Every spring, Sidra would take Maisie and a handful of flowers to Donella’s grave, and she would tell the lass about her mother, who had been lovely and brave and gifted with the sword. Even though it sometimes left a lump in Sidra’s throat, she would tell Maisie the story of how her father and mother had trained and sparred on the castle grounds, first as rivals but later as friends and then lovers.

“And how did you meet Daddie?” Maisie would always ask, savoring the stories.

Sometimes Sidra would tell her, sitting in the sunshine and long grass, and sometimes she would save that particular saga, which was not nearly as dashing as the ballad of Torin and Donella.

But that was a story for another day.

“What’s that?” Maisie asked, pointing to Jack’s instrument.

“A harp.”

Sidra realized that Jack was favoring his left hand. “Are you wounded, Jack?”

“It’s nothing,” Jack replied, just as Torin said, “Yes. Can you tend to him, Sid?”

“Of course,” Sidra said, reaching for her basket of healing supplies. “Maisie, why don’t you show your father the kittens?”

Maisie was delighted. She took hold of Torin’s hand and tugged him out the back door. With their departure, the house was quiet again. Sidra approached Jack with her basket of salves and linen.

“May I tend to your hand?”

Jack turned his palm skyward. “Yes. Thank you.”

She drew her chair close to his and began her ministrations. Gently, she washed away the sand and dirt and was just beginning to fill the cut with her healing salve when Jack spoke.

“How long have you and Torin been together?”

“Almost four years now,” Sidra replied. “I married him when Maisie was just a year old.” She began to wrap his hand with linen, and she could sense the queries rising in him. He was a wanderer who had just returned home, struggling to arrange the pieces of the isle together. Sidra continued, for his sake, “Torin was first married to Donella Reid. She was a fellow member of the guard. She passed away after Maisie’s delivery.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes. It was a difficult loss.” Sidra envisioned Donella and realized Jack was sitting in the ghost’s chair, the sunshine pouring in from the window on the far wall. Before, the light had shone through Donella’s visage, but it gilded Jack now. He looked just like Mirin, Sidra thought. Which meant he must not favor his mysterious father at all. A father the gossips were still hungry to speculate about.

“There,” Sidra said, finishing her care. “I’m going to send you off with this bottle of salve and honey. You should dress your wound morning and night for three days.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, accepting the offering. “How can I repay you for your kindness?”