?”
Jack brushed past him to approach the harp. It took him a minute, as though afraid to touch someone else’s instrument. But it almost seemed as if the harp had been waiting for him. Finally, Jack took the harp in his hands and sat in the chair to closely examine it.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s been gently looked after since Lorna’s death.”
“By whom? Alastair?” Torin mused aloud, noting the silver pot and the cup of murky, half-drunk tea on the side table. Envisioning his uncle sitting in that chair, sipping tea and holding Lorna’s instrument, as if it had been yesterday, Torin shuddered again.
“No,” Jack replied, plucking one of the strings. The note resounded in the chamber, a sweet yet lonely sound. “Adaira, I would guess. She told me Lorna once tried to teach her how to play, but the music never took to her hands. But she learned how to care for the instruments. I think she must have been maintaining them until I could return.”
It was well known that music was fickle on the isle. A small number of people could handle instruments at all, and even then, only a bard and a harp could draw the spirits. For as long as Torin could remember, the east had always had a bard to sing lore and historic ballads, save for those few years between Lorna’s death and Jack’s return. But music had been woven into their isle life, long before the clan line was ever formed.
Torin met Jack’s stare.
The bard’s eyes glistened as his jaw clenched. He was first to break their gaze, casting his attention to examine the harp. Torin took that moment to look over the bookshelves, then withdrew a few tomes while giving Jack the privacy he needed.
What other secrets did you hold, Adi? Torin wondered as he surveyed the shelves. His gaze eventually was caught by a book with loose parchment between the leaves. He pulled the volume from the shelf and was surprised to find that the paper tucked within was a child’s sketch. He knew instantly that this was one of Adaira’s old drawings.