“Forgive me for interrupting your work,” Jack said when Una had a spare moment to speak with him. “Is everything well?”

She only arched her brow, the silver in her black hair catching the afternoon light. “Of course it is, Jack. What have you brought me today?”

He set the dirk in her waiting hands. “I would like to know who commissioned you to make this blade. Do you remember his name? It was most likely a long time ago.”

“I remember all my clients and all of my blades,” Una said, continuing to scrutinize the dirk. “And I fear I can’t tell you the name you seek, Jack.”

“Why is that?”

Una leveled her dark eyes at him. “Because I didn’t make this blade.”

He frowned. “Are you certain?”

She laughed, but he could tell she was annoyed by his question. “Do you remember each piece of music you compose? Recognize each instrument you have ever held and played?”

Jack felt his face warm. “Forgive me, Una. I meant no offense.”

“None is taken, Jack.” She handed the dirk back to him.

“I merely thought . . .”

She waited, and he sighed.

“You are the most skilled blacksmith in the east,” he continued. “And whoever had this blade forged . . . I believe he would want only the finest hands to create it.”

“It’s fine work, I won’t deny it,” she said, her gaze lingering on the dirk. “But it’s not mine.”

“Is there a way to discover what enchantment it holds?”

“There’s a way, yes. And it’s not by looking at it.”

He knew what she was implying. He slid the dirk back into its sheath.

“As I thought. Thank you for your help, Una.”

Una watched as he began to drift into the street. “Be careful, Jack.”

He lifted his hand to her, acknowledging her admonition. But his thoughts were troubled. If this blade had been forged in the east, Una would have known it.

He retreated to his castle chambers for the remainder of the afternoon. He didn’t pass Adaira in the corridors, and he imagined she was with her father.

When Jack removed his plaid, he noticed that a thread in the wool had started to unravel. He stared at it for a disbelieving moment, tracing the pattern with his fingertip. Part of the enchantment was gone, and he could see that the green fabric had lost its luster. He swallowed hard as he sat at his desk. Whatever secret his mother had woven into this plaid was coming to light.

Jack attempted to distract himself by working on his composition. The ballad for the wind was nearly complete, but he could focus on it only for so long. His mind was swimming with questions, and he eventually unsheathed the dirk once more, to study the slender blade in the fading sunlight.