She read it a second time. Then a third, just to be certain she understood the gravity of it. Adaira’s hands shook as she folded Moray’s letter and departed from her bedchamber.

Was it wise for her to go alone to the west? Was it hypocritical of her to feel a pit in her stomach every time Moray mentioned trust?

She needed council.

She wanted to speak with Sidra first.

Sidra paced Graeme’s common room, around piles of parchment and books. They were waiting for Torin to arrive. Every minute felt like an hour, and Sidra’s heart continued to beat in her throat.

Her thoughts were consumed by Maisie. Where was she? Had she been harmed? Who had taken her?

“Sidra?” Graeme said gently. “Do you want to change? I have some spare garments in that oaken chest in the corner.”

“No, I’m fine, Da,” she said, distracted by her inner turmoil.

“I just thought . . .” Graeme paused, reaching for a decanter of whiskey. His hands shook as he poured two glasses. “It’s going to upset my son to see blood on your clothes.”

Sidra halted and glanced down at her chemise. It looked like she had been stabbed.

“Of course,” she whispered, realizing that the last thing she wanted was for Torin to see her like this. She walked through the maze of Graeme’s possessions to the trunk in the corner and knelt. Her fingers were cold as they raced over the wooden carvings, hefting the lid open.

She knew what rested within.

Torin’s mother had been gone for almost twenty-one years. Emma Tamerlaine had departed unexpectedly in the night when Torin was only six years old, leaving her son and her husband behind. She had been a mainlander; the isle was unfamiliar, frightening, and far away from her family. In the end, life here had been too difficult for her, and Emma had returned to the mainland without a backward glance.

Yet Graeme still had her raiment, as if she might return one day.

Sorrowfully, Sidra searched through the dresses. She eventually settled on a chemise, hoping Torin wouldn’t realize who it once belonged to. But why should he? He rarely saw Sidra’s own undergarments.

She held it up. The chemise was long and narrow, betraying how tall and svelte Torin’s mother had been. Sidra knew it would never fit her curves, and she was considering her options when she heard the front door blow open. The entire cottage shook in response. A breeze whispered through the chamber, overturning papers.

Sidra knew it was Torin, and she froze on her knees, Emma’s chemise gripped in her hands. Her view of the threshold was blocked by a dressing panel, but she could hear him clearly as he spoke.