A River Enchanted: A Novel (Elements of Cadence Book 1)
A River Enchanted: Part 1 – Chapter 7

Hold the slingshot like this,” Jack instructed Frae. They stood in one of the croft’s paddocks, in the crook of the river. The air was cool with evening and smelled of the nearby Aithwood—sweet sap and sharp pine and damp oak. The wind was tranquil, the hillside spotted with wild orchids.

Adaira should be arriving soon.

“Like this?” Frae asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Take up a river stone and place it in the pocket.” He watched as Frae found her stone and pulled back on the pouch, aiming for the target he had built out of the byre’s old wood. It seemed to take her forever to let it go, and the rock sailed past the target, to her disappointment.

“I missed,” she mumbled.

“I missed in the beginning too,” Jack reassured her. “If you practice every day, you’ll soon hit the target.”

Frae took up a rock and shot again. It was another miss, but Jack only encouraged her to try it once more, to shoot until all of the river rocks they had gathered were gone, lost in the long grass of the paddock. As they walked to retrieve them, Jack studied the river. It flowed through the western portion of Mirin’s property, wide but shallow, melodious and brimming with perfect slingshot rocks.

“Mum has probably already said this to you,” he began. “But you know that you should never draw water from this river, don’t you?”

Frae watched its currents, seemingly harmless as it reflected the hues of sunset. “Yes.”

“Do you know why, Frae?”

“Because it flows from the Breccans’ land. But I can gather rocks from it, right? For your slingshot?”

He met her gaze and nodded. “Yes. Just the rocks.”

“Have the Breccans ever poisoned it before, Jack?” Frae asked, bending to pick up the stones. “The river, I mean.”

He hesitated until she looked up at him. Her eyes were mirrors of his—wide set and dark as new moons. Only hers still shone with innocence, and he wished more than anything she could remain that way. Full of hope and wonder and goodness. That she would never know the sharp, jaded ways of the world.

“No,” he replied. “But there’s always the chance that they might.”

“Why would they want to do that, Jack?”

He was quiet, rolling his lips together as he gathered his thoughts. “It’s hard to understand, I know, sister. But the Breccans don’t like us, and we don’t like the Breccans. We’ve been at odds with them for centuries now.”

“I wish it could be different,” Frae said with a sigh. “Mum says the Breccans are hungry when winter comes. Can’t we just share our food with them?”

Her words brought Jack to a stop as he imagined an isle that was united. He could hardly fathom it.

Frae paused, looking up at him. She held the slingshot in one hand and rocks in the other. A few wilted flowers were tucked into her hair.

“I wish it could be different too,” he said. “Perhaps one day it will be, Frae.”

“I hope so.”

They walked back to their starting point to have another practice round. He wanted Frae to have a weapon and to know how to use it. He wanted her to carry this slingshot with her everywhere.

She aimed and fired, hitting the corner of the target.

“I did it!” she cried, and Jack was clapping when another voice spoke.

“Excellent shot, Frae.”

Jack and Frae both turned to see Adaira standing a few paces away, watching with a smile. She was dressed in a dark red gown, an umber cloak shielding her back. Her hair was loose and brushed into silk, the long waves reaching her waist.

Jack almost didn’t recognize her. She looked otherworldly at first glance as the sun continued to set, limning her in gold.

“Heiress,” Frae said in an awed tone. “I can’t believe you’re here! I thought Jack was teasing me.”

Adaira laughed. “No teasing. I’m honored to spend the evening with you, Frae.”

“Would you like to shoot the slingshot?” Frae asked. She sounded nervous, and Jack’s heart warmed.

“I would love to.” Adaira stepped forward.

Frae handed her the weapon and picked out the perfect stone for her. “It’s actually Jack’s. He’s letting me use it for now.”

“Oh, I recognize it,” Adaira said, glancing at him.

Indeed, he thought, holding her gaze for a beat. He had been a terror with his slingshot in the old days.

