Chapter 18 #2
Impossible.
Everything about this is impossible. I steel myself. “It’s a yes,” I say, making my voice cold. I push my bowl away, spin it, then pull it back. “Isn’t there something more we could be doing to get me home? Making a talisman, gathering herbs, something?”
His expression dims. “I’m doing all I can. Do you nae trust me?”
A breath whooshes from me. “Trust doesn’t come easily for me.” Unable to hold his heavy, seeking gaze, I stare blindly across the room. “I’m not used to depending on other people.” I huff a humorless laugh. “For obvious reasons.”
“I’ll guard your life with my own,” he says quietly. “I swear it.”
“I know you will.” That’s the problem.
I steal a glance at Callum. His shirt tugs taut along his bicep as he leans against the table, his nervous hands making a mess of his dark hair. He’s such an odd mix of boy and man. Fierce but vulnerable, gentle yet unyielding.
If something were to snuff out his inner light, cutting him down before his life had even really begun?
“Hamish seems extra out to get you,” I whisper. “I’m worried he might do something really bad now that he knows we’re close. If something happened to you, I…I don’t think I…”
He tilts his head, a slow, wolfish grin creeping across his face. “You feel such things on my account? That we’re close?”
His mouth is playful, but his eyes—his eyes are fierce. It’s a lethal combination. More than I can handle. And somehow, he’s even closer. We’re the only two people in the room, yet he’s nearly glued to my side.
“I tried to figure it out myself,” I blurt. “How to get home, I mean. I did some asking around.”
He jolts back, alarm flashing across his face. “You what?”
“Don’t worry.” I lift a hand. “I was careful.”
“Folk don’t look kindly upon witchcraft.”
“I didn’t ask about witchcraft,” I say defensively. “I asked about Celtic legends.”
His shoulders remain stiff, but his gaze sharpens. “And?”
I sigh. “And now I could tell you all you’ve ever wanted to know about how fairies travel.”
His eyes stay on mine, reading the disappointment there. A soft smile tugs at his lips. “They cannae cross running water,” he says somberly.
I let my eyes return the smile. “All my problems would be solved, though, if only I could find Saint Columba and offer him a night of hospitality.”
Callum chuckles. “Aye, he can be a sly one. Until he turns up, you must remember to avoid speckled devils, ladies of leisure, and moors at midnight.”
“Oh, I knew all that before I got here,” I deadpan.
A laugh bursts from him. A real one. Not polite, not forced. Just warm and alive and easy. “Did you indeed?”
I let myself look at him. Really look at him.
I’ve longed for someone to laugh with. And once again, here’s Callum, giving me what I need.
My gaze drifts over his shirt—stained but clean, loosely laced at the neck. As usual, a thick belt cinches his kilt, the tail-end of faded plaid flung over his shoulder. A knife hangs at his side, its scabbard darkened with an old stain, probably blood.
It’s all so strange to me.
He’s so strange to me.
And yet…
He understands me. He keeps up with my jokes.
He cares. About me. A thousand butterflies take flight in my belly, their wings made of heat and song and light. I have to look away, my gaze skipping around the kitchen. Anywhere but at him.
“I saw this place,” I say quietly. “In the future.”
It takes him a moment, then he asks incredulously, “This kitchen?”
I angle my head, peering through the door to make sure we’re still alone—and shouldn’t people be back by now? Our solitude manages to be cause for both relief and agitation.
I nod. “This one exactly.”
His attention finally strays from me as he looks around, brows furrowed, trying to see the room as I do.
I realize I want to share this. Need to. “It’s so weird. In the future, the walls are mostly crumbled, but it’s the same building with the exact same outline. I thought the ruins would give me an idea what to expect, but it’s way different than I imagined.”
“Different how?” He’s engrossed, and it puts me at ease.
“For one thing, it’s bigger than I thought it’d be, and I haven’t even been upstairs yet.” I shudder. “That tiny spiral staircase freaks me out. Like, why do the steps have to be so teensy?”
“Or your feet so large?” he muses, without missing a beat.
This time, I’m the one who bursts out with a laugh. A real one. Callum greets it with the hugest smile I’ve ever seen.
The way he’s riveted to me, it’s like I’m the only girl in the world.
I thought this chatting was putting me at ease, but I’m suddenly more self-aware than ever.
“So yeah,” I mutter. “It’s bigger from the outside but more cramped on the inside.
Plus, it’s darker. And smokier.” I wave a hand as if there were actual smoke hanging between us instead of this massive tension.
