“At first, I didn’t realize it was a trick,” Sidra whispered. “But then I remembered how my eyes were open, and I could see all the threads . . . the spirit that wanted to claim me, and the one that wanted me to rise. If not for Orenna, I think I would have kept swimming the deep.” She paused, her gaze on the fire. The stew was bubbling now, but neither of them made to remove it. “I’m sorry, Torin. I didn’t mean to make you or Graeme worry. I just needed to do something to find Maisie. And I didn’t realize so much time had passed. I dove into the loch at midday and returned at dusk, but only because I thought Maisie was in the water. It looked just like her.”

Torin reached out to caress Sidra’s hair. “Don’t go back there, Sidra. Don’t ever return to that loch.”

She met his stare. She was remorseful and sad, but there was also a hint of defiance in her, and he knew he couldn’t command her. Not even to spare his heart.

Sidra turned away to lift the cauldron from the fire, giving him no chance to speak further. She carried the pot to the table and served two bowls.

Torin sat across from her. He tried to eat, but the food was like ash in his mouth. He broke the bannock and offered her a piece, but even Sidra struggled to eat. She pushed the stew around with her spoon.

His stomach felt full of stones by the time they decided to rest.

Sidra banked the fire and crawled into bed, lying on her side. Torin took his time removing his boots and dirty clothes, then eased onto the mattress beside her. He blew out the candle and stared up into the darkness. Sidra’s back was angled to him; he felt the distance between them like a chasm.

He didn’t know how to cross this divide, how to comfort her when his own soul was in anguish. His mind wandered the same tracks it had taken all day. He kept envisioning Maisie, terrified and hurt. Why couldn’t he find her?

Torin went taut as the tension in his body intensified. He couldn’t draw breath. His panic was a winged creature, beating within his rib cage. It wanted to consume him, but he focused on what was tangible around him—the soft mattress, the scent of lavender on the pillow, the rise and fall of Sidra’s breaths.

She sniffed, like she was weeping and trying to hide it from him.

Torin’s thoughts returned to her. He wanted to touch her but didn’t know if she wanted the same. He chose to remain still, fettered by uncertainty, his face marked with pain as he listened to her tears finally ebb.

He remembered the first time he had met Sidra, four years ago.