Adaira’s attention returned to Frae. “Can you show me how to use it?”

Jack watched, arms crossed, as his little sister showed Adaira how to hold it, how to aim, how to set the stone in the pouch. Adaira took her first shot, nailing the target.

Jack arched a brow, impressed.

Frae jumped up and down, cheering. A slow, satisfied grin broke across Adaira’s face.

“That was quite fun,” she said, handing the slingshot back to Frae. “Now I see why your brother loved it so much.”

Jack only snorted.

“Frae!” Mirin called from the crest of the hill. “Come help me finish supper.”

Frae’s shoulders slumped as she brought the slingshot to Jack.

“Why don’t you keep it for now,” he said. “That way you can practice whenever you feel like it.”

Frae appeared shocked. “You’re certain?”

“Very. I have no need for a slingshot these days.”

That restored Frae’s excitement. She bounded up the hill, proudly showing it to Mirin as the two of them returned to the house.

Jack continued to stand beside Adaira in the crook of the river. The stars were beginning to dust the sky when she spoke.

“She seems quite fond of you, Jack.”

“Does that come as a surprise?” he countered, bristling.

“No, actually. But I confess that I’m jealous.”

Jack studied her profile. She was gazing at the river, as if mesmerized by its dance. Adaira smiled, but it was inspired by sadness. “I always wanted a sister. A brother. I never wanted to be the only one. I would give up my right to rule if it meant I could have a horde of siblings.”

Jack fell quiet, but he knew exactly what thoughts were in her mind. She was thinking of the castle graveyard. The three little graves beside her mother’s. A brother and two sisters, born years before her. All three had been stillborn.

Adaira, the last child of Lorna and Alastair, was the only one to survive.

“Do you know what the clan says of you, Adaira?” Jack began softly. “They call you our light. Our hope. They claim even the spirits bend a knee when you pass. I’m surprised flowers don’t grow in your footsteps.”

That coaxed a slight chuckle from her, but he could still see her melancholy, as if a hundred sorrows weighed her down. “Then I have fooled you all. I fear that I am riddled with flaws, and there is far more shadow than light in me these days.”

She met his gaze again. The wind began to blow from the east, cold and dry. Adaira’s hair rose and tangled like a silver net, and Jack could smell the fragrance within its shine. Like lavender and honey.

He thought that he would like to see those shadows in her. Because he felt his own, brimming in his bones and dancing in solitude for far too long.

“Is there somewhere I can speak to you in private?” she asked.

He knew she was referring to the wind. Whatever she had to say to him, she didn’t want the breeze to carry her words, and Jack glanced up the hill toward Mirin’s cottage. He could take Adaira to his room, but he didn’t think that would quite feel right, with Mirin and Frae both in the kitchen. But then he had a better idea, and he motioned for Adaira to follow him up the hill.

He took her to the storehouse, a round, stone building with a thatched roof where Mirin’s winter provisions were kept. The space smelled like dust, golden grains, and dried herbs as he and Adaira stood face-to-face in the dim light.

“You’ve been searching for the lass,” Jack said.

Adaira sighed, briefly closing her eyes. “Yes.”

“Have there been any signs of where she might have gone?”

“No, Jack.”

“I’m worried about Frae,” he said before he could swallow the words.

Adaira’s expression softened. “As am I. Are you prepared to play tonight, as we originally planned?”

Jack nodded, even though his heart began to pound with anticipation. His dreams from the night before surged in his mind. He stared at Adaira and thought, I’ve dreamt of drowning at the spirits’ hands, and what if your fate is now twined with mine?

“What is it?” she whispered in a husky tone.

He wondered what she saw in his eyes before he glanced away, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, given that I’m more mainlander than islander these days.”

Adaira bit her lip. Jack sensed she had a retort to his comment.

“What is it, heiress?”

“You said something to me the other day, Jack,” she began. “You said, ‘This place was never my home.’”

