They stared at each other, neither of them giving up ground.
Finally, Adaira decided to relent. She said, “You want me to be your heiress, and yet you are choosing to overlook the fact that I wasn’t raised as you were. I’m far more Tamerlaine than Breccan in my sensibilities, and for that, I am only destined to disappoint you and this clan.”
“That is not true,” Innes snarled.
Adaira took a step back, surprised by the unguarded feeling in her mother’s voice. Innes also seemed upset by her fraying emotions. She glanced away, seeking to compose herself.
Innes’s discomfort made Adaira’s heart ache for her, for all the things her mother had lost and surrendered to become who and what she was.
Was it all worth it?
“To live your life you have forged yourself to be as strong as possible,” Adaira said. “You have made yourself like a blade that is hammered over fire and quenched in water. Day after day. But there is nothing weak in being soft, in being gentle.”
Innes was silent, staring at the floor.
“I cannot change what I am,” Adaira whispered, “no more than you can, Mother.”
Innes pivoted to hide her face, but not before Adaira saw the tears in her eyes.
“Leave me.”
It was an order, one that chilled Adaira with uncertainty. But she left, as Innes wanted. She walked the corridors, once again surprised by how naturally that word had emerged from her, as though she had been longing to say it for years. Years before she had even realized who Innes was to her.
Mother.
Chapter 39
Jack could see his breath.
It was late as he sat at Adaira’s desk wrapped in a blue plaid, studying Iagan’s composition again. He could still hear the notes in his mind, as if Kae’s memory had become his own. He could still see the wings torn from Hinder, the gorse stolen from Whin’s crown. The shells taken from Ream and the scepter forced out of Ash’s hands.
If Jack had the time, he would pick apart Iagan’s ballad, note by note. He would steal this music and rework it into something new and brilliant. A long, measured song that would inspire the good of the isle and the spirits. He would viciously unravel Iagan’s hierarchy. With sufficient time, Jack could compose a ballad clever and well structured enough to be immortalized. But as the storm howled beyond the walls and the temperature dropped to levels so bitter it felt like deep winter, Jack knew his hour had nearly come.
He would need to play spontaneously. He would need to sing from his heart, and he didn’t know what to expect.
He hated surprises and being unprepared for a task. Yet listening to the storm, he knew he had no other option but to attempt it before Bane tore every tree, every rock, every structure clean off the island.
Jack rose from the desk and reached for his harp. He stood before the hearth and began to tend to the instrument, but his hands were chilled and stiff. He knelt to feed the fire, but the flames seemed to be struggling to burn, casting only a small ring of light and warmth.
“When should I play?” Jack whispered to the fire.
There was no response from Ash, although Jack sensed the spirit was close. He was still watching the fire burn, low and weak, when Adaira stepped into the chamber. She had been with Innes, debriefing after the tumultuous evening, and then visiting with Sidra.
Jack rose to face her, cradling his harp.
Adaira looked exhausted as she walked to him. But the lines in her face eased when she saw the harp he held. It was Lorna’s, the one Adaira had been tending to while she waited for Jack’s return to the isle. As she reached out to lovingly trace its frame, he knew that countless memories must be wrapped up in this harp for her.
“How was your talk with Innes?” he asked, eager to touch her. He brushed her face with his knuckles.
“Fine,” Adaira said in a tone that made him think it had been anything but fine. “And your hand is like ice, Jack.”
“Perhaps you can warm it for me.” He was about to edge her to the bed when she smiled.
“I can warm more than just your hand,” she promised, but she slipped away from his touch, easing her way back to the door with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “But you’ll have to follow me, old menace.”
Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Set down your harp. I wouldn’t want it to rust,” she said, opening the door. “And make sure you have your plaid.”
Intrigued, Jack relinquished his instrument and drew his plaid more closely about his shoulders. He had no idea where Adaira was taking him as he followed her through a winding array of quiet corridors. It was late, most likely around the midnight hour, and the castle was slumbering. It was also darker than Jack remembered it being here. The torches that lit the passages burned low, just like the fire in the hearth. The sight of their fading blue hearts concerned Jack, and he inwardly pleaded, Let me have this night with her and come sunrise I’ll be yours to play to whatever end.
A foolish thing, to bargain with spirits. But Jack felt strangely desperate in that cold, shadowed moment.
“Do you remember your first night in my chamber?” Adaira said when they reached a large, arched doorway. “How you bathed?”
“How could I forget?” he drawled. “I could hardly fit in that tub.”
“That’s because Breccans don’t bathe in their bedrooms,” Adaira explained. “They either go to a loch or come here.” She pushed open the door.
Jack followed her into a damp passageway. It was considerably warmer here, and the stones beneath his feet were slick. Adaira carefully led him down a winding stairwell to a chamber that opened up into a vast, underground spring, with stone pillars holding up the cave’s ceiling. Torches cast faint light on a cistern, and Jack could see that there were different ways to enter it, all with stairs leading down into the water.
Adaira wasn’t the only one who had thought of this place on such a long night, when the wind was icy and the fire was weak. Jack could see a few Breccans wading in the shadowy water, their voices low murmurs bouncing off the stone. Jack followed Adaira until they reached a more private area.
She began to undress without another word, carefully setting her clothes and plaid on a dry patch of stone. Jack was still trying to take it all in—he had never been in a place like this, which felt like the secret heart of the isle—and he watched as Adaira stepped into the cistern. The dark water swallowed her pale legs, and the steam rose around her. She went in deeper, soaking to her shoulders, and her moon-white hair rippled behind her.
She turned, sensing his gaze. “Are you coming, my old menace?”