Eventually, he couldn’t continue feigning there were dishes to be washed without attracting suspicion, and he turned to scrubbing the tabletop clean.

“Jack?” Frae suddenly cried. “You should play your harp for Adaira!”

He hesitated before looking at Adaira, only to find her gaze was already fixed on him.

“That’s a lovely idea, Frae,” she said. “But I should return home before the moon rises.” She stood and thanked Mirin for supper and Frae for the pie. “I’ll return soon for another slice,” Adaira promised, and Frae blushed with pride.

“I’ll walk you out,” Jack said. He opened the door and stepped into the peace of the kail yard. The night was cool. He drank the moment of silence before Adaira joined him.

They walked to the gate, where her horse was tethered. Adaira turned to face him, and he noticed how exhausted she suddenly appeared in the starlight, as if she had been holding a mask over her face the entire evening.

“Midnight?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “At Kelpie Rock, which I vividly remember how to find.”

Adaira smiled before passing through the gate to mount her horse.

Jack stood among the herbs and watched her ride away, until she melted into the shadows of night. He stared into the dark space between the stars, measuring the moon. He had a few more hours until midnight. A few more hours until he played for the folk of the tides.

He returned inside. He asked Mirin to tell him a story of the sea.

“Another one!” Maisie said.

Sidra’s eyes were heavy. She was lying in bed beneath the quilts, reading aloud by candlelight. Maisie wiggled closer to her side as Sidra yawned, attempting to close the tattered book Torin had brought home from Graeme’s.

“I think it’s time for bed, Maisie.”

“No, another story!”

Sometimes Maisie had Torin’s temperament. Orders flew out of her mouth, and Sidra had learned it was best to respond in a gentle way. She stroked Maisie’s honey brown curls.

“There will always be time tomorrow,” she said.

Maisie’s face wrinkled, and she turned her head, fixing sad, imploring eyes on Sidra. “Just one more, Sidra. Please?”

Sidra sighed. “Very well. Just one more, and then I’m blowing the candle out.”

Maisie smiled and settled down again, her head propped on Sidra’s shoulder.

Sidra turned the page carefully. The spine of the book was weak; a few leaves were loose and smudged.

“That one!” Maisie said, her finger striking the page.

“Careful, Maisie. This is an old book.” But Sidra’s eyes were drawn to the same story. Flowers, a few illuminated with gold ink, illustrated the edges of the text.