“Here we are, Frae,” Adaira said.

Frae whirled to face them. “It’s time for supper,” she said, touching the ends of her braids. “I hope you like winkle soup, heiress.”

“It’s my favorite,” Adaira replied, reaching for Frae’s hand.

Jack watched as a smile stole across his sister’s face. She was awed to be holding the heiress’s hand.

Warmed, he followed as Frae led them into the firelight.

Mirin had laid out a lovely spread for Adaira. The best plates and glasses, the oldest wine, and polished silverware that gleamed like dew. They had been cooking most of the day, preparing food for the Mitchell family in their time of grief, and the house was still heated from it, the air holding a trace of berries and the briny scent of the winkles Jack had gathered from the shore at low tide.

Frae had picked fresh flowers and lit the candles, and Jack settled in his customary chair. Adaira took the seat directly across from him. His mother was speaking, filling bowls with the soup, but Jack’s mind was distant. He was thinking of all the things Adaira had just said to him. To play for the east. To stay the full turning of the year.

To trade with their enemies.

“I can’t believe you’re here in our house,” Frae said.

Jack’s reveries broke as he watched his sister shyly grin at the heiress.

“I know, it’s been a very long time since I’ve visited,” said Adaira. “But I remember when you were born, Frae. My da and mum and I came to see you for the first time.”

“Did you hold me?”

“I did,” Adaira replied. “You were the best bairn I ever held. Most children cry in my arms, but not you.”

Mirin began to cough. The sound was deep and wet, and she tried to muffle it behind her palm. Adaira’s smile faded, as did Frae’s. Jack sat frozen as he watched his mother cough, her thin shoulders shaking.

“Mum?” he stood, fearful.

Mirin calmed and motioned for him to sit. But he saw the flash of blood on her palm, even as she seamlessly wiped it away on the underside of her apron. He had never seen her bleed after a coughing spell, and it chilled him. Her health must have steadily declined in the years he was away.

“I’m fine, Jack,” Mirin said, clearing her throat. And then it was as if it had never happened. She took a sip of wine and guided the conversation away to other matters, engaging Adaira. Jack let out a long breath and returned to his chair. But he noticed once again that his mother hardly ate.