“The kitchen is smokier than I thought a place could be, and I’ve dropped Poppa for Veterans’ Night at the Rotary Lodge, so you know, I’ve experienced smoke… ” I trail off.
Because Callum is studying me with amazement. “The things you’ve seen. I can’t get my head around it. Tell me, Rosie. What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Your home.” He gives me a playful look, like I’m a dummy, and my self-consciousness loosens just a little.
“It’s completely different.” I shrug. “I don’t know how I’d begin to explain.”
“Begin with one thing. What’s one thing you miss?”
One thing.
I miss Poppa, the farm. But those aren’t things.
They have books in this century, and music too, so I could seek out that stuff if I really wanted. I can live without social media and email. There are no roads here, so I don’t need a car. Central heating is nice, but once the fire gets going, the cottage gets almost too hot.
So what do I miss most?
I do miss food. And cooking. The rhythm of it. The control. The comfort.
“Our kitchen,” I say, realizing how true it is.
“Your kitchen?” He looks around in disbelief. “Was it no’ like this?”
I laugh. “No.” Seeing his confusion, I explain, “We have things that make cooking so much easier. And food safer. Like refrigerators. They’re these big boxes that keep things cold, or even frozen.
Like milk—well, they don’t freeze milk, that’d be ice cream, which I also miss—but what I could really use is a big glass of cold chocolate milk.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with warm milk.
You can’t grow up around cows without getting a taste for it.
But warm cheese? Oh, Callum. That room-temperature cheese you all eat is just… ” I shiver.
He gets up and wanders a circle around the room, studying it like he’s suddenly seeing it through my eyes. Pausing before the fire, he says, “But fire is fire. ’Tis the same as ever, surely.”
“Yeah, but in the future, ovens turn on with the flick of a button. We have a gas range—just twist a knob and flames appear instantly. Plus microwaves. That’s a box that makes food hot in seconds.”
Callum leans against the table, all stillness and patience, seeming enthralled by my every word.
With his scars and his knife, he’s like a statue of some hero carved from granite and come to life. He’s completely undistracted. No buzzing phone in his pocket, no game to catch on TV. He’s content simply to listen to me, appreciating the moment, curious about the world around him.
Curious about me.
“And?” he asks with an encouraging nod. “What else do you miss?”
Not the boys, that’s for sure.
I shove thoughts of strong, earnest, seventeenth-century men from my head. Guys who are rough and rugged and not quite handsome, but are somehow all the more appealing for it.
Or rather: guy singular. As in, one guy.
I look down at my hands. Seeing how chapped they are, it hits me. “Our dishwasher. That’s what I’m really missing. It’s also shaped like a box—”
“Seems you’ve a lot of those.”
“Yeah, well this one is for dishes. You put the dirty stuff in—pots, pans, plates, cups, all of it—and press a button. When you open it back up, everything’s clean.”
“What other wee magic boxes are there?”
“We’ve got one to wash clothes and one to dry them, too. Boxes that can heat or cool any room.”
“It must make quick work for your scullions.”
It takes a second for me to understand, then I laugh. “I’m the only scullion. And the only cook.”
“Just you?” He’s flabbergasted.
“Can you imagine Janet lifting a finger to do anything?”
A curious expression flickers across his face, some sad combination of insight and understanding. “From what I know of Janet, she’ll be having you up at dawn mixing the porridge.”
“No porridge at our house. Not sweet enough.” I roll my eyes.
“She’s got the palate of a five-year old.
It’s all sugary flakes and frosted O’s for her.
” Seeing his confusion, I explain, “There are places called grocery stores—they’re huge—just aisles and aisles of ready-made food that you can choose from.
I swear, it’d take years for some of that stuff to go bad. ”
“That sounds a miracle.”
“A disgusting miracle, actually.” I make a face. “I’m not big on the processed food.”
“So your food is nae the same neither?”
“Not hardly. You Scotsmen sure love your soups and stews. I miss chewing.”
Callum’s easy laugh unsettles me. It feels so good to talk effortlessly like this, to tell him about myself. To be seen.
When he turns away, I feel a jolt of disappointment.
But he’s only reaching into a cubby I hadn’t known was there. He pulls out a heel of bread.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp, “is that bread?” I only get a couple of chunks with each meal, and it’s not nearly enough to fill me, especially as I’ve been trading it with the kids for stories.
“Save your prayers, Rosie. This is the day-old. For chickens”—he tears off a piece and tosses it to me with a smile—“and servants.”
Callum grows serious as he scans the table in front of me. “Och, and you’ve naught to drink. You must drink.” He grabs a cup from a hook and fills it from a spouted barrel. “Your blood will grow thin.”