The rain continued to fall, and Sidra remained at Torin’s side. Eventually she lowered her hands and reached for the wooden figurine of Lady Whin of the Wildflowers. Maisie had left it at the bedside days ago, and Sidra had yet to touch it. But she claimed it now, tracing the spirit’s long hair, the flowers that bloomed from her fingers, the extraordinary details of her lovely face.

How easy it would be if faith was something tangible like a figurine, something she could hold in her hands, seeing all of the details and how they made the whole. And yet, didn’t the earth prove its faithfulness to her, year after year? Even in winter, when it fell dormant? Sidra always knew the flowers and the grass and the fruit would return come spring.

Even with those memories, she had no prayers to whisper. There seemed to be nothing but emptiness and exhaustion in her, and Sidra set the figurine back down, closing her eyes just for a moment.

She was dozing, sitting upright on the bed, when the dog let out a shrill bark.

Sidra stood, her mixing bowl clattering to the floor. Torin continued to sleep, oblivious to the alert. The dog Yirr had remained in the front yard since Torin had brought him to Sidra.

She listened as he barked again. Warning sounds.

She suddenly wished she hadn’t sent Torin’s guards away. A group of them had hovered in the common room and the yard, anxious as Sidra had cared for their captain. She had seen the fear and humiliation in Torin’s face. He wanted all of his guard gone. He didn’t want them to behold him like this.

So Sidra had ordered them back to Sloane, and now she wished she had let at least one of them remain.

Yirr continued to bark, and Sidra stepped into the common room. It was late afternoon, and the light was failing. But she saw the gleam of her paring knife on the table, and she took it in her hand before approaching the door.

She stood for a rigid moment, breathing against the wood, listening as Yirr endlessly barked. The door wasn’t locked, and she dared to open it by a sliver, gazing out into the rain-smeared yard. There was Yirr, his black-and-white coat a clear marker in the storm. He was planted on the stone path that led to the threshold, barking at two slim figures who stood just within the gate.

Sidra’s fear abated the moment she recognized Mirin and Frae.

“Hush, Yirr,” she said, opening the door wider. “Mirin? Come inside, out of the rain.”

The dog consented to sit, letting the visitors approach, although Mirin still appeared wary. She removed the hood of her drenched cloak, Frae close at her side, as they stepped into the common room.