A dog could scare spirits away from a yard, even the good ones. And her faith in the folk of the earth ran deep. It was because of that devotion that Sidra could heal the worst of wounds and illnesses in the east. It was why her herbs, flowers, and vegetables flourished, empowering her to nourish and heal the community and her family. If Sidra dared to bring a dog into the fold, it might convince the spirits that her faith in them was weak, and she didn’t know what sort of consequences that would lend to her life.

She had been raised believing in the goodness of the spirits. Torin’s faith had steadily crumbled over the years, and he hardly spoke a kind word about the folk these days, intent on judging them all by the malicious few. Anytime Sidra broached the subject of the spirits with him, Torin turned cold, as if he were only half listening to her.

She wondered if he blamed the spirits for Donella’s untimely death.

Sidra turned to meet his gaze. “I have all the guard I need.”

“And what am I to say to that?” he uttered, low and angry. Because he was rarely there, he knew she wasn’t speaking of him.

“You take offense where there is none,” she said gently. “Your father is next door. If there is any trouble, I will go to him.”

Torin drew a deep breath, but he didn’t say another word about it. He only studied her, and Sidra had the prickling sensation that he could read her face and the slant of her feelings. A moment passed before he stepped away, conceding this battle for now. He sat in his straw-backed chair at the head of the table and listened as Maisie chattered about the kittens, but his eyes lingered on Sidra, as if he were seeking a way to convince her about the dog.

She had almost forgotten about Jack until the spare chamber door squeaked open, and Maisie, glancing at the visitor, stopped talking midsentence.

“Who are you?” she blurted.

Jack seemed unruffled by the girl’s bluntness. He came to the table, found his chair with the instrument waiting, and sat, stiff as a board in Torin’s clothes. The plaid was heavy and awkward, fastened at his shoulder. The tunic could have fit two of him within its generous size. “I’m Jack. And you are?”

“Maisie. That’s my daddie and that’s Sidra.”

Sidra felt Jack look at her. “Sidra,” not “Mum” or “Mummy.” But she had never made any pretense to Maisie of being her mother, no matter how young and tender the girl was. That had been part of Sidra’s bargain with Torin: she would raise Maisie and love her wholeheartedly, but she would not lie and pretend she was the girl’s blood mother.