Jack stifled a groan. He didn’t want to talk about this, and he raked his hand through his hair. “Yes. What of it, Adaira?”

She was quiet, studying his face as if she had never seen him before. “Do you truly believe such words? Do you wholeheartedly claim the mainland as your home?”

“I had no choice but to make it my home,” he said. “You know this as well as all the others in the clan. My nameless father never claimed me. And I wanted, more than anything, to belong somewhere.”

“Did it ever cross your mind that we were waiting for you to return, Jack? Did you ever think of us, and that maybe we longed for you to come back and fill the hall with music again?”

Her words stirred his blood, and that frightened him. He scowled, felt the coldness creep across his face as he regarded her.

“No. I never once thought that. I believed the clan was glad to be rid of me.”

“Then we have failed you,” Adaira said. “And for that, I’m sorry.”

Jack shifted his weight. A question was nipping at his thoughts. He didn’t want to voice it, but holding it in soon felt unbearable. He asked, “Do you know why your parents sent me to the mainland? Out of all the other children to give this chance to … why me?”

“I do. Don’t you realize I know all the secrets of the east?”

Jack waited. He didn’t want to beg, but Adaira was letting this silence draw out far too long for his liking. “Why then, heiress?”

“I can tell you, Jack. But I will have to take you back in time to do so,” she said, tucking strands of hair behind her ear.

Again, she was quiet, watching his impatience rise.

“Then take me back,” he requested, tersely.

“I’m sure you remember that night,” she began. “The night you and I clashed at a particular thistle patch. The night you chased me across the hills.”

“The night you shoved a handful of thistles into my face,” he corrected dryly. Of course, they would see this story from different perspectives. But standing so close to Adaira now, breathing in the waning light of a summer evening and listening to the isle’s wind howl beyond the door … he remembered that night vividly.

Jack had been ten, eager to prove himself worthy of the East Guard. The moon thistle challenge was held every three years, to determine which aspiring recruits knew the lay of the isle, as well as the danger of magical plants.

He had taken the time to scout the hills the day before, to replace the perfect patch of moon thistles. And when Torin had blown the horn at midnight, commencing the challenge, Jack had dashed to his secret patch, only to discover that Adaira had beaten him to it. She had harvested nearly all of the thistles and when she broke into a run, he had chased her, thinking they could split them. Instead, Adaira had turned around and shoved the thistles into his face.

The pain had been unbearable. Like fire, trapped beneath his skin. Jack had instantly floundered in the grass, wailing until Torin found him and dragged him home to Mirin. But the worst had yet to come. Moon thistles were enchanted plants. A prick from their needles promised a nightmare later, in sleep. Jack had suffered through thirteen terrible nights after Mirin had drawn all the spindles from his swollen face.

A hint of a smile played over Adaira’s countenance. Jack watched the corners of her lips curve.

“I still remember those nightmares you gave me, heiress,” he said.

“And you think you were the only one bewitched by moon thistles, my old menace?” she countered. “This is the other side of the story you have yet to learn: I ran home, because you gave me no other choice. You ruined my chances of joining the guard. And when I arrived at my bedchamber, I realized my palms gleamed with thistle needles.” Adaira held up her hands, studying them as if she still felt the sting. “So many I couldn’t count them all, nor could I extract them myself. I went to my mum, because she often remained awake, late into the night. When I showed her my palms, my mum asked me, ‘Who did this to you, Adi?’ And I told her, ‘The lad called Jack.’

“She began to remove them, needle by needle, and she said, ‘You mean the lad who becomes quiet when my music floods the hall.’ I didn’t understand what she meant by that. But on the next full moon feast, I watched you when my mum sat on the dais and began to play her harp. I watched you, but I didn’t see anything remarkable within you. Because you were not the only one who became quiet when she played. You were not the only one who hungered for her songs. All of us did. And yet she saw the flame within you. A light she had been waiting for. She knew what you would become before you did.

