“What can we do for her to make her feel safe again?” Adaira asked.

“Keeping her with her family for now,” Sidra replied. “Ensuring life feels normal and secure for her, despite the fact they are residing in the castle and her home has been burned to the ground.”

“I’ll see to this,” Adaira replied. “Thank you.”

Sidra nodded and turned to go. Jack glanced at Adaira; she could read his eyes, the way they gleamed in warning.

“Sid, wait,” Adaira said.

Sidra paused at the threshold.

“I need to tell you about Torin.”

“Yes, where is he?” Sidra asked. “I was hoping to speak with him this morning.”

When Adaira hesitated, Jack spoke.

“We’re not certain where he is. He pursued the Breccans into the Aithwood during the raid.”

Sidra’s face blanched. “Do you think he was wounded? Or taken prisoner?”

“One of the watchmen claims to have seen him running from the forest on foot,” Adaira said. “But a fog was descending, which has made it very difficult to locate him. We believe he’s injured, and I have the guard combing the northern hills. I’ll let you know as soon as we find him.”

“You should have told me he was missing the moment you saw me,” Sidra said. Adaira had never heard her speak with such ire in her voice, and it made her shame rise.

She had waited to tell Sidra because she needed the healer to give her whole focus to examining Eliza Elliott. But perhaps Adaira had erred. She felt as if she were making mistake after mistake, and she watched as Sidra left without another word, her throat narrow. Things were falling apart, and Adaira didn’t know how to hold everything together.

When Jack retreated to his chamber, to work on the ballad Adaira didn’t want him to sing, she finally sat at her desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment and a freshly cut quill.

She didn’t know if Moray had ordered the raid. There was the slight possibility that he had not, that perhaps a group of Breccans who opposed the trade agreement were responsible. But now that Adaira suspected the west had been stealing their girls, her heart was smoldering. She felt as if peace had been a naïve illusion.

Why would the west want our lasses?

She had no answer, other than briefly imagining that life beyond the clan line was far worse than she knew. Perhaps the Breccans’ daughters were dying. And yet why would they return Eliza?

Adaira dipped her quill into her inkwell. She wrote Moray an ultimatum.

Torin lay in a patch of moon thistle, half aware of where he was, of what he was doing. He blinked and tried to move, only to have his left arm respond with excruciating pain. Grimacing, he glanced down to look at his wounds.

There were two shallow cuts on his arm, oozing foul-smelling blood.