“My wife, my daughters,” the Breccan whispered, and suddenly they were around him. A woman with gray-blond hair, a gaunt face, and shoulders that curved inward, as if she were starving, and three young daughters with hair the shade of flax, copper, and honey. The women began to weep when they saw the blood and the wound. His wife clung to him, trying to close the gash with her hands.

“They’ll be hungry this winter when the north wind blows and the ice comes,” the Breccan said, and his voice was hoarse, fading. “They’ll starve if you don’t feed them, Torin.”

He turned into ash and blew through his wife’s fingers. His daughters wept and cried for him.

“Da! Da!”

Their voices cut into Torin like three different blades. They needed a healer, and he searched for Sidra in the mist.

“Sidra?” he called, but there was no answer. He realized that these were wounds for him alone to heal, and he looked at his hands, overcome. He thought about what she had once said to him: What will you choose for your hands? His eyes crowded with tears.

“Sidra,” he said, his heart beating a lament. “Sidra,” he whispered, and as he woke the sound of her name broke the darkness and his silence.

He lay in the bed for a shocked moment, drenched through with sweat. It was just before dawn, the coldest and loneliest hour, one that Torin was far too familiar with.

He dared to say her name again, his voice rough-hewn from disuse.

“Sidra?”

She woke.

She sat up in the bed, and her breaths were heavy, as if she had also been captive to a terrible dream. “Torin?”

He slipped from the bed and stumbled into the common room, feeling her presence behind him. She rushed to spark a candle, and they stared at each other in the faint light.

Torin moved to sit at the table, trembling. He rubbed his hands over his face.

“I need to confess to you, Sid.”

Her apprehension was evident as she whispered, “Should I make some tea first?”

“No. Come here, please.”

She set down the candle, her eyes wide, wary of what he was going to tell her. She stood an arm’s length away from him, her chemise slipping from her shoulder.

He couldn’t bear the distance, and he reached for her. She took a step closer to stand between his knees. His hands settled on her waist.

“I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he began. “But I refuse to let this one get the best of me. I’ve never said this to you, and I didn’t realize how much I desired to speak such truth to you, every sunrise and every sunset, until my voice was taken.” He paused. He was parched, and he longed to drink her in. “I love you, Sidra. My love for you knows no bounds.”