Jack clinked his glass against hers, and they both drank. It felt like a garment had slipped away between them, as if to utter and confess was the first step to healing, to putting broken pieces back together.

She could see more of him now—the mist-laden years when he had dwelled on the mainland and she had roamed the isle.

They sat for a while longer in companionable silence, and when the fire began to die, Adaira rose.

“I’ve kept you up far too late,” she said, brushing the wrinkles from her wedding dress. “The trade is tomorrow, and I should let you rest. Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

Jack made for the door, but Adaira cleared her throat, catching his attention.

“You and I have a secret door that connects our chambers,” she said with a crafty grin, lifting a latch in one of the wooden panels on the other side of her room. Jack’s eyes widened as he watched the secret door creak open, leading into a shadowy corridor.

Adaira stepped into the secret passage, ducking beneath a curtain of gossamer.

Jack followed her. The short corridor led to a door that fed into his chamber. Adaira opened it and let him take the first step into his new room. It was similar to hers: wide and spacious with painted panels and bookshelves, a hearth that had almost extinguished into embers, and a bed with a grand tapestry for a headboard.

“Does this suit you?” Adaira asked.

“More than enough,” Jack said, glancing at her. “Thank you.”

She nodded and began to draw the door closed. “Then sleep well tonight, Jack.” She shut the panel before he could respond, but she stood there for a moment and drank the shadows of the passage, thinking how strange life was. How different her days were bound to be now, with him on the other side of this secret corridor.

Jack stood in his new room.

He stared at the bed—it was far too grand for him—and walked to the desk, where parchment was stacked. His harp rested on the floor nearby. He studied the bookshelves and the painted panels on the walls before he wandered to the hearth, where he threw another log on the fire. He succumbed to the nearby leather chair and felt a restless pang of longing.

It had been quite some time since he had composed music.

On the mainland, his compositions had gravitated to sorrow and laments. To doomed ballads. But he wondered what his notes would sound like here, on the isle. How they would form now that he was home.

He was exhausted, and yet he felt keenly aware of his surroundings. The bed looked inviting, but Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

He rose and returned to the desk. He sat and chose a quill, then opened a glass well brimming with walnut ink.