“My wife would know,” he said, meeting the hill spirit’s steady gaze. “If you’d allow me to speak to her, allow her to see me. She could assist me in this.”
“I’m afraid it cannot be done,” the spirit said, but he didn’t sound at all remorseful. “Once you leave our realm, you cannot return here as you once were.”
“I want to speak with her,” Torin insisted. He was haunted by the memory of Sidra vomiting into a pot, standing forlorn in a castle room in which she had never wanted to live. Alone and burdened and thinking he had deserted her, with his child growing within her. “I won’t progress in solving this riddle until you grant me that small mercy.”
“You can see her all you desire, mortal laird.”
“But she cannot see me. She doesn’t know where I am.”
“She knows where you are,” the hill spirit said, and Torin stiffened. “She knows, and she understands why and what you must do.”
“You act as if you have spoken with her,” Torin said through his teeth.
The spirit only smiled.
Torin’s anger began to simmer. His fingers flexed at his side before curling into a fist.
“We cannot tell you how to solve this riddle,” the spirit said. “But if you pay close attention, we can help guide you.”
“Then guide me,” Torin said, exasperated.
The hill spirit cocked his head, as if he were regretting his choice of human helper. But then he became ethereal. One moment he was standing before Torin, the next he was an array of grass and hills and flowers, all the wild beauty that flourished beneath his care.
Torin was caught in a web of annoyance. He looked to the road he had come from, the road that would lead him to the castle, to Sidra and his daughter. He was homesick, and he ached for them.
He failed to see the trail of wildflowers blooming in the grass.
Frae walked home from school with a group of children now, since Jack was no longer there to escort her to and from the city. The boys and girls she walked with lived in crofts scattered throughout the spine of Eastern Cadence. Frae lived the farthest from Sloane, and so she traveled the last portion of her route alone. But by then, she had only two kilometers to go, and Mirin’s cottage was almost within view. Her mother had promised to be waiting for her at the gate to greet her that afternoon.
All the schoolchildren had new rules to follow. Frae liked to repeat them in her mind, because she didn’t want to accidentally break one.
Rule number one was that they had to walk home together and not leave the younger ones behind.
Rule number two was that they had to stay on the roads to avoid being fooled by enchantments.
And if they happened to break rule number two, above all else they had to avoid any tree that showed symptoms of blight or was roped off by the guard. Three children had already fallen sick from the blight, not including Hamish, and Frae was very anxious about catching it too. She was relieved that there weren’t many trees on her mother’s lands, save for the Aithwood. And Frae rarely went very deep into that forest.
She squinted against the late afternoon sunshine as she walked along the road. She was still considered one of the younger children, and as such, she trailed behind the older ones. But she kept up a good pace, even with her satchel of books slung over her shoulder. Her wooden sparring sword was looped into her belt, and she cradled the bowl she had made for her pottery class in her hands because she didn’t want to put it in her bag, worried it would crack. She was thinking about how she could make a bigger and even better bowl next time when something struck her in the chest.
It hit her right above her heart, and even though her enchanted plaid was draped across her body, the impact made her stumble. Her arms flailed, and she watched as her bowl fell to the road and broke into pieces at her feet.
For a moment, Frae was so stunned she could only gape at the shards. The bowl she had worked so hard to shape and stain, the bowl she had waited so patiently to set in the kiln, had just broken. And so easily, as if those hours had meant nothing. But then something else was thrown at her. She flinched as it sailed past her, narrowly missing her face.
Someone was throwing mud balls at her. The one that had struck her chest was still stuck to her plaid, smelling like stinky marsh water.
She glanced up. She wasn’t sure who had thrown it at her, or why. Maybe it was an accident?
“My mum says her father’s a Breccan,” one of the older boys said to the others up ahead on the road. He glanced back to sneer at her, then chuckled at the sight of the mud on her plaid.
“Breccan spawn,” another lad hissed.
“She shouldn’t be wearing that plaid.”
“Disgusting.”
A third mud clot was hurling toward her, and Frae was so upset she froze, unable to move. She waited for it to hit her, to knock her down and break her into pieces, just like the bowl, but it never came. She watched, astounded, as one of the older girls intercepted it, raising her book to stop the mud ball in midair.
It squelched against the book cover. The girl slung it off to the side of the road, as if she did this every day, and then wiped the book on her tunic to clear off the residue. She turned and fixed a cold stare on the boys, who had stopped in their tracks and were watching her, their mouths ajar.
The girl never said a word. She didn’t have to, because the boys turned and rushed onward.
“I’m sorry about that, Frae,” said the girl, and Frae wasn’t sure what surprised her more—the fact that this older student knew her name or that she had taken a mud clot for her. “Are you all right?” The girl knelt and began to gather up the pottery pieces.
“I . . .” Frae’s voice quivered. She drank the words, afraid she would cry.
I wish Jack were here, she thought, wiping away a tear that slipped free. If he was, this wouldn’t have happened!
“This is a very pretty bowl,” the girl said, admiring the etchings Frae had decorated it with. “Yours came out much better than mine.” She glanced up and smiled. She had two dimples and freckles across her nose, and her brown hair was in one long, thick braid.
Frae blinked, still shocked this girl was speaking her.
“My name is Ella, by the way. Here, let’s walk together.”
Before Frae could scrounge up a reply, Ella had removed the mud clot that still clung to her plaid and eased her forward.
“You don’t have to walk with me,” Frae finally whispered.
“I’d like to, though,” Ella replied. “If you don’t mind my company.”
Frae shook her head, but she was too nervous to look at Ella, or to think of something to say.
They walked together, watching as the children ahead of them began to turn from the road one by one as they reached their crofts. Frae knew Ella must have already passed her home, because soon it was just the two of them left and Mirin’s hill was coming into view.
“My mum’s just there, waiting on me,” Frae said, pointing.