Torin reached for the parchment Sidra had set down before him. His mind was reeling, and he began to write. This is strange, Adi. The Laird of the West never cared to atone for the raids in the past. I don’t trust her. But as soon as the nib lifted, his handwriting became twisted and illegible.

He stared at the inky mess, despairing until Adaira touched his arm.

“It’s all right, cousin. I can imagine you don’t approve of this meeting.”

Torin shook his head. But only because the Breccans are acting strangely. They agree to peace, give us the best they have to offer, raid us, and then scramble to appease us again. If the west was playing a game, it was one that Torin didn’t understand, but it filled him with a sense of foreboding.

“I think, despite how strange this offer is, that it’s crucial that I meet with Innes tomorrow,” said Adaira. “I not only want to recover what was stolen from the Elliotts, but there are a few things that I need to put to rest. Jack is going with me, and I will—”

Torin began to wildly gesture to himself.

“Yes, I’m taking a few guards,” Adaira added.

“No,” Sidra said, watching Torin’s movements. “He wants to go with you.”

“But you’re wounded, Torin.”

He didn’t care. He laid his fist over his heart. All I ask is to stand beside you. To be present.

Adaira stared at him. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t been sleeping at night. There was a hint of sorrow in her eyes, and it worried Torin. He hadn’t seen her like this since her mother had died.

“Very well,” she said at last. “You may come with me, so long as you’re continuing to improve tomorrow.”

He nodded. He thought that was the end of Adaira’s visit, but she turned her eyes to Sidra, hesitant.

“Have you told him, Sid?”

Torin glanced between the two women. Sidra grimaced. “No, I wanted to wait until he felt better.”

Torin scowled. Adaira sighed and met his gaze again. “It’s about Eliza Elliott. We found her.”

He listened in cold shock as Adaira told him everything.

Jack sat at his childhood desk, composing a ballad for the wind by candlelight. With each passing night, he slept more and more uneasily, and he wished he could persuade his mother to take Frae and lodge in the castle until the days felt safer.

It always came back to the loom. Mirin couldn’t afford to leave it, even for a matter of days. Her weaving was her livelihood, and if she let fear of the Breccans rule her, then she’d never get anything done.

He paused, closing his eyes to rest them. His hand was cramping from writing for hours, and his head throbbed with a dull ache. He needed sleep, but he wanted the music more.