He ascended the hill now, desperate once more. He made it to the crest, reaching his father’s kail yard. It was overcome with weeds, even though Sidra came once a week to tend to Graeme’s garden. Torin noticed the roof needed mending, the shutters hung crookedly, there was a bird’s nest in one of the eaves, and the rain barrel looked foggy. All seemed broken and disheveled—that is, until Torin approached his father’s door.

Then the weeds retreated with a whisper, exposing the stone pathway. The despondent vines that grew up the side of the house turned into honeysuckle climbing a trellis. Wildflowers bloomed amid the kail and herbs. The gossamer melted away, and the shutters were straight and recently painted.

Watching the cottage and yard change with his presence gave Torin pause. He was humbled, thinking of all the times he had judged the croft and his father’s past decisions from the road. The disrepair, the messiness. Why couldn’t his father take care of things? And yet all along it was beautiful and orderly; Torin had simply been unable to see it.

He wondered if Sidra saw past the glamour, and when he noticed how tidy the rows of vegetables were, he knew she did. She had probably seen the heart of this place from the beginning.

The folk of the earth guarding this yard must be very shrewd.

“Sidra? Sidra, is that you again?” Graeme called from within before Torin had even knocked. The yard must have given his presence away. “Tell Maisie I have her ship ready. Come inside, come inside! I was just about to make some oatcakes . . .”

Torin let himself in. The common room was messy, and this time it was not glamoured. His father had an overwhelming collection of things. There were piles of books, heaps of loose papers, waterlogged scrolls from another era set in haphazard stacks. Five pairs of fancy mainland boots with laces, hardly worn, and a jacket the color of fire, lined with plaid. Jars of golden pins, a jewelry box that held his mother’s abandoned pearls. A map of the realm pegged on the floor, because the walls were already crowded with drawings and musty tapestries and a chart of the northern constellations. All were possessions from Graeme’s former life, when he had been the ambassador to the mainland.

Torin wound through the maze, coming to the large table by the hearth, where Graeme sat waiting. In his hands was a clear bottle, holding an intricate little ship.

“Torin.” Graeme almost dropped the glass. His mouth hung open, and he stood, startled. “Are Sidra and Maisie with you? I finished the ship for her. See? She and I have been working on it together, when Sidra brings her to visit.”

“It’s only me,” Torin said, and he couldn’t help himself: he soaked in the sight of his father.