Graeme looked softer, older than he had five years ago. He had always been tall and broad, just like his brother Alastair. But whereas Alastair was dark headed and vibrant and given to swords, Graeme was fair and reserved and drawn to books. One brother had risen as laird, the other as his support, his representative to the south.

Graeme’s beard was silver now. His hair was caught in a messy plait. His clothes were wrinkled but clean. The lines at the corners of his eyes said that he must have been smiling more often than not, most likely when Sidra and Maisie visited.

He was a great contrast to his brother. Alastair had become so gaunt and wan over the years that Torin wondered if Graeme would even recognize his brother if he saw him.

“Why have you come?” Graeme asked, as politely as he could.

“For advice.”

“Oh.” Graeme carefully set down Maisie’s ship-in-a-bottle, and his hands moved over the sea of clutter on his table. Bottles waiting to be filled, tiny iron instruments, slivers of wood, tins of paint, pieces of cloth. This, then, is how he fills his days, Torin thought. “Here, sit . . . sit there. Do you want tea?”

“No.”

“Very well. How can I advise you then?”

“Another lass has gone missing,” said Torin. He felt that beat again, thrumming in his pulse. Time was running out. “This is the third one in three weeks. I found a small trail of footprints, but there is no further trace of her save for two red flowers, as if her blood turned into petals. I’ve been searching for days and nights now. I’ve searched the sea caves and eddies, the glens, the mountains, the shadows between fells. The girls have vanished, and I need to know how to make the folk return them.”

“The spirits?” Graeme frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“Because the spirits have taken this child, just as they took the other two lasses. They are slipping the girls through portals I cannot see.”

Graeme was pensive. He let out a slow breath and said, “You blame the spirits.”

Torin shifted his weight, impatient. “Aye. It is the only explanation.”

“Is it?”

“How else would a bairn completely vanish?”

“How else, indeed.”

“Are you going to answer me or not? Surely you have some thread of knowledge about spirits in all of . . . of this.” Torin waved his hand to the stacks of books and papers. Most of it was mainland trash, but even so, Graeme Tamerlaine had once known everything. He had been full of wondrous stories, of spirits and mortals alike. He could have been a druid if he had set his heart on it.

Graeme raked his fingers through his beard, still lost in his thoughts. “We see what we want to see according to our faith, Torin. Spirits or no.”