Then the dream shifted, but the six ghosts remained with him, as if they were fastened to his life. He was standing in a meadow, and the world was blurry until he saw Sidra walking toward him in her vermilion wedding gown, wildflowers in her sable hair. His breath caught; he was about to marry her, and he realized the ghosts could see her. They crowded around Torin.

“Brave of you, to tell her of your guilt,” one remarked. “To tell her of us.”

“And yet how foolish you are,” another hissed, “to believe her when she says she loves you, even with such blood on your hands.”

“Don’t you know that her eyes will soon be open to see us?” a last one stated. “When she weaves her life with yours, we will haunt her as we haunt you.”

Torin shut his eyes, but when he opened them, Sidra was still approaching him, and he saw that he had blood on his hands. Blood that was not his and blood that he couldn’t wipe off. Sidra was reaching for him, a tentative smile on her face.

Torin jolted awake.

He didn’t know where he was at first. He was gazing up at a shadowed ceiling, and the bed beneath him was too soft to be the cot he slept on at the barracks. But then he smelled the fragrance of herbs, which meant he was home.

He didn’t even try to speak. A talon was hooked in his throat, holding his voice captive. The sting in his shoulder was still vibrant, feeding his irrational fears.

Torin raised his head from the pillow and caught a glimpse of Sidra, working at the table. He could hear her grinding herbs, and he relaxed until he remembered his dream.

Slowly, he rose from the bed. His body felt weak and the world spun for a moment; he waited until his eyes had focused before he walked barefoot into the kitchen.

Sidra felt his presence. She turned, wide eyed, and he thought she was about to scold him for being out of bed. He just wanted to be near her. Then he realized she was wearing the plaid he’d commissioned. She had it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, but Torin had requested a longer length, and its edges were getting in Sidra’s way.

“You should be in bed,” she said, her eyes racing over him.

Torin reached out and took hold of the plaid, gently tugging it from her shoulders. Sidra let it fall away, although her brow was furrowed in confusion.

“Mirin brought it. I’m sorry, I thought it was for me.”

Torin hated every time she said sorry. Sidra took responsibility for too many things, and he worried it would break her one day. He opened his mouth to speak before remembering his voice was gone, and he realized he would have to express this another way. A way without words.