“Not many of us on the isle can wield music; it is its own mistress here, and it chooses who it will love. But my mother saw that mark on your hands, heard the songs you were destined to play before you had encountered your first note. And you can say that you were unclaimed here, but nothing could be further from the truth, John Tamerlaine. When you left for the university, my mother was content. As if she knew you would return a bard when the time was right.”

Jack listened to her every word, but he stiffened when Adaira spoke of marks and light, and most of all when she addressed him by his given name, John. He had always hated the name Mirin had blessed his birth with and had soon chosen Jack for himself, refusing to answer to anything else.

“What are you saying to me, Adaira?” he asked, hating the way his voice broke.

“I am saying that my mother chose you as her replacement. She saw you as the future Bard of the East,” Adaira said. “She died before she could see you return in your glory, but I know she would proud of you, Jack.”

Jack didn’t like this, the different angle on his history. He didn’t like how Adaira’s softly spoken words cut deep like a knife, cracking him open.

“So my future was never my own?” he asked. “There was no choice as to where I wanted to reside come the end of my education?”

Adaira flushed in the twilight. “No, of course you have a choice. But can I tempt you, Jack? Can I tempt you to stay with the clan for longer than the summer? Perhaps a full turning of the year? The hall has been quiet for so long now, and we have been trapped in weeks of mourning and sorrow. I think your music would bring us back to life, restore our hope.”

She was asking him to let his music trickle through the isle like a stream returning after a long drought. To play on the full moon feasts and at burials and on holy days and at handfastings. To play for the younger generations, such as Frae, who held no knowledge of the old ballads.

Jack didn’t know how to respond to her.

His shock must have been evident, because Adaira hastened to add, “You don’t have to give me your answer now. Or tomorrow even. But I hope you will consider it, Jack.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly, as if he never would. Yet his mind raced. He thought of Lorna’s music turret, with the bookshelves and the grand harp and the clan music, hidden in a dust-riddled tome. It reminded him of the letter he had seen on the table, addressed to Adaira. “I saw something yesterday, which I need to speak to you about.”

“And what did you see, Jack?”

“The Breccans wrote to you. Why?”

She hesitated.

It struck him then that he had no right to know the things in her mind, the plans she was making. To be within her circle. But he felt an ache in his stomach, and while he had no idea where it came from, he realized that he longed to be in the confidence of someone who had walked hours, searching for missing girls. Who had told him her secret plans and trusted him with her late mother’s music. Who had given him the chance to become something far greater than he had ever envisioned for himself.

“You sound displeased about this,” Adaira said.

“Of course I’m displeased!” Jack said, exasperated. “What does our enemy want?”

“Perhaps I wrote to them first.”

That brought Jack upright. “Why?”

“If I share the answer with you, I expect that you will keep it secret, for the good of the clan. Do you understand, Jack?”

He held her gaze, thinking of the other secrets they shared. “I may be your favorite old menace, but you know that I won’t speak a word of it.”

Adaira fell pensive, and he thought she would withhold her answer until she said, “I want to establish a trade between our two clans.”

Jack gaped at her for a moment. “A trade?”

“Yes. I have faith that a trade will stave off winter raids, if we can peacefully give the Breccans what they need come the lean months.”

Frae’s words returned to Jack, her innocent voice echoing through him. Mum says the Breccans are hungry when winter comes. Can’t we just share our food with them?

“And what will they give us in return?” Jack said. This trade would drain the Tamerlaines if they weren’t careful. “We don’t need anything of theirs.”

“The one thing they have in abundance: enchanted possessions,” Adaira replied. “They can weave and forge and create magical craft without consequence. I know it doesn’t make sense for us to ask for their charmed blades and plaids if we want peace, but I also know that our people here are suffering for making those things. And I want to see that burden lifted.”

She spoke of people like his mum. Like Una.

