“Perfectly fine,” he said, holding up his hand to stop her from approaching. “I was simply getting the room ready for Sidra. We’ll be moving in soon.”
“Oh.” To her credit, Edna sounded more pleased than shocked. “That is wonderful news, Laird. We’ve been hoping the two of you and your sweet lass would be joining us here. Is there a date when I should have things ready?”
Torin imagined Sidra stepping into this chamber. This was the room where he was destined to sleep beside her, a chamber where he would draw sighs from her mouth and hold her against his skin, night after night. These were the walls that would watch and shelter them for the remainder of their days on the isle.
“Next week,” Torin said, clearing his throat. “And don’t worry about this . . . mess. I’ll tend to it.”
“As you want, Laird.” Edna bowed her head and slipped away, latching the door behind her.
Torin groaned, leaning his head back. He stared up at the timber beams of the ceiling. It was both a salve and a misery to be alone, but he eventually remembered the bottle of whiskey beside him.
The glass caught the fading sunlight, casting Torin’s hand in amber.
He opened the bottle and breathed in the scent of charred wood and smoked honey. He drank one sip. Then another.
He drank until the fire dulled the ache of his wounds.
Sidra knocked on Rodina Grime’s door, a basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She knew the blighted orchard was behind the cottage, out of sight, though Sidra could smell its rot on the breeze. A fermented sweetness, laced with a sour tang.
She stifled a shiver as Rodina opened the door.
“Come in, Sidra,” Rodina said, beckoning her inside with a gnarled hand. “I have a cup of tea waiting on you.”
Sidra smiled and followed the crofter into a spotless kitchen. She had brought a pie in her basket, knowing that while Rodina often appeared unemotional and aloof, the old woman had been shaken by Hamish’s death. She had lived here alone with her cats and sheep and orchard ever since her spouse passed years earlier. She most likely needed someone to talk to about what had happened.
As Sidra cut them each a slice of berry pie and shooed one of the cats off the table, Rodina settled into a straw-backed chair. She was a gruff, reserved woman who didn’t like to talk much. But there was something about sudden death that shook a heart down to its roots. Especially when death had stolen someone so young.
“A good, honest lad,” said Rodina, shifting her plaid shawl to drape it across her front, as though she was chilled. She accepted the pie from Sidra but made no effort to pour the tea, so Sidra did so. “He never complained. Was always here on time, right at sunrise, every day. I was thinking to leave him my croft, since I never had children. He would’ve taken good care of it, he would have.”
Sidra set down the kettle. She stirred a spoonful of honey and cream into her tea, doing the same for Rodina when she nodded. A second cat jumped up on the table, and Sidra gathered the tabby into her lap as she took the chair opposite the elderly woman.
She listened to Rodina praise Hamish for a while longer, eating her pie and sipping her tea, the cat purring on her lap. All the while, Sidra’s mind was whirling. She didn’t know how to tell Rodina that Hamish had drowned from the blight, which he had caught from her orchard. She didn’t know if she should impart such news, but Sidra also needed as many answers as she could glean.
“I can’t keep this from you a moment longer,” Rodina suddenly murmured with a grimace, revealing crooked front teeth. “I lied to your husband yesterday when he came to look at my orchard.”
“And what did you lie about?” Sidra asked quietly. The cat on her lap ceased purring and cracked open one slitted eye, sensing the tension in the air.
“Torin asked me if I had touched any of my sick trees, or the fruit,” Rodina began. She hesitated, shifting her plaid shawl again. This time Sidra noticed why. The crofter had been hiding her right hand. That was why she hadn’t poured the tea, and why she had been eating her pie so slowly.
Sidra stood. The cat flailed but landed on his feet, but she could scarcely hear his disgruntled meow.
“May I please examine your hand, Rodina?”
“I suppose I have no choice,” Rodina said sadly. “But please be careful, Sidra. If you catch this from me, your husband will have my head.”
“He will do nothing of the sort,” Sidra said, walking around the table. “Besides, I have good reason to believe we cannot catch the blight from each other. Only from the infected trees and fruit.”
Rodina frowned. “How do you know that?”
Sidra laid a gentle touch on the crofter’s shoulder. “Because Hamish also had it, on his leg. He and one of his brothers occasionally shared the same pair of boots, as well as slept in the same bed. And his brother hasn’t caught the blight, even as I have reason to believe Hamish was sick with it for some time.”
Rodina’s eyes filled with tears. She glanced away before Sidra could see them fall. “I was worried he might have caught it. I should have said something.”
“There is no time for regrets, Rodina. You didn’t know, nor did Hamish. But now that we are aware of this trouble, I need to find answers as quickly as I can. And you can help me with that.”
Sidra waited. Finally, Rodina nodded and held out her hand.
She had picked up one of the apples four days earlier. Sidra could see where the blight had started on the heel of her palm as a small, harmless-looking bruise. Every morning Rodina had noticed it growing. Her entire palm was now mottled violet and blue. In contrast, the lines of her palm shone, brilliant with golden filigree. She was perhaps one more sleep from the blight’s spread to the inner curl of her fingers.
Sidra refrained from touching Rodina’s hand, just to be careful, but she studied it closely and wrote down all the symptoms Rodina could provide her. Her hand ached often; her fingers felt stiff. Mobility was hindered, but Rodina’s swollen joints might be responsible for that. She had more headaches lately, and a few days of an upset stomach.
“Do you think you can heal me, Sidra?” the crofter asked. Her voice was gruff, but her tone didn’t fool Sidra. She was wary of false hope.
Sidra set down her quill. “To be honest? I’m not sure, Rodina. But I’m going to do everything I can to help you, to stop its spread and to ease your discomfort.” She reached into her basket, withdrawing a few vials of her home-brewed tonics and salves. They were earmarked for another patient, but Sidra wanted Rodina to begin taking something immediately.
She wrote down instructions and tore the page loose from her book.
Rodina sighed, hiding her infected hand beneath the plaid again. “Thank you.”
“I’ll come to visit you tomorrow morning,” Sidra said. “But if you need me before then, call for me on the wind.”
The crofter nodded and then arched her brow. “I suppose you want to see the orchard for yourself?”