Torin shifted closer, his skin warm against hers. They were both filthy—there was dirt beneath her nails and grime in her hair—and yet Sidra hadn’t cared. She had unwound from her clothes and laid down, exhausted until Torin had joined her beneath the blanket.
He gazed at her a moment. His irises were blue as cornflowers, with an inner ring of brown. The color of sky and soil. She noticed that a few flowers were still hiding in his hair. She thought they suited him and let them be.
“You couldn’t see me, but I was with you, Sid,” he said, tracing her arm. “Even from the other side, I could see you vividly.”
She mulled over that, wondering if she had ever felt his presence. Maybe once or twice, she realized. Whenever she felt a draft in the castle.
“I was at a loss on how to solve the riddle,” he continued. “A riddle that would give me the answer to the blight. And so I watched as you prepared salves and healed your patients, thinking, if I paid close enough attention, I would find the answer in your hands.”
“And did you?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He smiled, linking their fingers together. “And Maisie also helped.”
Sidra listened as Torin told her everything. She was swept away by his story, by the riddle and his plight, by the flowers he gathered and his failed attempts. By a hill spirit named Hap, who had become his friend in adversity.
“There were quite a few moments when I didn’t think I would find the answer,” he confessed. “I think I would still be in the spirits’ realm, stranded and adrift, if I hadn’t realized that you had been affected by the blight.” He was quiet for a beat as he touched the black tangles of her hair. “There were some moments when I wondered why you didn’t tell me, and I ached over that. And then I realized that you were doing all that you could to save us, and I should have been ready and eager to work alongside you to find the answer.”
Sidra briefly closed her eyes, overwhelmed by his softly spoken words. “If you saw that I was touched by the blight,” she began, gazing at him again, “then did you also see—”
She didn’t have time to finish. Torin’s hand had shifted beneath the blanket, coming to rest on her belly.
“Yes,” he said with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “Another reason why I was so desperate to come home to you.”
Sidra laughed, a breathless sound. “I’m still in a bit of shock, Torin.”
“As am I,” he agreed, his voice warm with mirth. “Although I couldn’t be more pleased, Sid. To make a child with you.” He shifted so that he was on top of her, keeping all of his weight on his elbows and knees, as if he worried he might crush her. “I hope the bairn has your eyes and your smile, your laughter and your courage. Your skills and your patience and your kindness.” He kissed her throat, just above the pulse of her heart. “I hope our child inherits all of your traits and only a few of mine.”
“Half of me and half of you,” Sidra insisted. “Until they become their own person.”
Torin gazed down at her. She thought she saw pride in him, and maybe a hint of fear. She added wryly, “Do you think Maisie will be happy with the news?”
He chuckled. “She will no doubt be thrilled. You and I will have our hands full, Sid.” But then his smile faded, and Sidra saw another light reflecting in his eyes.
She reached up to touch him, and Torin’s face furrowed, lined in what could have been pain or pleasure.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Or the bairn.”
“You are not going to hurt me, or the bairn,” she replied, drawing him closer.
They gasped as their bodies joined together. She knew it had only been a few weeks since she had felt him inside her, but they had been divided by realms. They had been weeks when she had wondered if she would ever hold him or see him again. If she would ever feel his breath glide across her skin or taste his mouth with hers or hear his voice in the dark.
She was home with Torin. She may have been in the west, with sunlight streaming in through the window, but she was home in his arms. She had never felt safer, or more deeply known and loved as he whispered her name.
And Sidra watched the flowers drift from Torin’s hair.
Adaira carried Jack’s harp over the western hills. The sky was a brilliant blue above her as the clouds dissipated in the sun. The trees had been stripped of their leaves in the storm; their branches stood stark in the afternoon light, casting crooked shadows on the grass. The heather had been flattened, and the wildflowers broken. And yet, with each moment that passed, the earth seemed to come alive, basking in the sunshine.
She walked past a few crofts, but she didn’t stop to speak with the Breccans, who were repairing their homesteads and cleaning up debris. She strayed from the road and followed a familiar valley to a wood, and then walked farther, to a loch.
The cottage that had once held Kae was just as Adaira had left it days ago, undisturbed by the storm. She walked the earthen bridge to the front door, which sat wide open, its enchantment broken.
Adaira stepped into the cool shadows. She didn’t know why she had come here, to a loch that had been cursed. She didn’t know why she felt drawn to this place, and she felt the last of her hope wane as she stared at the skeleton hanging on the wall.
Of course Jack wouldn’t be here. He was no longer in her realm—the fire had claimed him—and Adaira sat, heavy with heartache, on the edge of the palliasse. She remained there for a long time, watching the sunlight deepen to a lusty gold. Birds trilled in the kail yard, their sweet songs mingling with the chirp of crickets and the occasional plop of a fish surfacing from the loch. A breeze sighed, bobbing the tall weed and thistles beyond the walls. A tendril of that gentle wind slipped in through the open door and touched Adaira’s face like a loving hand.
She wondered if it was Kae, watching over her.
Adaira considered leaving Jack’s harp in the cottage, but then thought no. It would remain with her, even though it had been a long time since Lorna Tamerlaine had tried to teach Adaira how to play. It had been years since Adaira had sat at a harp, her fingers poised as she tried to master the notes. The music had resisted her, but perhaps only because she had also been resistant to it.
Adaira softly traced the harp’s frame now. Eventide was falling; she needed to return home to her parents before they worried about her absence. And yet still she waited, until the first star broke the sky. A cold distant fire that faithfully burned, like the stars she had seen crowning Jack.
She dared to pluck a note from his harp.
Chapter 43