An hour later, Torin found his cousin sitting in the library, cradling a cup of tea, as if her hands couldn’t shake their chill. The laird’s signet ring shone on her forefinger. Her hair was still damp from the funeral, but she was dressed in dry clothes, and she sat in the chair Alastair had loved, facing the hearth as the fire crackled.

Torin shut the door and stared at Adaira. He knew she heard him enter, but she said nothing, her gaze captive to the flames.

He walked closer, sat in the chair next to hers, and listened as the storm seethed beyond the windows. Glancing down to his forearm, he saw that his silencing wound had almost healed, thanks to Sidra’s tenacity with the fire spurge. She applied the salve three times a day, and every time he felt the heat of the plant seeping into his wound, closing it bit by bit.

Soon he would be able to speak again, and yet what words would suffice in this moment? Torin knew the heavy burdens Adaira carried. And while he once would have endeavored to take them from her, those thoughts had died over the years as he found his place with the guard. She was laird now, and the best he could do was carry the burdens alongside her.

He sat with her in that tender silence.

If his life had not been interrupted by the sting of an enchanted blade, he would have spoken. He probably would have become frustrated, wondering what Adaira and Jack had done to bring the storm. He would have peppered her with questions he felt entitled to have answers to. He would have said anything to fill the roar of such silence, but now he understood it better. The weight of each word he uttered, and how his words unfolded in the air. He was far more mindful of them now, understanding that most of them were worthless.

He was a man built from many regrets, and he didn’t want to add to that number.

“Torin,” Adaira said at last. “If I call upon you to ride with me into war . . . will you support my decision?”

He was silent a beat too long. She had expected him to agree instantly, and Adaira shivered in alarm as she glanced at him.

He was thinking of the ghosts in his dreams. Now that Torin had beheld the Breccans’ faces and listened to their grief, he had begun to see the trade as a way to atone for his actions. He couldn’t bring the lives back, but he could ensure the widows, the children, and the lovers were still looked after.

But he nodded, in spite of his conflicted feelings.

“Bane confirmed our suspicions. The Breccans have been stealing the girls,” Adaira said. “They’re alive and well looked after, but we still need to learn of their location.”