Adaira noticed that Jack shifted. He was standing near his bedroom door, but he glanced at Mirin, who continued to stand with Frae before the hearth. The weaver looked pale as she stared at her son, and Adaira made a note to ask Mirin about this later.

“And where is that?” she continued.

“Upstream and past the clan line, deep in the heart of the woods.”

Torin flinched. Adaira held up her hand, silently commanding him to stay where he was.

“Did you partake in the most recent raid to cover your move of returning Eliza Elliott to the east?” she asked.

“Indeed.”

“Why return only one of the lasses?”

“Because I wanted to prove to you that I am merciful and I do nothing without thought,” Moray answered. “I knew you would soon discover I was the one stealing them, and you would burn with anger toward me. I needed to prove to you that there was a reason for the snatchings, and that, most of all, the lasses were being treated gently in the west.”

“Why steal them?” Adaira asked. “Why have you and your clan sunk so low as to take our daughters?”

A hint of a smile played over Moray’s lips. “Grant me another cut, Adaira. Because what I’m about to tell you . . . I need you to know it’s truth.”

She sat there for a moment, solemn and full of worry. But he was right; the first cut was already mending. So she granted him another wound, deep enough this time to draw a grimace across his face.

“Now then,” Adaira said. “Why?”

Moray seemed to settle in the chair, as if preparing for a long encounter. “On a stormy autumn night nearly twenty-three years ago,” he began, “the Laird of the West and her consort welcomed their first child into the world. A lad with hair like corn silk and a voice like a bleating goat. And yet he was not alone. Another bairn followed on his heels. A very small lass. She was tiny compared to her twin, with hair white as moon thistle.”

Moray paused.

Adaira swallowed and said, “Go on.”

Her enemy smiled and continued.