Bastards.
The Breccans were reading her letters, which meant they were most likely also reading the ones Jack wrote to her. And perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised by this notion, but he was. As her husband, he had expected—at the very least—the courtesy of privacy when it came to their correspondence.
He skimmed all three of her letters again, this time seeing things he hadn’t before. By instructing him to “read between the lines of this letter,” she had made them obvious.
“Quite subtle of you, Adaira,” he murmured, but his face flushed. He hated that it had taken him so long to realize it. As he sat at his desk, Jack wondered if the two of them could communicate in code.
He pushed aside his composition for the orchard and found a blank piece of parchment. He opened his inkwell, found his quill, its nib almost worn down, and wrote:
Dear Adaira,
Duly noted.
And you’re correct (not surprisingly) to say that your letter caught me off guard. But let me add this: the last thing I ever wanted was to cause trouble for you and the west. My sincerest apologies that I didn’t consider this a possibility. But I see it as well as know it now. I will do what I can from here to rectify my mistake.
Also am glad to hear that all is well with you, and I hope to hear from you soon.
—Your one and only O.M.
P.S.—I did imagine your reaction between the lines. You can imagine mine now.
P.P.S.—Forgot to add that Mirin and Frae send their love.
Jack reached for his wax pourer, only to remember there was no fire to heat it. He leaned back, raking his hands through his hair with a huff of annoyance. Who were their closest neighbors? The Elliotts, if the hill spirits didn’t play mischief and tack on a few more kilometers.
Jack imagined asking to “borrow a flame” from them and thought how ridiculous that sounded. But then he wondered if maybe other eastern hearths had gone dark last night.
He gathered up his letter, struck by an idea.
There was someone besides the Elliotts he needed to visit.
Sidra was crushing a medley of herbs with her pestle and mortar, a pot of oats bubbling over the fire, when she heard the dog bark. She had learned the different sounds Yirr made, and this one meant someone was at the gate.
She set down the pestle and quietly strode to the door, cracking it open to find Jack standing on the kail yard path, his gaze cautiously set on Yirr.
“Hush, Yirr,” Sidra said to her dog. “It’s all right. He’s a friend.”
The black-and-white collie whined but sat, allowing Jack to step closer.
“You’re here early,” Sidra remarked.
Jack smiled, but he seemed flustered. “Sorry. I should’ve thought about that. I hope I didn’t wake you or Torin, but I needed a flame and to show you something important.”
“A flame?” Sidra was intrigued, welcoming Jack inside. “And no, Torin is already at the castle for the day. Maisie is asleep, though, so if you could keep your voice low?”
Jack nodded and stepped over the threshold. Sidra latched the door and offered him a seat at the kitchen table, pushing bundles of herbs aside.
“Can I get you anything to eat or drink, Jack? I’ve got parritch on the fire, as well as a kettle for tea.”
“No, but thank you, Sidra. Just a flame and your wax seal.”
When she gaped at him, he held up a letter.
“For Adaira,” he clarified.
Sidra shut her mouth and quietly stole into the bedroom to fetch the wax and seal from her desk. Maisie was still sprawled in the middle of the bed, sleeping in a tangle of blankets, and Sidra glanced at her daughter before returning to the common room.
“Dare I ask what has happened?” she said, watching as Jack began to warm wax over a candle flame.
“Yes,” he said. “The fire has died in Mirin’s hearth, to begin with.”
Sidra’s heart stuttered. “What?”
She listened as Jack recounted the previous night, as well as that morning. How nothing would light, not kindling or wood or peat. Not even the candles.
“This is troubling news,” Sidra said, but her attention was quickly caught by Jack’s disastrous letter-sealing skills. “And that is quite a bit of wax you’re using.”
“Aye,” he said vibrantly. “And good luck to the bastard who opens this first.”
Sidra lowered herself to a chair, watching as Jack pressed the Tamerlaine seal into the huge mound of wax.
“They’re reading Adaira’s post?” she drawled in disbelief.
“Yes,” Jack replied. “And I should have realized it sooner. All of us should have. Tell Torin not to write anything sensitive in his letters, because the Breccans are reading it.”
“How do you know this, Jack?”
Jack explained, showing the wax stain on Adaira’s recent letter, which he had brought with him. “They remove her seal, or ours, read the letter, and reseal it.”
“That’s . . . I can’t even think of a word to say!”
“Despicable?” Jack offered.
“Yes,” Sidra hissed. “Poor Adi. Do you think . . . ?”
“She’s all right, but now it makes sense why her letters have been few and far between.”
The kettle began to hiss on the hearth. Sidra made to rise, but felt a sharp twinge in her left foot. It was so unexpected that she almost lost her balance, and Jack quickly stood, hand outstretched to catch her.
“I’m fine,” she said, waving away his concern. “Here, do you want a cup of tea before you go?”
“No, but thank you for the wax and the flame,” Jack said. “I also came here to ask you for a tonic or two.”
“What for?” Sidra asked, removing the kettle from the iron hook.
Jack was quiet for a beat, drawing her attention. He was gazing down at the letter in his hand, with its blob of a seal, but when he glanced up once more, a faint smile was on his lips.
“I’m going to sing for the spirits again.”
Sidra waited until Jack had departed and the cottage was quiet once more.
Exhausted, she sat down in the chair that Donella had once haunted when the ghost had paid her seasonal visits. She poured herself a cup of tea and watched the steam rise in the morning light.
You’re procrastinating.
She sighed and unlaced her boot, letting it slip from her foot. She reached for her stocking, drawing it down her leg. There were any number of reasons why her foot had emitted that sharp ache, and she wanted to reassure herself, to brush away her worries. There had been nothing to see that morning when she dressed. She knew, because she had been keeping a close eye on it.
With the stocking peeled away, Sidra stared down at the curve of her foot, then blinked, shock tangling like briars in her chest. There was a small spot that could nearly pass for a bruise but wasn’t. A mottled touch of purple and gold on her heel. Blight was seeping beneath her olive-toned skin.
Sidra drew the stocking back onto her foot.
Chapter 8