Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Ishouldn’t be thinking about Callum.
But I can’t stop.
At first, I let myself. Because why not? I’m lonely and scared, lying on my cot in the cold, dark night. A little harmless fantasy won’t hurt. The problem is, now that I’ve opened that door in my mind, there’s no closing it.
I mean, his accent—never before have I been a ferocious wee thing. I’m addicted to it. Hooked on the way his laugh bursts out, catching even him by surprise, like he’s not used to it.
Then there’s his voice. Always husky, always sleep-rasped, no matter the time of day. It evokes things like dim lights and dangerous secrets, leaving me feeling all fuzzy and fraught.
But yesterday’s bandaging episode made one thing clear—this has to stop. It feels too good with him. Too natural.
I’ll endure anything if it keeps you from harm.
I can’t imagine there’s more than one such as you.
As brilliant and untouchable as the stars above.
His words reverberate through me. I’m a bell, and my body is humming Callum.
I can’t risk getting sucked in. I need distance.
So I hatch a plan: Operation Avoid Callum.
I’m the reason he keeps getting hurt, so staying away from him will protect him in the long run. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him because of me. Which is not ideal.
I need to be selfish. I need to focus on my own safety.
Which means it’s time to stop waiting for Callum to save me. If he can gather information about witchcraft and time travel, then so can I. I’m smart. I can ask questions. I can figure this out.
It’s still dark when Donag rises to stoke the morning fire. Hearing me stir, she shoots me a skeptical glare.
“What are you about?”
Like I’ve been so lazy till now.
But I just give her a pleasant smile. “I thought I’d get an early start today. I’d like to do a little work in your garden later. The vegetable bed needs weeding.”
She considers this for a narrow-eyed moment, then grunts and turns back to the fire. Stabbing it with her poker, she mutters, “We’ll see.”
I gather my things, trying to ignore her suspicious muttering. She doesn’t believe me, but that’s fine. I don’t actually need her to, as long as she doesn’t suspect my real intentions: avoid Callum’s morning visit, arrive early to the kitchen, and take matters into my own hands.
When I stride off toward the castle, I’m all laser focus and girl power. I have a plan: if there are other time travelers out there, or even just stories about them, someone here will know.
Gossip is practically a competitive sport in the kitchen. I play my part perfectly, weaving stories about my imaginary village—people vanishing, strangers arriving with no past. Soon, the women are one-upping me with their own tales.
Unfortunately, none of them have anything to do with witchcraft or time travel.
Undaunted, I turn my focus to the feral packs of children roaming the castle grounds. With a little food to bribe them, they’re happy to outdo each other with ever-more fantastical tales.
Oh, I get plenty of stories. Magical seals. Ghostly saints. Shape-shifting horses. Fighting giants. And fairies. So many fairies. Fairies stealing children. Fairies swapping babies. Fairies kidnapping pipers.
I try a new approach. I know enough not to broach the topic of sorcery outright, so I go at it sideways.
Over the next few days, I spend hours with the staff, learning every possible use of every plant in our garden. Because witches make potions, right?
I can’t say for sure. The only thing I learn is how to better understand the cook’s accent.
So much for taking matters into my own hands. After all my efforts, the only thing emptier than my hands is my stomach, which has suffered from all the bread and cheese I bartered away.
If only I could use that word: witchcraft. Someone here must know something. It’d only take one person to point me in the right direction.
Just as I’m about to give up, I find her.
I’m not even looking. I’m sneaking some salt from the pantry after-hours, anything to perk up Donag’s abysmal porridge.
After the cook leaves for the night, I double back through the garden to sneak in through the kitchen’s back door. Just as I reach for the latch, I hear a voice—low, rhythmic, chanting.
I freeze. I know that voice. Margie.
Candlelight flickers beneath the door. Rustling. The snap of tinder catching flame.
I hold my breath, straining to hear.
The repetition of her words. The steady hum of her voice. It sounds like an incantation.
I tiptoe closer and peer through the shutters.
I smile a slow, victorious grin. I knew it. I knew there was something off about Margie. The obsessive Bible quotations? The holier-than-thou act? Clearly all to hide the fact that she’s a witch.
I have to know what she’s saying.
I scan the yard, spot a garden pail, and flip it over. I step onto it and wait a moment, but it holds. I peer through the slats, my heart hammering.