Jack was quiet, but he dreamt of the same things. He had always hated the way his mother sacrificed her health to make those uncanny plaids. One day she would push herself too far, too hard, and the cough she tried to hide would morph into a claw, ripping her up from within.

Furthermore, if a trade could be established between the two clans, then Jack would no longer have to worry about his mother’s croft being raided. This very storehouse that he was standing in, which beckoned a Breccan like low-hanging fruit come winter, could be secure.

Adaira mistook his silence. “You disapprove, bard?”

He frowned at her. “No. I think it’s a good idea, Adaira. But I’m worried that the Breccans don’t want peace the same way we do, and that they might fool us.”

“You sound like Torin.”

Jack didn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or not. Once, he had wanted to be Torin, and Jack almost laughed, thinking about how different he was now. “Your cousin disapproves of your idea?”

“He thinks establishing a trade will be a nightmare,” Adaira replied. “The clan line presents the greatest obstacle—do we cross it into their territory, or do we allow them to cross into ours? Either way, Torin says it’s ‘bound to be something that goes awry and bloody.’”

“He’s not wrong, Adaira.”

Her brow creased. Jack studied her, watching the thoughts whirl through her. She was parting her lips to say more when they both heard Frae calling for them.

Jack peeked out the solitary window. He could just discern his sister walking in the backyard, shouting their names.

He didn’t want Frae to see him and Adaira emerge from the storehouse. He waited until his sister turned to face the river before he opened the door. Adaira slipped out into the evening, with Jack close behind, and they approached the yard gate side by side, as if they had been walking the property.

“Here we are, Frae,” Adaira said.

Frae whirled to face them. “It’s time for supper,” she said, touching the ends of her braids. “I hope you like winkle soup, heiress.”

“It’s my favorite,” Adaira replied, reaching for Frae’s hand.

Jack watched as a smile stole across his sister’s face. She was awed to be holding the heiress’s hand.

Warmed, he followed as Frae led them into the firelight.

Mirin had laid out a lovely spread for Adaira. The best plates and glasses, the oldest wine, and polished silverware that gleamed like dew. They had been cooking most of the day, preparing food for the Mitchell family in their time of grief, and the house was still heated from it, the air holding a trace of berries and the briny scent of the winkles Jack had gathered from the shore at low tide.

Frae had picked fresh flowers and lit the candles, and Jack settled in his customary chair. Adaira took the seat directly across from him. His mother was speaking, filling bowls with the soup, but Jack’s mind was distant. He was thinking of all the things Adaira had just said to him. To play for the east. To stay the full turning of the year.

To trade with their enemies.

“I can’t believe you’re here in our house,” Frae said.

Jack’s reveries broke as he watched his sister shyly grin at the heiress.

“I know, it’s been a very long time since I’ve visited,” said Adaira. “But I remember when you were born, Frae. My da and mum and I came to see you for the first time.”

“Did you hold me?”

“I did,” Adaira replied. “You were the best bairn I ever held. Most children cry in my arms, but not you.”

Mirin began to cough. The sound was deep and wet, and she tried to muffle it behind her palm. Adaira’s smile faded, as did Frae’s. Jack sat frozen as he watched his mother cough, her thin shoulders shaking.

“Mum?” he stood, fearful.

Mirin calmed and motioned for him to sit. But he saw the flash of blood on her palm, even as she seamlessly wiped it away on the underside of her apron. He had never seen her bleed after a coughing spell, and it chilled him. Her health must have steadily declined in the years he was away.

“I’m fine, Jack,” Mirin said, clearing her throat. And then it was as if it had never happened. She took a sip of wine and guided the conversation away to other matters, engaging Adaira. Jack let out a long breath and returned to his chair. But he noticed once again that his mother hardly ate.

After supper, he cleared the table and washed the dishes, insisting that Frae and Mirin entertain Adaira by the hearth. He listened to the women talk as he dunked the plates in the wash barrel. Frae proudly displayed her slingshot to Adaira again before pointing upward and saying, “See all those divots in the rafters overhead? Jack made those.”

