It led her into a glen that she had never seen before, a shifting location in the hills. The gorse eventually meandered up the rocky wall to a patch of fire spurge. The weeds boasted short red stalks, their fiery blooms reminding Sidra of the anemones that flourished in the bay. She knew this plant was vengeful if picked, inflicting painful blisters on hands bold enough to harvest it.

She stood and stared up at the beautiful, monstrous weed, let out a deep breath, and began to climb with her basket and knife. But the gorse hissed and wilted at her approach, and she understood the price that was required—she would have to harvest and carry the fire spurge with her bare hands. She dropped the basket and blade, then continued her ascent.

Sidra didn’t hesitate when she reached the spurge. The moment her hand closed around the first bloom, the pain swelled within her. She cried out, but she didn’t release it. She tugged until the blossom broke free and the pain burned, bright and intense, as if she had set her hand on fire. Trembling, she took hold of another, unable to swallow her cries of agony as she harvested.

Her hands took the pain for Torin; her voice rose for his lost one.

And if she thought that she could measure the depth of her love for him before, she was mistaken.

It ran far deeper than she knew.

Chapter 22

When Jack arrived at the castle the following morning, harp in hand, Adaira knew he was ready to play. As she expected, they had a quick argument about the spirits.

“You think we can trust them?” Jack questioned. He sounded irritated, as if something was bothering him.

“We’ve trusted all the others,” Adaira replied, studying his frown. He looked tired, and she wondered if he had been restless last night.

“Yes, Adaira. We nearly drowned the first time, and the second? I was one breath away from being immortalized as grass.”

“None of the folk are safe,” she said, feeling her anger rise. “There is always the danger of them harming or deceiving us, although what do you expect when you dance with something wild, Jack?”

He didn’t reply, and Adaira’s temper began to wane.

“Do you really want to play for the wind, old menace? If not . . . I understand.”

He sagged, the fight leaving him. “Yes, of course I want to play for them.”

Then what is wrong? she wanted to ask. The words were ready on her tongue when he spoke first.

“You’re right. I’m just tired. Let’s go while we still have plenty of daylight.”