Sidra studied the flowers. A frown pulled at her brows. “No. I’ve never seen such flowers before, Torin. Where did you find them?”

He explained, suddenly feeling exhausted and defeated. Another lass gone, on his watch. Another girl vanished, leaving behind a strange flower in her wake.

Catriona Mitchell was only five years old. The same age as Maisie.

Torin’s eyes lifted. He could see into the bedroom, because Sidra had left the door open. Maisie was fast asleep on the bed.

Torin walked closer, to lean on the doorframe and watch his daughter sleep. His chest ached.

“Torin? Do you want to rest for a while?” Sidra asked quietly.

He sighed, turning back to his wife. She was reaching for the kettle and had set out a plate of treacle biscuits. The last time he had properly eaten was at this table, when he had brought Jack home.

“No, I don’t have time,” he whispered, fearing if he woke Maisie he wouldn’t be able to leave.

Sidra set down the kettle, looking at him with worried eyes. He began to walk back to the door, but he paused, glancing at the red flowers she had set down on her wooden cutting board. The blossoms were stark against the collection of her other herbs, keen to be noticed.

“I don’t know what to do, Sid,” he said. The confession tasted like ash in his mouth. “I don’t know how to find these lasses. I don’t know how to make the spirits give them up. I don’t know how to comfort these families.”

Sidra came to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and Torin leaned into her, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair.

“I’ll see what I can uncover about these flowers, Torin,” she said, easing back so she could meet his weary gaze. “Don’t give up hope. We’ll find the girls.”

He nodded, but his meager faith had fully crumbled over the past few weeks.

Not knowing what to believe anymore, he kissed Sidra’s knuckles and left.

The sun was bright, but the clouds to the west had started to bruise. A storm was brewing, which would make it very difficult to find any further trace of where Catriona had wandered to.

Torin was about to mount his horse when his gaze was caught by the hill to his left. It was cloaked with heather, and a walking path cut up the middle. It led to his father’s croft next door, and Torin decided he owed Graeme a visit.

It had been a few years since Torin had properly called on his father. He rarely visited because the memories lingered like ghosts in his childhood home and he and his father had always harbored different opinions. Their estrangement had been sparked when Torin and Donella handfasted in secret.