Mirin has killed a Breccan, Sidra thought, mouth agape. And she’s trying to hide the body.

“Mum!” Frae cried, pointing at Sidra.

Mirin whirled, tense until she recognized the healer. “Blessed spirits! Can you help us, Sidra?”

Sidra didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, the ground soft beneath her boots. “Yes. Where are we taking him?”

“Inside,” Mirin panted. Her face was ruddy, and stray hairs were escaping her braid.

“Are you wounded, Mirin?” Sidra asked, glancing again at the blood on the weaver’s skirts.

“No, it’s his blood. Is he . . . is he dead, Sidra?”

Sidra knelt and quickly glanced over him. A head wound, which looked far worse than it was. One of his palms bore a shallow, intentional slice. She checked his pulse; it was slow but strong.

“He’s alive,” she said, moving to take hold of his ankles. “He’ll most likely wake soon.”

“Frae?” Mirin said, clearing her throat. “Will you run inside and clear a space in the common room? Set out one of the kitchen chairs. And close the shutter.”

Frae nodded and dashed to obey.

A strange feeling began to creep over Sidra. She paused, staring at the Breccan’s boot.

Is this him?

She didn’t know where the query came from, but it made her stomach clench. She was wearing the green plaid Torin had commissioned for her, and she felt safe beneath its enchantment. But her chest began to ache.

“Sidra?” Mirin gently asked, breaking her strange reverie.

Sidra hurried to lift the man’s feet as Mirin heaved his upper body, and together they painstakingly carried him into the house and to the chair Frae had arranged. It took a bit of shuffling to get him seated upright—he was backbreakingly heavy—and Sidra was sore for breath by the time she and Mirin had removed his plaid and weapons.

“Will you bind his ankles to the chair?” Mirin asked, handing her two strips of plaid. “As tight as you can.”

Sidra nodded. “What happened?”

“I . . .” Mirin paused, laying her hand on her forehead. “Jack is unwell. I had to leave him on the hill, and I need to keep the Breccan under watch until Adaira arrives. Do you mind going to Jack and seeing if there’s anything you can do to heal him?”

“Yes,” Sidra said, her heart racing. She grabbed her basket and returned to the back garden, following the path Mirin and Frae had made dragging the Breccan. She saw Jack lying in the grass, and her fears rose. Every horrible thought was blooming in her mind—a Breccan must have crossed and Jack had fought him and was now critically wounded—and Sidra prepared herself as she knelt in the grass and turned him over.

He had been lying on his harp. The instrument was crooked and burned, as if it had been held over a fire, and he groaned as he settled on his back.