When they had almost reached the rock path, Jack drawled, “So. They want to give us blankets we don’t need and get us drunk. An excellent trade, if I may say so myself.”

Adaira only laughed. It was surprise and joy, mingled into one.

Jack discovered he loved the sound of it.

Sidra stood in her yard, staring at the vegetables, herbs, and flowers. She hadn’t watered them or harvested their fruit. Weeds were beginning to snake across the soil.

She should kneel. She should work, put her hands in the loam.

But she didn’t have the heart to.

Sidra went inside, past Yirr curled up on the stoop, keeping watch. She stood at the table, staring at her pestle and mortar. Her dried herbs, stems, leaves, and flowers. A language she had grown up speaking, and yet it now felt scrambled and dissonant.

The house was so quiet. She wanted to drown in such silence. Gazing into space, Sidra didn’t know how long she had been standing there when the door creaked open.

Yirr hadn’t barked to alert her that someone had entered the yard.

Sidra’s heart leapt into her throat as she turned, afraid until she saw it was Torin. His face was ruddy, whether from sunburn or anger, she wasn’t sure yet. He smelled of summer wind and grass, and she realized he was holding a handful of tonic bottles. The ones she had made for his guard to decrease their need for sleep and to sharpen their focus on the search.

“I’m sorry, Torin,” she said reflexively. She was sorry for the anguished gleam in his eyes, for how his body was losing its strength, hour by hour. She was sorry to see how exhausted he was, and how he was grinding himself down to pieces.

“What are you sorry about?” he countered briskly, as if he were sick of her apologies. “Could you make another batch of these for my guards?”

She didn’t want to make anything with her hands. But she nodded and accepted the bottles from him, setting them on the table. “I’ll bring a new batch by the barracks later.”

“I’ll wait for them now,” he said.

He wanted to watch her work. He had never cared for such things before, and Sidra felt anxious as she began to gather fresh herbs.

“You should sit,” she said. “This will take a while.”

She hoped he would change his mind and leave. There was always someone else who needed him more. Another task more pressing than her.

Torin drew out a chair and sat.

He was quiet for a full five minutes as Sidra set a pot to boil over the fire and began to mix her herbs.

“If a Breccan was wounded and knocked on your door,” Torin began, “would you heal them?”