“I’m leaving,” Jack said the moment he stepped into the castle library. He was so eager to make the announcement that it took him half a moment to realize that Torin was wincing, slumped over the desk, and shielding his eyes from the sunlight that streamed in through the window.
“You what now?” Torin growled as he painstakingly dipped a quill into an inkwell. It looked like he was trying to write in the ledger and was doing a poor job of it. The lines were crooked, and blots marred every other word.
Jack closed the door behind him, taking a closer look at Torin and the amount of whiskey left in the bottle by his elbow.
“Long night?”
“Something of the sort.” Torin sighed, flicking the quill away. “You say you’re leaving. Where to?”
Jack hesitated. The words still tasted strange in his mouth. He thought he knew the proper way to break this news to Torin—who possessed the power to deny him permission to leave—and yet his carefully laid argument crumbled in that moment.
Torin’s brow lowered. “Don’t tell me you’re returning to the mainland.”
“No,” Jack nearly laughed. “ Of course not.”
“Then where? The suspense is killing me, Jack.”
“I’m going west,” he said. “To be with Adaira.”
Torin stared at him for what felt like a solid hour. A dark, angry gaze that made Jack bristle.
“Has she invited you to be with her then?”
Jack drew a sharp breath. “No.”
Torin chuckled and leaned back in his chair. Jack frowned, wondering if Torin was still drunk. Was this conversation doomed from the beginning?
“I need you here, Jack.”
“What for? I have proven myself to be quite useless. Ask the orchard if you need further proof.”
“On the contrary. You are the clan’s hope.”
Jack grimaced, but he was prepared for this statement. Perhaps he was selfish for thinking of himself and Adaira first, the isle second, the clan third. But he would never forget how quickly the clan had turned on Adaira. He would never forget their doubt, their scathing judgment, their sharp comments when they realized she was Breccan by blood. How deep their betrayal had cut her, even as she strove to hide her pain.
No, Jack would never forget. He remembered names and faces, and who had said what. It would be a long while before he’d want to sing and play for such people. At least, not until they apologized to Adaira.
And to lose her now would be worse than drowning, worse than burning. If he was the one to play for unity—if he had been asked to bring down the tyrannical king of the spirits—then he needed Adaira at his side in order to accomplish those impossible tasks.
“I spoke to a fire spirit,” Jack said. He hadn’t planned to fully confess to Torin about dragging himself home in defeat to a darkened cottage and singing to the ashes. But Jack saw no other way to convince the laird. Torin listened with a narrowed gaze, but he seemed to grasp every word Jack was uttering, and even the ones he didn’t. The implications of what Jack was saying.
Torin leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. The signet ring gleamed on his forefinger as he covered his face for a moment, as though he wanted to wake from a dream. But when his hands dropped, Jack saw the resignation in his bleary eyes.
“Who am I to hold you back then?” Torin said, in a heavy voice carved by sadness. “If you have been appointed by a spirit to go, then you should go, Jack. Go and be with Adaira once more. Sing the isle to unity. We shall be here, waiting for you to return if fate wills it.”
Jack stood silent for a moment, overcome.
A smile teased Torin’s mouth. “You expected me to oppose you?”
“Yes,” Jack confessed. “I know it seems that I’m abandoning the clan and my duties.”
“Don’t worry about what others are going to think. But I suppose I should ask you how and when you plan to depart.”
“I’ll go by river,” Jack replied. “As soon as I can.”
“Meaning today?”
“Most likely.”
“Eager, are we?” Torin countered.
“I’ve been away from her long enough, I think,” Jack said.
Torin held his gaze for a beat, but nodded. “I sense there’s nothing I can say to hold you back. Not even how foolish this is, to cross over without alerting Adaira.”
“My correspondence with her has been closely monitored. Nothing I write to her is private.”
“Yes, Sidra told me,” Torin said. “And you still think it wise to take Adi by surprise with your arrival?”
“I’ve written her a letter in code,” Jack said. “I think she’ll be able to read between the lines and know I’m coming to her.”
“You’ll leave it all to that chance then?” Torin crossed his arms. “What if Adaira doesn’t get your letter, or your ‘code’ is so subtle she doesn’t realize it means you are physically coming to her? What then?”
“Then she’ll be surprised to see me,” Jack said. Before Torin could retort, he added, “And I’d like for you to write a letter of my intent. I’ll carry it with me in case I do run into trouble.”
Torin frowned, but he reached for a piece of parchment on the desk and began to write a—lamentably—crooked message. He let Jack read it. The letter was succinct yet practical, stating that Jack had arrived in the west to reunite with his wife, Adaira, and bore no ill will toward the Breccan clan.
“Good,” Jack said. “Can you seal it for me?”
Torin seemed a bit annoyed, but he heeded Jack’s request, sealing the letter in wax with his signet ring.
“Anything else I can do for you, Bard?” Torin drawled.
Jack shook his head, but then caught himself. “Will you keep an eye on my mum and sister while I’m away? They’ve managed just fine without me the past eight years or so, but I’ll be worried about them regardless. I don’t know how long I’ll be away.”
Torin’s mood turned somber. “Don’t worry. Mirin and Frae will be looked after. And I want you to write to me, as soon as you reach Adaira in the west, so none of us worry about you.” He paused, as if he wanted to say more.
“I’ll send word.”
Torin remained quiet, pensive.
“What is it?” Jack prompted, his patience beginning to wane.
“You know that you don’t just need my permission to leave,” said Torin.
Yes, Jack knew. He sighed.
He still needed to speak with Mirin.
He found his mother at home, the croft habitable once more now that the fire had returned to the hearth. Mirin stood at her loom, weaving. The cottage was quiet, the air full of spinning dust motes and the golden scents of parritch and warm honey. Frae was gone for the day at the school in Sloane.
“Don’t tell me another cow has gotten into the garden,” Mirin said, her attention focused on her work.