He thought it was a good time to bring out the pie and set a pot of tea to boil.

“Did they teach you how to serve tea and cook at the university?” Mirin asked with amusement, watching Jack handle the kettle.

“They didn’t,” he replied, pouring a cup for Frae and Mirin. For Adaira. “But mainland fare is quite dry. So I asked the cook one night if I could use the kitchen after hours, to make my own food for the next day. He agreed, and so I began to cook for myself whenever my lessons gave me a moment to breathe. I remembered everything you taught me, Mum, even though I once disliked cooking. Cream and honey?” he seamlessly asked Adaira as he handed her a cup.

She was sitting on the divan beside Frae. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the tea, but her eyes were wide, as if she were battling shock, watching him serve tea. “Just cream,” she said. He walked to the buttery in the corner of the kitchen to get the chilled glass of cream, then brought it to her.

“Jack? Jack, the pie!” Frae whispered between her fingers.

He winked as he returned to the kitchen for one of the two pies he and Frae had baked together that afternoon. One for them, and one for the Mitchell family. At first it had felt strange to bake for people he didn’t know, until he remembered the old ways of the isle. For any event, be it joyful or sorrowful—a death, a marriage, a divorce, a sickness, a birth—the clan rallied and prepared food to express their love for those involved. Cottages became gathering places for hearty, comforting food whenever tears or laughter flowed. Jack had forgotten how much he liked that tradition.

He served Adaira the first slice and grinned when she cast a wary look his way.

“You made this?”

“Aye,” he said, standing close to her, waiting.

Adaira took her spoon and poked at the pie. “What’s in it, Jack?”

“Oh, what all did we dump in there, Frae? Blackberries, strawberries, pimpleberries—”

“Pimpleberries?” Frae gasped in alarm. “What’s a pim—”

“Honey and butter and a dash of good luck,” he finished, his gaze remaining on Adaira. “All of your favorite things, as I recall, heiress.”

Adaira stared up at him, her face composed save for her pursed lips. She was trying not to laugh, he realized. He was suddenly flustered.

“Heiress, I did not put pimpleberries in there,” Frae frantically said.

“Oh, sweet lass, I know you didn’t,” Adaira said, turning a smile upon the girl. “Your brother is teasing me. You see, when we were your age, there was a great dinner in the hall one night. And Jack brought me a piece of pie, to say he was sorry for something he had done earlier that day. He looked so contrite that I foolishly believed him and took a bite, only to realize something tasted very strange about it.”

“What was it?” Frae asked, as if she could not imagine Jack doing something so awful.

“He called it a ‘pimpleberry,’ but it was actually a small skin of ink,” Adaira replied. “And it stained my teeth for a week and made me very ill.”

“Is this true, Jack?” Mirin cried, setting her teacup down with a clatter.

“’Tis truth,” he confessed, and before any of the women could say another word, he took the plate and the spoon from Adaira and ate a piece of the pie. It was delicious, but only because he and Frae had found and harvested the berries and rolled out the dough and talked about swords and books and baby cows while they made it. He swallowed the sweetness and said, “I believe this one is exceptional, thanks to Frae.”

Mirin bustled into the kitchen to cut a new slice for Adaira and replace her a clean utensil, muttering about how the mainland must have robbed Jack of all manners. But Adaira didn’t seem to hear. She took the plate from his hands, as well as the spoon, and ate after him.

He watched her swallow, and when she smiled at Frae, telling his sister it was the best pie she had ever tasted, Jack felt a stab of vulnerability. It disquieted him, and he turned away with a frown and sought refuge in the kitchen. Mirin was there, viciously cutting into the pie.

“I can’t believe you did such a thing to the laird’s daughter,” she murmured, mortified. “People must think I let you run wild!”

The truth was that Adaira had never exposed him as the pimpleberry culprit, and so he had gone unpunished. Mirin had not known, because Alastair and Lorna had not known. Only he and Adaira.

