Torin’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to go now, to cross the clan line and bring Maisie home, and he struggled to rein in his impulsivity.

Adaira must have sensed the impatience within him, because she said, “There are a few more things I need to do before we’ll be ready to steal into the west and find the girls. In the meantime, I’m going to ask your second in command to very quietly tell Una to begin forging as many swords and axes as she can, Ailsa to prepare her finest horses, Ansel to begin fletching arrows and stringing as many yew bows as he is able, Sidra to prepare tonics and healing salves, and the guard and watchmen to train, to sharpen their swords, to wear their enchanted plaids like armor. We need to be prepared for conflict when we bring the lasses home.”

Torin nodded again, agreeing with her. He would have to be patient; he would have to trust Adaira’s judgment.

He sat with her a while longer, his mind whirling with images of Maisie and the thought of bringing his daughter home to war.

“What happened to your hands?” Jack said.

Sidra didn’t pause as she prepared a tonic for him. For the past two days, the bard had looked the worst she had ever seen him, his skin pallid, his eyes bloodshot. His voice was hoarse, and his hands trembled when he raised them. He was sitting upright in his bed at the castle, watching her work.

She was worried about him and the strong magic he was casting. The cost was too heavy for him to bear so frequently, and she debated over how much she could fuss over him.

“I picked a spiteful weed,” she explained. The splotches of red and the blisters on her palms had been slow to heal, but Torin’s wound was nearly mended. She met Jack’s gaze as she brought the healing brew to his lips. “Here, drink all of this. You pushed yourself too hard this time, Jack. You need to be mindful of the things I mentioned to you before: how long you wield magic and how intricate it is. You also need to give your body time to rest in between, as your mum does with her plaids.”

Jack grimaced at her gentle scolding. “I know. I didn’t have much choice, though, Sidra.”

She wondered what he meant, but he didn’t offer an explanation as he took a sip, wincing at the taste.

“I’m sorry,” Sidra said, lowering the cup. “I know it’s bitter.”

“I’ve tasted far worse on the mainland,” he replied, and Sidra was glad to hear a touch of wry humor in his voice.

“Do you miss it?” she asked.