“Jack,” Mirin said, reaching out to straighten his plaid. He had yanked it crooked, the golden brooch threatening to slip off his shoulder.

He let her fuss over him, knowing she was also nervous and had spent hours on his wedding garments. She had dressed him in the finest of wool—a cream-colored tunic that was soft as a cloud against his skin, and a red plaid that had never been worn before. Torin had additionally gifted him with a leather jerkin, studded with silver and etched with vines, and Alastair had bestowed the golden brooch, set with rubies. A Tamerlaine heirloom, and one that was most likely worth a fortune.

Jack tried to shake away his feelings of unworthiness, but they lingered, long enough to make him doubt himself and what he was doing. Until he remembered what Adaira had spoken to him nights ago, on her knees.

None of them are the one that I want.

She would never know what those words had done to him.

His eyes searched the hills. The land rolled like a song, dappled with purple heather and gorse. The light was beginning to cool with dusk, and Adaira had yet to appear.

He should have insisted they marry in the hall. A safe, predictable place where the spirits couldn’t trick them. He envisioned the bracken, the rocks, and the grass manifested in physical forms, coming between her and him. What if they led Adaira astray and Jack was left here, standing in a thistle patch until midnight?

“Take a breath, Jack,” Torin said. “She’ll be along.”

Jack swallowed a retort. He turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes, the air sweet with the fragrance of rain. A gust blew over him, lifting the hair from his brow as if fingers had brushed it away.

Faintly, he heard Frae calling his name.

Jack opened his eyes.

He saw Adaira walking through the grass to meet him, Sidra and Frae on either side, holding her hands. He watched her approach in a red dress, her hair loose and crowned with flowers, and he was struck almost senseless by the sight of her. Jack couldn’t breathe, nor could he fathom the truth that she was coming to him. Or perhaps he could. Because the truth was . . . she wasn’t looking at him.

Her eyes were cast down to the heather as she ascended the hill, stoic as if she were walking to her death.

Jack didn’t take his eyes from her, waiting. Look at me, Adaira.