Jack had what he needed. He should go now. But he found that his feet were rooted to the floor, reluctant to leave so soon. His eyes lifted to meet Adaira’s steady gaze.

“I know you have many things to do,” she said. “But you should at least stay for tea. Let me feed you. Are you hungry?”

He hadn’t eaten that morning. He was famished, and he nodded. It was strange to think back to how this day had begun with Torin searching his room. It was strange to think how it was coming to an end, spending the last, golden hours of afternoon with Adaira in her study.

A servant brought in a tray of tea, scones, small mince pies, wedges of cheese, and oatcakes with cream and berries. Jack joined Adaira at the table, watching as she poured them each a cup of tea. He accepted it and filled his plate, his mind racing.

He was sharing a private meal with her. He could ask her anything, and the silence between them felt tender, as if Adaira would honestly answer whatever he felt brave enough to voice.

His thoughts brimmed with possibilities.

He wanted to ask her if she had any news of the Breccans and the trade she wanted to establish. He wanted to ask what she had been doing the past decade while he had been gone. If she had thought of him from time to time. He wanted to ask why she was unwed, because it continued to shock him that she walked alone when there was a horde of eligible partners in the east. Unless, that is, she desired to be alone. Which was fine, but he couldn’t help but wonder. He wanted to know if she was the one who desired him to stay a full year as bard, or if she was merely speaking for the good of the clan.

He wanted to know her, and that realization felt like a sting in his side.

The longer he stayed here on the isle—the longer he slept beneath the fire of the stars and listened to the sighs of the wind and ate the food and drank the water—the more muddled his fancies became, until he couldn’t see the original path he had carved for himself. The safe path, the one that gave him purpose and place on the mainland.

He took a sip of tea, dismayed.

A piece of him still craved that dependable life, the one in which everything could be predicted. He would become a professor. He would grow old, gray, and even more crotchety than he already was. He would teach younger generations the secrets of instruments and how to write music, watching his students transform their sullenness and hesitancy into confidence and prowess.