She had encountered plenty of graveyards before, although she had never seen small, crimson flowers blooming amid the headstones. And if the Orenna flower couldn’t bloom freely in the grass, then these two blossoms must have been dropped in the place where Catriona had vanished. Something or someone had been carrying them, perhaps to ingest the petals.

She would have to tell Torin about it at first light.

But she wondered . . . what would happen if she swallowed one?

Sidra wasn’t sure, and she returned to bed with a shiver.

Chapter 8

Adaira was waiting for Jack on the shore. The air was cold, but the moonlight was generous, guiding him down the rocky path to meet her on the coast, his harp tucked beneath his arm. She was pacing on the sand—the only indication that she was anxious—and she had braided her hair, to keep the wind from toying with it. He couldn’t discern her expression until he was almost upon her.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He nodded despite the worry that nagged him. He drew his harp from its skin and settled on a damp rock. A small crab scuttled between his boots, and a few dead jellyfish lay scattered like purple blossoms. He positioned his harp on his lap, propping it against his left shoulder, just above his swift-beating heart. From the corner of his eye, he could see Adaira standing tall and rigid. The starlight illuminated her.

She doesn’t seem real, but neither does this moment, Jack thought, with a tremor in his hands. He was about to play Lorna’s ballad and draw forth the spirits of the sea. And it almost felt as if the ground beneath him quaked, just slightly, and as if the tide grew softer as its foam reached for his boots. As if the wind caressed his face, and even the reflection of the moon gleamed a little brighter in the rock pools. All of it—air and water and earth and fire—seemed expectant and waiting for him to worship them.

Jack played a scale on his harp, his fingers stiff at first. A memory rose, unbidden, a memory made on the mainland. He had been sitting in an alcove of the Bardic University with Gwyn, his first love, at his side watching his every move, her hair tickling his arm and smelling of roses. She had been scolding him for creating such sad songs, and he didn’t tell her that he felt the most alive when he played for sorrow. Now it was strange how that moment felt old and bleached by the sun, as if it had happened in the life of another man, not Jack Tamerlaine’s.