There was no signature, but only one person called him “old menace.” Adaira must be expecting a reply, because her raven still waited, watching him with beady eyes.

Jack sat at his desk and wrote:

Your apology is accepted, heiress. My sister will be thrilled to see you tomorrow. My mother will insist on feeding you. Come hungry.

He began to sign his name but thought better of it. With a wry tilt on his lips, he wrote:

—Your one and only O.M.

He rolled it up and bound the parchment with twine to the raven’s leg. The bird took flight with a flap of dark blue wings.

Jack dreamt of the spirits of the sea that night. He dreamt of opening his mouth to sing for them and drowning instead.

Chapter 7

“Hold the slingshot like this,” Jack instructed Frae. They stood in one of the croft’s paddocks, in the crook of the river. The air was cool with evening and smelled of the nearby Aithwood—sweet sap and sharp pine and damp oak. The wind was tranquil, the hillside spotted with wild orchids.

Adaira should be arriving soon.

“Like this?” Frae asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Take up a river stone and place it in the pocket.” He watched as Frae found her stone and pulled back on the pouch, aiming for the target he had built out of the byre’s old wood. It seemed to take her forever to let it go, and the rock sailed past the target, to her disappointment.

“I missed,” she mumbled.

“I missed in the beginning too,” Jack reassured her. “If you practice every day, you’ll soon hit the target.”

Frae took up a rock and shot again. It was another miss, but Jack only encouraged her to try it once more, to shoot until all of the river rocks they had gathered were gone, lost in the long grass of the paddock. As they walked to retrieve them, Jack studied the river. It flowed through the western portion of Mirin’s property, wide but shallow, melodious and brimming with perfect slingshot rocks.

“Mum has probably already said this to you,” he began. “But you know that you should never draw water from this river, don’t you?”

Frae watched its currents, seemingly harmless as it reflected the hues of sunset. “Yes.”

“Do you know why, Frae?”

“Because it flows from the Breccans’ land. But I can gather rocks from it, right? For your slingshot?”

He met her gaze and nodded. “Yes. Just the rocks.”

“Have the Breccans ever poisoned it before, Jack?” Frae asked, bending to pick up the stones. “The river, I mean.”