“Yes. I have faith that a trade will stave off winter raids, if we can peacefully give the Breccans what they need come the lean months.”

Frae’s words returned to Jack, her innocent voice echoing through him. Mum says the Breccans are hungry when winter comes. Can’t we just share our food with them?

“And what will they give us in return?” Jack said. This trade would drain the Tamerlaines if they weren’t careful. “We don’t need anything of theirs.”

“The one thing they have in abundance: enchanted possessions,” Adaira replied. “They can weave and forge and create magical craft without consequence. I know it doesn’t make sense for us to ask for their charmed blades and plaids if we want peace, but I also know that our people here are suffering for making those things. And I want to see that burden lifted.”

She spoke of people like his mum. Like Una.

Jack was quiet, but he dreamt of the same things. He had always hated the way his mother sacrificed her health to make those uncanny plaids. One day she would push herself too far, too hard, and the cough she tried to hide would morph into a claw, ripping her up from within.

Furthermore, if a trade could be established between the two clans, then Jack would no longer have to worry about his mother’s croft being raided. This very storehouse that he was standing in, which beckoned a Breccan like low-hanging fruit come winter, could be secure.

Adaira mistook his silence. “You disapprove, bard?”

He frowned at her. “No. I think it’s a good idea, Adaira. But I’m worried that the Breccans don’t want peace the same way we do, and that they might fool us.”

“You sound like Torin.”

Jack didn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or not. Once, he had wanted to be Torin, and Jack almost laughed, thinking about how different he was now. “Your cousin disapproves of your idea?”

“He thinks establishing a trade will be a nightmare,” Adaira replied. “The clan line presents the greatest obstacle—do we cross it into their territory, or do we allow them to cross into ours? Either way, Torin says it’s ‘bound to be something that goes awry and bloody.’”

“He’s not wrong, Adaira.”

Her brow creased. Jack studied her, watching the thoughts whirl through her. She was parting her lips to say more when they both heard Frae calling for them.

Jack peeked out the solitary window. He could just discern his sister walking in the backyard, shouting their names.

He didn’t want Frae to see him and Adaira emerge from the storehouse. He waited until his sister turned to face the river before he opened the door. Adaira slipped out into the evening, with Jack close behind, and they approached the yard gate side by side, as if they had been walking the property.