Adaira glanced at Sidra and Torin, neither of whom offered any guidance on how she should answer. They were all taking this hour by hour, moment by moment. None of them knew what the girls had experienced in the west, even though they appeared to have been treated gently. “Yes, Maisie. So I need you to look after your mum and da for me while I’m gone. Can you do that?”

Maisie nodded. “I have something for you.” Her little hand shot out to Torin, and he set a battered, coverless book on her palm.

“What’s this?” Adaira asked in a hushed tone.

“Stories,” Maisie said. “About the spirits.”

“Did you write them, Maisie?”

“It was Joan Tamerlaine’s book,” Torin said, drawing Adaira’s eyes. “My father gave it to me, and we thought . . . we want to give it to you. He claims the other half is in the west. Perhaps you will find it there?”

Adaira nodded, suddenly overcome. She hugged Maisie close and kissed her cheeks. “Thank you for the book. I will read it every night.”

“Elspeth will like the stories too,” Maisie said, wiggling.

Adaira released her, wondering who Elspeth was. But she didn’t ask, and Sidra stepped forward next with a handful of vials.

“For wounds,” she began, holding up a glass brimming with dried herbs. “For sleep.” Sidra held up another. “For your headaches. And for cramps.”

Adaira smiled, accepting all four. “Thank you, Sid.”

“If there’s anything else you need while you’re there,” Sidra said, “let me know and I’ll send it to you.”

“I will.”

Sidra embraced her, just as fiercely as Maisie had, and it was all Adaira could do not to cry.

“The clan is gathering in the hall for the announcement,” Torin said, clearing his throat. “I’ll wait for you there.”

Adaira nodded as Sidra released her to gather Maisie in her arms. The girl waved to Adaira just before they slipped out the door, and Adaira was thankful for the silence again. Holding the broken book and the herbs, she cried.

She was wiping her tears, setting the gifts into her bag, when she heard the unmistakable click of a wall panel opening. She stiffened. She had left Jack at Mirin’s, thinking he needed to be with his mother and sister in the wake of the Breccans’ invasion of their home.

“Jack?” she said, afraid to turn and see that it might not be him.

“Should I bring the old, twisted harp or not?” his voice sounded, wryly.

Adaira spun to see him holding a bag. “What are you doing?”

Jack stepped into her room, shutting the secret door behind him. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she protested, even as her heart softened in relief.