It was true; even if a neighbor’s crop didn’t do well, or the Breccans stole from them, others in the Tamerlaine clan would rally and help provide what had been lost. The laird could even distribute provisions from the castle stores. There was never a need to hoard or steal, although it still happened on rare occasions.
“In some ways, I’m glad for it,” Innes continued. “I’m relieved that you’ve never gone days without eating, or drunk water that made you sick, or had to fight someone you once loved to take what they have. But it has made you too soft, Cora. And if you are going to thrive here, you must wear those places down to bone.”
“I understand,” Adaira replied, perhaps too quickly. But she was keen to find acceptance among her blood clan, to reach that point where she was no longer regarded with mistrust, or watched everywhere she went, or doubted when she spoke.
And in some small, hidden place in her chest that she was almost afraid to acknowledge, Adaira wanted to earn her mother’s respect.
Innes’s blue eyes narrowed, her fingers closing over the vial to conceal it in her fist. She brought her knuckles to her lips for a moment, and Adaira felt perspiration trickle down the curve of her spine. She wondered if she was about to face her first challenge to slough off the softness.
“When Rab Pierce requested my ‘wisdom,’ he was asking me to consider blessing a raid on the east,” Innes explained. “Doing so staves off crime and desperation among my people, and my dungeons are already full of criminals. When Rab finds the culprit who murdered the shepherd, there will be one more hungry person locked into the darkness.”
Adaira was silent. A protest was rising in her throat, but she curled her tongue and kept the words between her teeth.
“With your brother in the Tamerlaines’ holding,” Innes said, “I cannot bless a raid on the east. But there is another way I can quell the growing hunger of the clan, one that I will announce tomorrow night when I summon my thanes and their heirs to a feast in my hall.”
She tossed the vial across the space. Adaira’s hands were clumsy with surprise, but she caught it before the glass could tumble to the ground.
“What is this?” she asked hoarsely, watching the liquid settle.
“It’s called Aethyn,” Innes answered. “It’s what killed your sister. The only poison in the west that we don’t have an antidote to counter. Because it has no odor or taste, someone’s drink can be poisoned with no fear of detection.”
Adaira’s body turned leaden. If Innes had commanded her to rise, she wouldn’t have been able to. But her blood was coursing, hot and swift in her veins. “Are you asking me to poison one of your thanes tomorrow night?”
Innes was quiet, a beat too long for Adaira’s liking. “No. I am asking you to attend this dinner, so I can formally introduce you to the Breccan nobility as my daughter. But you cannot come and sit at a table among them without being prepared.”
“So you are asking me to poison myself with it first?”
“Yes. It’s a small dose.”
“But it could kill me?”
“Not in that amount. It will act as a buffer, a protection, should your cup be poisoned with a deadlier dose. You will feel side effects, however, and you’ll need to continue taking the doses in order to build up a tolerance to it.”
Adaira laughed, wondering if she were dreaming. But she bit the inside of her cheek when she saw Innes’s countenance turn cold.
“And what if I don’t want to poison myself?” she asked. “What then?”
“You stay in your room tomorrow night. You don’t come to the feast, and you don’t officially meet my nobles,” Innes replied, rising. She began to extinguish the candle flames with her fingertips. The burrow slowly succumbed to darkness once more. “But the choice is yours, Cora.”
Chapter 5
Frae was sprawled on the rug before the hearth, reading one of her books, when the fire suddenly died. There was a flash of heat and a pop before the wood crumbled into ash, and Frae lurched back with a gasp, watching as the flames were extinguished into smoke.
She was so surprised by the odd behavior of the fire—she had just added a fresh log to the blaze—that it took her a moment to know what to do. The cottage felt off balance without a lit hearth. Frae closed her book and cautiously rose to her feet. Mirin had given her the task of making tea for supper, and the kettle on the iron hook still needed to boil. She decided to start a new fire with the kindling in the basket and the flint, but as the sparks flew and refused to light, Frae knew something was wrong.
Mirin was in the kail yard, gathering greens for dinner, and Jack was in his bedroom. Frae had seen the new harp he had carried home yesterday, and it had taken everything within her to swallow the questions she wanted to pepper him with.
Where did you get the harp? Does this mean you’re going to play again?
She worried that it would irritate him to ask him too many things, or somehow dissuade him from strumming the new harp, even though Jack had always been gentle and kind to her. And she knew he must be busy with something important since he had been cloistered in his bedroom since yesterday.
Frae still decided to go to him first with her troubles.
She approached his door and knocked. “Jack?”
“Come in, Frae.”
The door creaked open, and Frae politely peered inside. She saw her older brother sitting at his desk before the window. The shutters were open, welcoming in the cool summer dusk and the song of an owl, and on his desk was a strange array of moss, bracken, wilted wildflowers, small branches, and braided grass.
“What are you doing?” she asked, drawn to the strangeness until she stepped closer and saw that he had been writing musical notes on parchment.
“I’m working on a new composition,” he said, setting down his quill to smile at her. Ink stained his fingers and his hair looked messy, but Frae didn’t say anything. She had noticed Jack was not the neatest of people and often left his plaid and clothes crumpled on the floor.
“Will I get to hear it?” she asked.
“Maybe. This song is for an important task, but I can play another one just for you.”
“Tonight?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. “I’m afraid I need to get this ballad done as quickly as possible.”
“Oh.”
“Did you need help with something, Frae?”
That reminded her. She blurted out, “The fire died.”
Jack frowned. “Do you need me to build a new one?”
“I mean, I tried to,” she said. “It won’t light, and I don’t know what to do.”
Her brother rose from his chair and walked into the dim common room. Frae followed, biting a hangnail. She watched as Jack reached for kindling in the basket, as he stacked fresh wood in the hearth. The flint sparked in his hand, but the fire refused to take. Eventually he leaned back on his heels, starting at the ashes.
“Do you think it’s because of the harp?” Frae whispered.
Jack glanced at her sharply. “The harp?”
“The new one you brought home yesterday. Perhaps the fire wants you to play it.”