Jack shifted his weight. A question was nipping at his thoughts. He didn’t want to voice it, but holding it in soon felt unbearable. He asked, “Do you know why your parents sent me to the mainland? Out of all the other children to give this chance to . . . why me?”

“I do. Don’t you realize I know all the secrets of the east?”

Jack waited. He didn’t want to beg, but Adaira was letting this silence draw out far too long for his liking. “Why then, heiress?”

“I can tell you, Jack. But I will have to take you back in time to do so,” she said, tucking strands of hair behind her ear.

Again, she was quiet, watching his impatience rise.

“Then take me back,” he requested, tersely.

“I’m sure you remember that night,” she began. “The night you and I clashed at a particular thistle patch. The night you chased me across the hills.”

“The night you shoved a handful of thistles into my face,” he corrected dryly. Of course, they would see this story from different perspectives. But standing so close to Adaira now, breathing in the waning light of a summer evening and listening to the isle’s wind howl beyond the door . . . he remembered that night vividly.

Jack had been ten, eager to prove himself worthy of the East Guard. The moon thistle challenge was held every three years, to determine which aspiring recruits knew the lay of the isle, as well as the danger of magical plants.

He had taken the time to scout the hills the day before, to find the perfect patch of moon thistles. And when Torin had blown the horn at midnight, commencing the challenge, Jack had dashed to his secret patch, only to discover that Adaira had beaten him to it. She had harvested nearly all of the thistles and when she broke into a run, he had chased her, thinking they could split them. Instead, Adaira had turned around and shoved the thistles into his face.

The pain had been unbearable. Like fire, trapped beneath his skin. Jack had instantly floundered in the grass, wailing until Torin found him and dragged him home to Mirin. But the worst had yet to come. Moon thistles were enchanted plants. A prick from their needles promised a nightmare later, in sleep. Jack had suffered through thirteen terrible nights after Mirin had drawn all the spindles from his swollen face.

A hint of a smile played over Adaira’s countenance. Jack watched the corners of her lips curve.

“I still remember those nightmares you gave me, heiress,” he said.