She narrowed her eyes at him and drained her wine. “What I know is that the people are talking about me. And it isn’t good talk. You should distance yourself from me immediately, Jack. This cannot end well.”

Jack stepped forward to catch her hand. Her fingers were hot in his, as if she were burning from within. He noticed the signet ring was gone, and he was swarmed with unspeakable sadness, sensing she had willingly removed it. He raised his eyes to meet hers. She was rigid, guarded. As if she was waiting to hear him reject her.

“Let them,” he said. “Let them talk. All that matters in this moment is you and me and what we know is true.”

She was surprised. He watched her remember, the memory flickering across her face. She had once said similar words to him, on the night she had bent a knee and proposed.

“You’re scaring me, Jack.”

“Have I smiled too much then?”

That drew a slight grin from her. But it swiftly faded. “Your reaction to this revelation . . . you should revile me. You should call me your enemy. You shouldn’t want to hold my hand.”

He only laced his fingers with hers, tugging her closer to him. “Do you think it matters to me where you were born, Adaira?”

“It should.”

“Would it matter to you if I had been born in the west?”

She sighed. “Maybe once, long ago, I would have cared. But I’ve changed in a way I hardly recognize. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Jack traced her cheek, tilting her chin up so she would look at him. “There are pieces missing from Moray Breccan’s story. Vital pieces that I want you to know.”

She was silent, expectant. Waiting for him to speak.

“The Keeper of the Aithwood could have returned you to your blood parents that fateful night,” Jack began. “But to do so would mean he had broken a law, because he was given an order not to bring you back. He feared his life would be forfeit, as would yours.

“He found the river and stepped into it, disoriented from bleeding as he was, with you in his arms. He was going to take you home with him, to think about what he should do. The tree boughs danced above him, and the water guided him downstream, and it would seem all the spirits, even the stars that burned distantly in the sky, were leading him to the east. When he made the crossing, he stood in a valley and looked upward and saw a cottage on a hill, the firelight seeping through the shutters. Little did he know that a weaver lived there alone, young and lonely and married to secrets, and that she often remained awake, deep into the night, weaving at her loom.