Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Ikeep walking, trying to ignore the sounds of clashing swords behind me.
Dread sloshes in my stomach as I race-walk to the castle. I’ve gotten distracted. Now I’m late.
I circle the keep until I find the back entrance Donag described—a servant’s door just off the kitchen garden. Herbs and vegetables spill from their beds in a lush, tangled mess, and the familiar sight reassures me.
I love gardening. I love cooking. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
But then I step inside. The servants freeze and several pairs of angry eyes snap to me. It’s like I walked into a medieval tableau: knives held aloft, hands submerged in water, root vegetables dangling midair. A picture of women busily working.
Work I should have been helping with.
I aim a weak smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
Glances bounce between them. Then, one by one, they recede into the shadows.
All except one.
The angriest-looking woman of all.
She’s so pale that for a second, I think she’s a ghost. A real one this time. Her hair is neither blond nor gray, less like she’s aging, more like she’s fading into oblivion.
She steps closer, saying something, but her words blur together, thick and slurred.
My pulse thuds in my neck. “Uh…excuse me?”
Her eyes harden. More slurring.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
She shouts now, the words jumbling together.
I frown, shaking my head, panic creeping in. I want to shout back. Or cry.
“My Gaelic’s not that great.”
An exasperated sound explodes from her.
Then, slowly, like she’s speaking to an idiot: “Yer nem?”
Oh. My name.
“Rose.”
She nods and tells me hers, but it’s just a mess of vowels. I assume she’s the head cook. That’s all I really need to know. She points at a dead chicken on the table and gives an order.
I just stand there, no clue what she’s asking.
Muffled chuckles.
Another sigh. She grabs the bird by the feet, plucks a few feathers, then shoves it at me.
“Oh! You want me to pluck it.” I snatch the chicken with a laugh, relieved.
She startles at my enthusiasm, but I can’t help it. I finally understand something. And I’ve plucked chickens all my life.
I flash her a broad smile as I start working.
After a beat, she gives me a perplexed smile in return. Perplexed, but genuine.
The day flies by like that—me scrambling to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. I’d hoped to actually cook. Instead, kitchen duty is less sautéing and seasoning, more scalding, scrubbing, and scouring.
At midday, I get a quick break for bread and cheese.
I sit on a low stool, wolfing it down like I’ve never eaten before.
I focus on chewing, swallowing, on anything but what happened earlier, but it catches up to me anyway.
Callum. Hamish. Blades swinging. That last awful moment before I turned away.
I shove another bite into my mouth, like that’ll help push the memory back down. It doesn’t. But I haven’t heard any alarms raised. That has to mean everything’s fine…right?
By evening, when a bowl of stew is shoved into my hands, I’m ready to collapse.
But the cook has other ideas. She thrusts a rag at me and shoos me into a small room where someone else is already scrubbing pots.
I perk up. Another girl, about my age.
A female friend would make all of this so much easier. My mind fills with images of us chatting, laughing, bonding.
I smile. “Hi, I’m Rose.”
Her smile in return is hesitant but not unfriendly. “Margie.”
I understood her. Pure, unfiltered delight rushes through me.
She’s shorter than me by several inches, but nothing about her looks fragile. She’s compact and solid, with a neatly braided rope of blond hair and a no-nonsense air. Chin up, shoulders back. A modern girl, if I ever saw one.
I like her already.
“So, Margie. How do we do this?”
Her smile fades. “Take a pot, scrape the leavings, wipe with ash, hand to me.”
I caught the take a pot part. The bucket of scraps must be the leavings. But…ash?
I frown, running my finger through the fine, gray-black dust. “This is ash? Shouldn’t we use, like, soap?”
Margie gapes. “Have you nae done scullery work afore?”
“Oh, all the time.” I wave it off. “Just…different where I’m from.”
Skeptical nod.
But soon, we fall into a rhythm. Scrape, sprinkle, scrub, rinse.
I let my thoughts drift—to my fears, my exit plan, my aches—until one ache in particular jolts me to attention. A deep, tightening rock of pressure in my lower abdomen.
Oh no.
Dull cramps, turning sharp and stabby.
Damn it.