“Go spend time with your company, Mum,” he said, carefully taking the knife from her. “And if you’re not completely ashamed of who I once was, enjoy a piece of pie.”

Mirin sharply exhaled, but she softened as she watched him prepare two plates for her and Frae.

He remained in the kitchen, rewashing a few of the dishes, as if he had overlooked them earlier. But he listened as Adaira and his little sister laughed; he listened as Mirin told a story. This was how isle evenings were spent—gathered by the hearth, sharing lore and tea and laughter.

Eventually, he couldn’t continue feigning there were dishes to be washed without attracting suspicion, and he turned to scrubbing the tabletop clean.

“Jack?” Frae suddenly cried. “You should play your harp for Adaira!”

He hesitated before looking at Adaira, only to replace her gaze was already fixed on him.

“That’s a lovely idea, Frae,” she said. “But I should return home before the moon rises.” She stood and thanked Mirin for supper and Frae for the pie. “I’ll return soon for another slice,” Adaira promised, and Frae blushed with pride.

“I’ll walk you out,” Jack said. He opened the door and stepped into the peace of the kail yard. The night was cool. He drank the moment of silence before Adaira joined him.

They walked to the gate, where her horse was tethered. Adaira turned to face him, and he noticed how exhausted she suddenly appeared in the starlight, as if she had been holding a mask over her face the entire evening.

“Midnight?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “At Kelpie Rock, which I vividly remember how to replace.”

Adaira smiled before passing through the gate to mount her horse.

Jack stood among the herbs and watched her ride away, until she melted into the shadows of night. He stared into the dark space between the stars, measuring the moon. He had a few more hours until midnight. A few more hours until he played for the folk of the tides.

He returned inside. He asked Mirin to tell him a story of the sea.

“Another one!” Maisie said.

Sidra’s eyes were heavy. She was lying in bed beneath the quilts, reading aloud by candlelight. Maisie wiggled closer to her side as Sidra yawned, attempting to close the tattered book Torin had brought home from Graeme’s.

“I think it’s time for bed, Maisie.”

“No, another story!”

Sometimes Maisie had Torin’s temperament. Orders flew out of her mouth, and Sidra had learned it was best to respond in a gentle way. She stroked Maisie’s honey brown curls.

“There will always be time tomorrow,” she said.

Maisie’s face wrinkled, and she turned her head, fixing sad, imploring eyes on Sidra. “Just one more, Sidra. Please?”

Sidra sighed. “Very well. Just one more, and then I’m blowing the candle out.”

Maisie smiled and settled down again, her head propped on Sidra’s shoulder.

Sidra turned the page carefully. The spine of the book was weak; a few leaves were loose and smudged.

“That one!” Maisie said, her finger striking the page.

“Careful, Maisie. This is an old book.” But Sidra’s eyes were drawn to the same story. Flowers, a few illuminated with gold ink, illustrated the edges of the text.

“Long ago, it was a hot summer day on the isle,” Sidra began. “Lady Whin of the Wildflowers walked the hills, searching for one of her sisters, Orenna. Now, Orenna was known to be one of the stealthiest of the earth spirits. She liked to grow her crimson flowers in the most unlikely of places—on hearthstones, in riverbeds, on the high, windy slopes of Tilting Thom—because she liked to eavesdrop on the other spirits, the fire, the water, and the wind. Sometimes she would glean their secrets and share them with her kind, with the alder maidens and the rock families and the elegant bracken of the vales.

“Whin and the Earie Stone had learned of her ways, and after receiving complaints from water and fire and threats from wind, they decided that Orenna must be approached. So Whin found her sister, who was coaxing flowers to bloom along the chimney of a mortal house.

“‘You’ve angered the fire with your stealthy ways,’ Whin explained. ‘As well as the wind and the water, and we must maintain peace with our brethren.’

