“I need to finish by saying this,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “It’s hard for me to admit, but I realize I’ve built my life upon something that can be taken from me, and I’m afraid. I long for Maisie to come home, and yet there is no promise that she will, and what does that leave for you and me? We see the world from different angles, and I wonder . . . I wonder if there is a place for us within it.”

Torin’s breaths quickened. He took her hand and held it to his breast, slipping her palm beneath the protective enchantment of his plaid, so she could feel the beat of his heart. She stood with him beneath the boughs, and she closed her eyes, feeling the rhythm of his life.

It began to rain. A soft whisper through the orchard.

Torin drew her hand away from his chest, but then he laced his fingers with hers, and she sensed his determination. He wanted to try this with her, just the two of them. If they needed to carve their own place together, then he would attempt it. He leaned his brow to hers, and they stood breathing the same air, the same thoughts.

He traced her jaw, the rain now shining like tears on her face.

Come home with me.

Sidra nodded.

The rain had intensified by the time Torin led her back to where his horse waited in her father’s yard. The valley roads were swollen with mud, and Torin guided them carefully across the hills, Yirr trailing behind. The afternoon was melting into evening, and the sky was still churning with the storm when they returned to their croft. They were both soaked to the bone.

Sidra stepped into the common room. She would never get over how empty it was without Maisie; it always felt the worst the moment she returned home. She cleared her throat, searching for something to do. She wondered if she should spark the fire in the hearth, or if she should change her clothes first. Before she could decide, she felt Torin’s steady gaze.

He was standing very still, his flaxen hair drenched across his brow. Sidra didn’t understand why he was so attentive until she realized he was waiting for her command.

She walked to him, afraid of the desire she felt—how sharp it was within her—until she saw it mirrored in his own face.

Sidra’s fingers drifted up to the brooch at his shoulder, unclasping it. His plaid cascaded beneath her hands, and she found the buckles on his jerkin next, unfastening them one by one. She removed his raiment—belt and weapons and tunic—all the way down to his muddy boots. And then he returned the motions, but it had been a while since he had undressed her. His eager hands tangled the laces of her bodice, and he let out a wisp of frustrated breath.