When Mirin rapped on his door, he frowned, turning in the chair. “Come in.”

His mother appeared, a dirk balanced on her palm.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Jack, but there’s something I’ve been meaning to give to you.”

He rose to meet her in the center of the chamber, surprised when she extended the blade to him. He recognized it as the enchanted weapon she wore at her belt.

“Your dirk?”

“It was never mine, Jack. This blade has always been yours, a gift to you from your father. He made me vow to give it to you when you came of age, but you were away on the mainland at the time, and so I give it to you now, as a wedding gift.”

He stared at her, then at the dirk. He thought about all of the moments he had seen it fastened to her side, how she had been carrying it for years. It was a simple weapon with the faint radiance of an enchantment.

Jack hesitated before taking the hilt, unsheathing the slender blade. He caught his reflection in the steel, and curiosity built within him.

“This blade is enchanted,” he stated. “What with?”

Mirin tilted her head. “I don’t know. Your father never told me, and I have never properly used it.”

His father. This was the first time Mirin had spoken that word in so many breaths, and Jack didn’t know what to make of it. Was it her way of inviting him to ask the questions he had been burying for years?

Jack slid the blade back into its scabbard. “Mum . . .” He lost his courage. He struggled to speak the words, and he glanced at Mirin. “Did my father . . . did he hurt you? Is that why you sent me away to the mainland? So you wouldn’t have to be reminded of him when you looked at me?”

Mirin reached across the distance and took his hand. Her affection was a shock to him at first. “No, Jack. You and Frae were both made in love.” She paused, and Jack could hear her breaths, rasping as her cough flared. “I loved your father, as he did me.”

Loved. She cast the word in the past, and Jack wouldn’t press her for more answers. Not as he once would have done before, bitter and impatient and angry. He gently squeezed her fingers, and Mirin smiled at him, a sad but honest smile, before her hand slipped away from his.

“You’re busy working, I see,” she said in a lighter tone, indicating the ink stains on his fingers.

“Yes. A new ballad.”

“I can’t wait to hear it then,” Mirin said, stepping away. “Don’t let me keep you any longer from your music.”