Chapter 9 #2
I edge closer, rubbing my arms against the sudden chill. There’s something eerily familiar about this place. I map the shape of the structure in my mind. The square frame. The rounded turret.
And the graveyard.
I go rigid. I know this graveyard. I saw it yesterday.
But…that’s impossible.
Yesterday, there had been nothing but crumbling stone and overgrown graves.
Now, the castle is standing.
Whole. Vibrant.
I inhale sharply, forcing logic back into my mind. There are castles everywhere in Scotland. Ruins. Rebuilt ones. This is a different one.
A different graveyard.
I march toward the tombstones, scanning for proof. There’s a stone marker—just like before.
The Burrying Place.
But this one is newer, the carving still sharp and clean. Yesterday’s was caked in centuries of mud and moss.
I step past the iron railing. The graves are familiar. Or maybe they just seem familiar. Because old Scottish tombstones all look the same, right?
I crouch to read the dates. 1593. 1607. 1588. The same era. But these stones aren’t weathered beyond recognition. Someone tends them. Keeps them clean.
I glance back at the castle. A thin wisp of smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of peat.
Someone lives there. Maybe Campbells who know my mother. Maybe they can direct me.
Or maybe I don’t trust anyone anymore.
I distract myself by reading more gravestones, focusing on the repetition of names and phrases. Here lyeth buried…Departed this lyfe.
Then—
Here lyes Cora
Dere wife, Dere mother
Departed this lyfe 19 February 1619
Her infant rests by her Side
Could there be two like that? Cora isn’t such an unusual name. But the infant thing. That’s so specific. The coincidence feels impossible.
Stop.
I shake my head. This is trauma. Exhaustion. My brain is misfiring. Because this is a different place. It has to be.
Donag growls in my head.
1622.
I grit my teeth, turn around.
Forget this castle. Forget Donag.
I had dreamed of travel. Never again. I’m done.
Shutting down my brain, I begin to backtrack, orienting myself by the loch on my left. Which means the road should be—
The road. Where is it?
There’s a barn where the road should be.
Tears burn my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I am seriously, seriously lost.
I keep moving, one foot in front of the other, forcing my breath to steady. Minutes pass, maybe more, before I lift my head, scanning the landscape, searching for something, anything, familiar.
Then—there.
The inn, distant, blurred by drizzle. Relief floods me so entirely, my knees nearly buckle.
But something is off. I squint through the rain. The shape of the building is right, but everything else is different. The colors, the windows, the entire feel of it.
The parking lot is empty. No cars. Instead, a few shaggy ponies are tied up, grazing. A laugh slips out—half panic, half are you kidding me? This has to be part of the Games. A historical reenactment.
It has to be.
A few men are gathered outside the paddock. Thank God. They can point me in the right direction. This has gotten so surreal, it’ll be good to hear another voice besides the one in my head.
I head toward them. “Sorry to bother you, but I think I’m lost.”
As I get closer, a sickly stench hits me. Sweat, damp wool, sour breath. Their clothes are strange. Not just old-fashioned, they’re filthy. Rough-spun tunics, mud-streaked breeches. One of them carries a long rifle across his back.
Not a modern gun. Something old. Something that belongs in a museum.
A shiver crawls up my spine. I push forward. I need help.
I force a polite smile. “Are you part of the Games?”
The man with the rifle narrows his eyes and says something—a thick, garbled string of words I don’t understand.
Not an accent. Gaelic. But fuzzier. Slurrier than what Janet taught me.
For a beat, no one speaks. The air stretches tight.
Then—laughter.
My smile falters. “I…” I try again. “Do you speak English?”
Another man, shorter and stockier, steps forward. His expression sharpens. He shouts something.
I flinch. The words are meaningless, but the aggressive tone isn’t. They’re glaring at me like I’m something foreign. Strange.
Something that doesn’t belong.
The rifle man’s gaze sweeps down my body, lingering on my bare feet. My wet, clinging dress. He smirks, mutters something low and taunting.
A chill locks my bones in place.
Run.
But my legs won’t move.
The stocky man steps closer, leering. “You ken what we do with the Sassenachs, aye?” He grabs his crotch and flashes me a grin, showing a blackened gap where a tooth should be.
Laughter erupts around him.
A sharp shock of rage slices through me. This place. I just need a little help. A little normalcy.
“Forget it.” I whirl and race-walk to the building, ignoring the shouting behind me.
I’ll get water. Dry off. Warm up. Find a phone. Call a cab.
I don’t even care about finding Janet anymore. I just need to get out of here.
Thoughts stutter through my head as I approach the entrance. Why is the door a different color? Weren’t there a bunch of tourist board stickers out front? That stone bench is new.
It must be a different inn.
Then I glance at the sign.
THE MERRY WIDOW.
I stop short. I know this sign. I know this place.
But something’s wrong. Off.
The edges of my vision blur. I scrub a hand through my rain-soaked hair. My brain is fried. That’s it.
I must’ve mixed up those other details the first time. I step forward, yank open the door—
And freeze.
A wave of thick, choking smoke hits me. Not cigarettes. Something darker. Heavier. Peat and sweat and urine and rot. I stagger back, coughing.
The inside is different. No reception desk. No tacky plaid carpet.
No overhead lights.
The entire room is lit by torches and candle stubs, dripping wax onto rough wooden tables. The air hums with voices, accents thick and unintelligible.
A woman passes me, carrying a tray.
I lurch forward. “Sorry, do you know where Una is?”
She stops. Looks me over. Then she spits a string of words I don’t understand.
I blink. Gaelic. Again.
I try once more. “Sorry, do you speak English?”
Her expression twists into something ugly. She yells over her shoulder. Laughter bursts from the bar.
My mouth goes dry. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand any of this.
I turn toward the staircase.
My room. If I can just get to my room, I can get my bearings.
I fumble my key from my pocket as I stagger up the stairs. But when I reach the door, I stop short. The lock is different. Bigger. Old-fashioned. I drop my hand, staring at the keyhole.
A slow, horrible dread creeps up my spine.
Behind me, a male voice rumbles, thick and slurred with whisky. I stiffen.
“You’re an upstairs lass, izzit?”
I don’t turn around. Don’t move. My stomach swoops so abruptly, I might vomit.
There’s a shift in the air. He’s closer now. Too close. The stench of sweat and ale hits me.
He speaks again, lower, his breath hot on my neck. “You lost, lass?”
I swallow hard.
Upstairs lass.
Horses and candlelight.
Antique keys.
Traveled far.
This isn’t exhaustion. This isn’t jet lag.
I didn’t miss any details the first time. They weren’t there.
Because yesterday, this was a different world.