I do the math. My last period was late September, just in time for Homecoming weekend. Which means…it’s here. Right on schedule.
I need help. And fast.
“So, Margie?” I hold back the pot in my hand, waiting until she catches my eye.
She gives me a confused look. “Aye?”
“It’s, uh, my time of the month, and I’m wondering…how do you deal with that stuff here?”
Blank look.
I chuckle nervously. “You know.” Air quotes. “Feminine hygiene?”
Still nothing.
Getting desperate, I try every phrase I can think of. “Period? Aunt Flo? The Red Baron?”
Still, she just stares.
Finally, I drop the big one. “Menstruation.”
She recoils like I just flung actual blood at her.
With a prim little grimace, she informs me, “’Tisn’t proper to discuss the menstruous contaminations of women.”
Menstruous? I bite back a giggle. “You mean monstrous. Am I right?”
But instead of smiling, Margie’s expression grows stern. “Month-blood is God’s reminder of Eve’s original sin.”
I groan. “Great. And cramps? What are those supposed to remind us of?”
She jerks her head away, refusing to even look at me. “’Tis a sin to complain.”
Oh, for the love of—
I thought I saw confidence in her. But no, she’s just judgy.
“Wow.” I shake my head. “You must think we’re all sinners.”
“Indeed.” She lifts her chin, eyeing my hair. “Red-headed women especially so.”
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess. Because we have a temper?”
“Naw.” Her gaze scrapes over me, slow and deliberate. “’Tis on account of how red-haired children are bred.”
I laugh. “Excuse me?”
“To make a red-headed child,” she explains slowly, “a man must couple with a woman during her cycle. ’Tis monstrous wicked.”
“Don’t you mean menstruous?” I mutter.
Her mouth tightens.
“Whatever.” I shove a dish at her. “Thanks for the help.”
So much for bonding.
By the time I’m on the road back to Donag’s cottage, I am done in.
This place? This time? I don’t belong here.
And I will leave.
Callum’s looking for a portal. But I won’t just wait around. I bet I can find a spell.
When I reach the empty cottage, I don’t waste time. I search.
I drop to my knees beside Donag’s cot, feeling along the floor until my fingers brush something solid. Wood and leather. My pulse kicks up. It’s a chest. “Bingo.”
I drag it out, but it’s locked.
Which means it’s exactly where she hides all her witchy stuff.
It takes me thirty seconds to pop the crude clasp. Child’s play for someone who’s been picking locks since kindergarten, Janet’s favorite form of childcare having been to lock me out so I could “take the air.”
My excitement builds—only to crash when I see what’s inside.
Wool. Stacks and stacks of wool.
I shove aside blankets and shawls, grumbling. I’ve been freezing since I got here, meanwhile she’s hoarding enough fabric to start a shop.
Then something in the corner catches the light. Leather.
A book? A grimoire? “Hello,” I whisper with a grin. But when I pull it free, the thing unrolls. I yelp, flinging it away. Not a book. A strip of hide—some kind of strap or belt, made from an animal’s skin. One side lumpy, the other lightly furred, the whole thing reeking of fish and rot.
“So disgusting.” I wipe my fingers on my skirts, shuddering, and keep digging.
Then I find it.
My belly flips. “I did not need to see this.”
A wedding dress. The linen, yellowed with age, is delicate and lovely, embroidered with tiny flowers along the bodice. It’s folded carefully, lovingly, like a preserved memory.
Her memory.
Callum said her husband was killed. Recently. I run a fingertip along the fabric, and the emotional impact hits like a blow. A young girl’s hopes and dreams, tucked away in a chest.
For a moment, I can see her: the younger Donag, bent over this fabric, stitching those tiny flowers herself. The whisper-thin sleeve slides from my touch, revealing something else.
A tiny pair of baby booties.
My throat tightens. “Aw, hell, Donag.”
Did she have to go and become a human being? I know she doesn’t have kids. I asked Callum. These were never worn.
I finger the soft yarn, unevenly dyed in shades of gold. My gut sinks. “This sucks.”
“What are you about?”
I jerk back with a yelp, slamming my elbow against the cot.
Donag stands in the doorway, eyes dark with fury. I’ve never seen anyone look more capable of murder.