The kitchen still smells of the evening’s stew, but underneath there’s something else—bitter herbs, something acrid burning.
Shadows dance wildly as she moves, making her look taller, twisted.
Her usually pinched face is soft with concentration.
This is a different Margie, one who doesn’t exist in daylight.
She’s weaving colored threads around a small bundle of twigs, binding them into a tiny hand broom. She raises it high, shakes it, sweeps it down. Waves it over a burning candle.
Chanting, chanting, until her voice grows guttural.
I press my ear against the shutter, straining to understand. At last, I start to make out the words.
“I fear thee not
And wish ye gone
So with this wish
Ye will be done.”
I was right. It’s a spell.
Wish ye gone. Could I wish myself gone?
I commit the words to memory, leaning closer—
Everything happens at once. The latch slips. The shutter bangs open, and my head plunges through the window. I yelp as the pail tips—feet sliding, chin cracking against the sill—and I tumble to the dirt.
The door crashes open. Margie stands in the threshold, seething. Lit from behind, her fingers form the shape of horns, stabbing toward the ground as she spits a curse.
I’ve never seen anyone look more like a witch.
As she registers who I am, her expression ices over, lips curling. “Why are you here?”
I can’t appear weak. I shove to my feet, flick imaginary dust from my sleeve, and step toward the door. “I could ask you the same.” Shouldering past her, I breeze inside, and with a tsk, I study the amulet she made. “Oh, Margie. I thought you were so God-fearing. But this looks like witchcraft.”
She casts a quick look around, hissing, “Say such things, and you’ll regret it.”
My bravado cracks as reality hits me. I can’t underestimate any of this. If Donag can make me travel through time, who knows what Margie could do.
Just as I’m about to bow to her power, Margie lifts her chin and declares, “Everyone kens real witches cannae cast spells on even-numbered days.”
I blink. Right.
Margie is as much a witch as I was in seventh grade, back when I bought my first Tarot deck and tried to hex my geometry teacher.
But…she might know things she doesn’t even realize she knows.
“You misunderstand me.” I pivot fast, sweetening my tone. “I find this fascinating. Are you casting a spell?”
She glares. “I ken naught about spells.”
“Then what is this?” I act extra admiring as I study her amulet.
She gives a reluctant shrug. “’Tis only a simple charm. To throw off a charm.”
“A charm to throw off a charm?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Aye, a counter-charm.”
“You must be very powerful.” I manage not to roll my eyes.
But I can tell she’s softening.
I lower my voice to a whisper, trying to sound as awed as possible. “What is the charm you’re fighting?”
With a toss of her hair over her shoulder, she says, “My sister has her eye on the lad I fancy, if you must know. The chit thinks she can steal him away. She set a charm on me.”
“No.” I look appropriately aghast, and it’s not much of a stretch. I mean, is she planning to kill her sister over a boy?
Her mouth curls into a feline smile. “Aye, she did. But I set a counter-charm. To cancel her charm.”
Cancel, not kill. I let out a small breath of relief. She’s not a total sociopath. “That’s very smart of you.” I nod appreciatively. I need her to open up to me, tell me what she knows and who taught her. “Is your sister a witch?”
She recoils. “No.”
“Then how do you know she cast a charm?”
She points to a small constellation of pimples on her forehead. “The spots. She sent them.”
“Your sister made you break out?”
“Must have done.” She crosses her arms. “I’ve been applying the poultice, but it’s nae working. That’s how I ken it’s a curse at work.”
I have to ask. “What’s in your poultice?”
“Piss. And a bit of bread.”
A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. I smother it with a cough. “Did you just say piss?”
Her face goes blank. “Aye. Piss.”
“As in, urine.”
She frowns, not knowing what to make of me. “D’you nae ken such things?”
“No, no, of course I know. I just wanted to make sure. So, do you use your own, or…?”
Horrified, she exclaims, “And who else’s?”
Ah, yes. That’s the part to be scandalized about. But I give her an admiring smile, because I’m only just getting started. The whole pimple thing is ridiculous, but what if that chant is legit?
“You know so much,” I say, though she probably has no idea what any of it means. “Is that why you’re so pretty? You put pee on your face?” I bite my cheek to stop from smiling.
Not Margie. She’s taking this very seriously. Which is for the best as I pepper her with questions.
