Sidra was stunned. She stared as he propped the harp against his left shoulder. It had been so long since she had enjoyed music.

She smiled. “I would love that.”

“Do you have any requests?” Jack asked as he tuned the harp.

“I do, in fact. Lorna used to play a ballad on feast nights. I believe it was called ‘The Last Moon of Autumn.’”

“I know the very one,” Jack replied.

He began to strum. His notes filled the chamber, driving away the sadness and the shadows. Sidra closed her eyes, amazed at how the song could take her back in time to a bittersweet moment. She was sixteen, her hair in two long braids, anchored by red ribbons. She was sitting in the castle hall with her grandmother, listening to Lorna play her harp. This very song.

A slight breeze touched her face.

Sidra opened her eyes and saw the front door was agape. Adaira stood on the threshold, frozen by Jack’s music as it continued to trickle through the cottage. Sidra studied her friend closely; she had never seen this expression on Adaira’s face before, as if all the longings within her had gathered into one place.

Jack was wholly unaware he had a new audience member until he reached the end. His music faded in the air and he glanced up, his eyes finding Adaira. The silence felt tense, as if the two of them wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Sidra broke the spell.

“That was beautiful,” she said. “Thank you, Jack.”

He nodded and began to put his harp away. “I appreciate your help, Sidra.”

“My door is always open to you.” She watched as he rose and approached the threshold. Adaira angled her body so he could slip past her, and they still said nothing to each other, even as the air crackled.

Now that Jack was gone, Adaira entered the house, shutting the door. Sidra knew she had come to be with her, to keep her company, and to help create the guards’ tonics.

Adaira glanced over the table and rolled up her sleeves. “Tell me what to do, Sid.”

Sometimes this was what Sidra loved best about Adaira. Her willingness to get dirty, to learn new things. How direct she was.

She was the younger sister Sidra never had but always yearned for.

“Crush this stack of herbs for me,” Sidra said, edging the pestle and mortar toward her.

Adaira began to work, crushing with intensity. Sidra understood it, that nagging feeling: I need to do something. I need to do something that has meaning.

“What did you help him with?” Adaira eventually asked.

“Who do you speak of, Adi?”

“Jack, of course. Why was he here?”

Sidra reached for an empty bottle. She began to pour the tonic within it. “You know I can’t say why.”