Torin washed his hands before sitting at the table, enduring her ministrations. She saw that the wound on his shoulder had closed up overnight, leaving behind a cold, gleaming scar. The cut of fear. But the wound that had stolen his voice and words still festered, and Sidra swallowed as she applied a new salve and rebandaged it.

“Perhaps I should find another healer to tend to you,” she said, gathering the soiled linens.

Torin was quick to stop her, grasping her chemise. He shook his head, adamant. His faith in her was absolute, as if it had never crossed his mind that she might be unable to restore his voice. To distract her from her statement, he rose and served the parritch.

Sidra sat when he motioned her to, and she let him fill her bowl with clumpy oats.

“I didn’t realize you knew how to cook parritch,” she said.

Torin made a motion with his hand, as if to say, What islander doesn’t know how to make parritch?

The oats smelled a bit burned, but Sidra added some cream and berries and was able to force a few spoonfuls down before Torin tasted his own cooking. His face puckered, but he scraped the bowl clean, wasting nothing.

His appetite was back. He was doing chores around the house, which he had never done before. Sidra knew he was trying to prove to her that he was better, so she would permit him to escort Adaira at noontide.

Together, they washed the bowls and the cauldron, where burnt oats were now welded to the bottom. They both dressed for the day, and Sidra asked Torin to drape and pin the plaid over her again. She read through her grandmother’s old healing account while Torin returned to the yard, determined to free the garden of weeds. He left the back door open so he could behold Sidra from time to time as he moved down the rows.

She watched him, thinking how much he had changed over the past few days.

She closed her eyes when the ache within her turned vibrant, as if she had stepped into the point of a sword.

She had given her vow to him four years ago. She had chosen to weave her future with Torin’s, because she knew life would be good with him. She would have a little companion in Maisie. She would have her own croft at last; her father and brother would no longer hover over her. She would have a cottage to conduct her profession of healing, a kail yard to grow all the things she loved. And it felt like her own place, because Torin was rarely there, which Sidra liked in the beginning.