How does she make a counter-charm? Does she always say the same chant or does it depend on the charm she needs to undo? Can she do this any time, regardless of the month or moon?
And, most critical of all, is there a limit to what charms can undo?
Leaning close, I whisper, “What if a really bad witch did something to you?”
She flinches, visibly alarmed. “I ken naught of such things.”
I interject, “I mean, could someone use a counter-charm to undo something big?”
Alarm fading, some new thought brightens her gaze. She sneers down her nose at me. “Is that how you got the red in your hair? You crossed an evil witch?”
I pause at the unexpected direction this conversation is taking, then bite back a smile as it hits me. Appealing to Margie’s vanity is precisely the way to reach her. She clearly prioritizes prettiness over all things.
I hold up my braid and study it with a sigh. “My hair wasn’t always this color. But yes, there’s a bad witch—” I don’t want to sound too scary so quickly add, “Don’t worry, she’s far away.”
Her eyes widen, exactly as I hoped.
“Is that why you traveled all the way here? To escape her?”
“Yes!” Her explanation is so perfect, I don’t need to fake my exuberance. “I had to flee, but I knew the witch wouldn’t be able to follow me.”
“There’s a way to undo what she’s done.” As she studies my hair, her expression curdles, like she just swallowed something foul. “’Twill take a bigger charm for that.”
I keep the smile on my face, though I want to smack her. “More sticks and thread? No problem. Can you help me?”
She shakes her head slowly. “’Twould require a strand of her hair, or a thread from her dress. But she’s far from here, as you say.”
“I have some fabric of hers,” I improvise. “I knew I might need it. I hoped I’d meet someone as wise as you. So I brought it with me.”
She tightens her lips as she registers this. Did I just call her bluff?
“Can you help or not? I thought you were smart and powerful, but—”
“You’re sure she’s nae a fairy in disguise?”
Enough with the fairies.
I work to keep my face blank. “Definitely not a fairy.”
The next afternoon, I stare at the pile of supplies I’ve gathered. Twigs. Thread. Candle wax. It’s absurd—like a kindergarten craft project meant to propel me through time.
But what choice do I have? Maybe Margie’s folk remedies and counter-charms will work as well as Donag’s. At this point I’m desperate enough to try anything.
I sit cross-legged on the floor of the cottage. I’ve timed it as well as I could—later than Callum would visit and earlier than Donag returns home—but still, I rush through the preparations.
Breaking a more powerful curse demands a stronger chant and charm. I follow Margie’s instructions to the letter, all the while wondering what my college teachers would think if they saw me now. Sticks and strings and wax. So much for scientific method.
I gathered thirteen twigs, all of similar size, and only from the fallen branches of a rowan tree. I snagged red threads from an item that touched Donag’s skin. The russet-colored skirt in her trunk is as red as the woman gets, which I’m hoping is good enough.
I weave the threads, binding the twigs just as Margie showed me, plaiting with alternating braids and knots, then snip and seal with candle wax, all the while intoning the chant Margie taught me—with a couple changes of my own.
“A rowan tree and string of red,
unbind the curse, reverse its thread.
By moon’s pale light and time’s decree,
send me back and set me free.”
This has to work. It has to. If it doesn’t…
I close my eyes and cast my voice deeper. Louder.
If I concentrate hard enough, maybe it’ll be enough to undo something as huge as Donag’s summoning.
I try to lose myself in my intent. As I wave the amulet over the candle, I imagine opening my eyes to find myself back in my hotel room. Back in the twenty-first century.
Callum’s face flashes in my mind. His image is as clear any photograph—vivid, unforgettable, inescapable. As if I’ve imprinted on him.
No. With a shake of my head, I squeeze my eyes tighter.
Home. I’m going home.
It’ll be safer for Callum. What he needs.
What I need.
I lift my arms higher. Deepen my voice further.
“One’s ill intent
Hath done me harm.
With this chant,
Reverse their charm.”
The candle sputters. Shadows stretch across the floor. I lean closer to the flame, the words thrumming through me, as if something more than my voice is speaking.
I am doing this. I have power.
I am my will.
The air crackles. My pulse roars in my ears. I stretch my hands higher, higher. There’s a pop in my shoulder, but I don’t stop. The power builds, electric, intoxicating—
“…With this chant, reverse their charm.”
The door crashes open.