“Orenna appeared shocked. ‘I only give my beauty to places that need it, such as this drab chimney.’

“‘You are free to bloom in the grass on the hillsides, in the gardens of mortal kind, and among the bracken,’ Whin said. ‘But you must leave these other places alone and let the fire and the water and the wind tend to them.’

“Orenna nodded, but she didn’t like to take correction from Whin, or the Earie Stone. The next day she grew her flowers on the highest summit of the isle, Tilting Thom. And while the mountain is still a subject of the earth, the wind commands that place with a mighty breath. The wind soon learned of her eyes in the cleft of the rock, how she watched their wings blow north and south, east and west. How she stole their secrets. They threatened to bring the mountain down, and Whin once again had to seek her sister.

“She found Orenna by the coast, coaxing flowers to grow at the bottom of gleaming eddies.

“‘I have told you once, now twice,’ Whin began. ‘You can bloom amid the grass of the hillsides, in the gardens of mortal kind, and in the bracken, but nowhere else, sister. Your stealthy ways are causing strife.’”

“Orenna was full of pride. She was also full of knowledge now, having watched the ways of the other spirits. She knew Whin was crowned among the wildflowers, but Orenna thought she could rule better than her sister.

“‘You are simply weak, Whin. And the other spirits know they can command you.’

“Well, the wind knew better, and carried those haughty words of Orenna’s to the Earie Stone, the oldest and wisest of all the folk. He was incandescently angry at Orenna, and he called her to him. She had no choice but to obey, and she knelt when the Earie Stone looked at her.

“‘You have chosen again and again to disrespect the other spirits, and so I have no other choice but to discipline you, Orenna. From hence onward, you will only grow in dry, heartsick ground where the water may deny you, the fire may destroy you, and the wind can make you bend to its might. In order to bloom, you will have to give your life source; you will have to cut your finger on a thorn, and let your golden ichor flow like sap, down to the ground. And last of all, the mortal kind of the isle will learn your secrets by consuming your petals. This is your punishment, which may last as short as a day should you truly repent, or an eternity should your heart turn hard and cold.’

“Orenna was furious at the Earie Stone’s justice. She thought herself strong enough to resist his verdict, but she soon discovered that her flowers could no longer bloom where she willed. Even the lush grass, who had always welcomed her, couldn’t give her space to blossom, and she had to search the entirety of the isle to replace a small patch of dry, heartsick ground in a graveyard. Even then, she couldn’t bloom, not until she pricked her finger on a thorn and her blood ran, slow, thick, and golden, down to the earth.

“She bloomed, but she was much smaller than before. She was vulnerable, she realized, and the other spirits denied her company. Sad and lonely, she called to a mortal girl who was picking wildflowers one day. The girl was delighted, but soon ate the flowers and learned all of Orenna’s secrets, just as the Earie Stone had foretold.

“Defiant, Orenna never repented but carved a life for herself in the ground she was given. She’s still there to this day, if you are fortunate or misfortunate enough to replace her.”

Sidra fell quiet, reaching the end. Maisie had fallen asleep, and Sidra carefully slipped from the bed, tucking the blankets around her daughter. She carried Graeme’s book and a rushlight into the kitchen and stood at the table. She had left all of her herbs and supplies out. Jars, salts, honey, vinegar, and an array of dried herbs. The two red flowers Torin had brought her were still where she had left them. They hadn’t wilted, which foretold their magical essence, just like a moon thistle, and Sidra studied them in the firelight, occasionally glancing back over the legend.

She had encountered plenty of graveyards before, although she had never seen small, crimson flowers blooming amid the headstones. And if the Orenna flower couldn’t bloom freely in the grass, then these two blossoms must have been dropped in the place where Catriona had vanished. Something or someone had been carrying them, perhaps to ingest the petals.

She would have to tell Torin about it at first light.

But she wondered … what would happen if she swallowed one?

Sidra wasn’t sure, and she returned to bed with a shiver.