He struggled to hold his rapture in check, but Adaira laughed and Jack couldn’t resist smiling.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” she said. “You, actually. Not me. I did nothing but stand there.”

“You spoke with them,” Jack argued. “Something I could hardly find the wits to do.”

“Aye. But still . . . it was different from what I expected.” She shuddered, as if struck with both horror and excitement. “You did well, bard.”

Jack snorted, but her compliment seeped into him. He was about to reply when he felt a strange ache in his head, just behind his eyes. He closed them, pressed the heel of his palm to his throbbing lids. The pain flickered like lightning, coursing down his arms to his fingertips. He gritted his teeth against it and hoped Adaira couldn’t hear him gasp as the discomfort found a resting place in his bones.

He tried to breathe, deep and slow, but his nose was dripping now.

He touched the bow of his lips; his fingers came away with a dark, wet stain. His nose was bleeding, and his hand trembled as he pressed a corner of his wet plaid to it, hoping to staunch the flow.

“Jack? Did you hear me?” Adaira was saying.

“Mm.” He suddenly didn’t want her to know. He didn’t want her to know he was in agony, that he was bleeding. But the truth hit him like an axe: playing for the spirits required him to spin magic with his craft. It was devastating to realize this was how his mother felt after completing an enchanted plaid.

“She made it sound as if the spirits want nothing to do with our children in their realm,” Adaira was saying. “But I struggle to believe such a claim.”

“Then we must ask ourselves what mortal children can do for them in the world beyond ours,” Jack said. “Surely the spirits have uses for us, even if it is only to entertain them.”

“Yes,” Adaira said in a distant tone. “What do you think Ream meant about others being higher than them?”

Jack swallowed. He could taste a clot of blood, and he cleared his throat. “Who can guess? We should have known the spirits wouldn’t speak plainly.” As if they heard him, a wave broke hard on the rock and splashed him in the face. “Thank you for that,” he muttered, irritated.

The bleeding was easing. So was the strain behind his eyes, but the pain lingered in his hands. He flexed his stiff fingers, full of worry.

Adaira herself was lost in thought. Eventually, she said, “I think she meant that the spirits of earth and air are above the water. I never realized that.”

“Neither did I.”

Adaira fell quiet. Her back was still pressed against his, and he felt her draw a deep breath.

“Jack? Could you play my mum’s ballad to summon the spirits of the earth?”