Torin felt his pride flare. His father always knew what to say to irritate him, humble him. To make him feel as if he were eight years old again.

“Faith or no, I know spirits can wreak havoc when they wish,” Torin said. “Just this morning, I spoke with a woman who looked to be ninety but whose voice was that of a young maiden’s. When she was a lass, she saw a gleam of gold in the bottom of a loch and swam down to claim it, only the loch was endless, the trick of a water spirit. And when the lass returned to the surface, a hundred years had passed. Everyone she had known and loved in her life before were dead and gone, and she has no place here.”

“A sad tale, indeed,” Graeme said, sorrowful. “And one you should take caution from, as your answer lies within the lesson she endured.”

“What? That the spirits take delight in tricking us?”

“No, of course not. There are many of the folk who are good, who give us life and balance on the isle.”

“Then what is my answer, sir?”

Speak plainly, Torin wanted to demand, but he held his temper behind his teeth, waiting for his father to explain.

“If you seek a portal, a passage that will lead you into the spirits’ realm,” Graeme began, “you need one of two things: an invitation, or your eyes opened.”

Torin mulled that over before saying, “But my eyes are open. I know this land, even with its capricious nature. I have combed through every glen, every cave, every—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve seen with your eyes,” Graeme interrupted. “But there are other sights, Torin. There are other ways to know this isle and the secrets of the folk.”

Torin was silent. He could feel a flush creeping over his face; his breath hissed through his teeth. “How, then, shall I open my eyes? Since I doubt an invitation would be extended to me.”

Graeme said nothing, but he started to search through a pile of old books. Eventually he found one and set it into Torin’s palm.

Torin was inwardly hoping it held a map of some sort. A chart of fault lines and hidden doors in the east. He was vastly disappointed. The book was handwritten and incomplete, half of it missing, and its pages were worn and crinkled, some peppered by ash stains, some smudged by water, as if it had passed through many hands.

He struggled to read one of the pages, but his irritation waned when he recognized a name. Lady Whin of the Wildflowers. He was tempted to reach for the wooden figurine, still hiding in his pocket, as he read about the earth spirit.

Lady Whin of the Wildflowers was never one to boast

But when Rime of the Moors woke late from winter’s chill

She challenged him outrightly for the strath by the coast