Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
“I’m not done!” I slam onto my hands and knees, whipping my neck, landing hard.
The impact jars through my bones, but the real pain is in my chest. I suck in a breath.
It smells wrong.
Dank tile walls. Cloying chemical odors. The distinct reek of petrol—
No.
The truth is like a fist to the gut. I sit back on my heels, clawing the hair from my face, waiting for reality to shift. For this not to be real.
But it is.
A public bathroom. The twenty-first century.
“No!” The word has a satisfying echo, and I say it again, louder, a sharp bark of a word. “No, no, no.”
I’m furious. It’s so much easier than sad.
“What the hell, Callum?”
He pushed me away.
“I told you I wasn’t leaving you,” I shout. But I did. Because he made me.
If I act soon enough—
I shoot to my feet. Black mist curls at the edges of my vision. My knees buckle, slamming me back onto the floor. I taste metal, my mouth flooding with spit, like I might vomit.
MacGregor blood. Mine will do.
His words loop in my head.
I love you. My heart is yours forever.
A prickly hot wave surges from my chest, scorching up my throat, stinging my eyes. My voice cracks as I whisper, “I love you too, Callum.”
I never got to tell him. That’s on me—my fault, my inaction—yet I want so badly to be pissed at him for it.
But no. I’ll still get the chance.
I suck in a stuttering breath and expel it through my teeth. “No. I am so not done.”
My hands are so cold they ache, and I stare at them, modulating my breathing, willing my blood to pump life back into my limbs. Gradually, details come into focus. Mud clings in the cracks of my knuckles. The tips of my nails are black crescents of hard-packed dirt.
Why did Callum do it? We could’ve figured something out together. “We could’ve figured it out,” I say out loud—anything to silence the rant in my head. He’d said it himself: Together, there’s nothing we can’t do.
But there’s no more we.
Callum detonated our we the moment he took it upon himself to shove me back to the modern era. Alone.
“Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.” I try standing again, slowly this time, pushing up to a squat, shaking out my hands, teetering to my feet.
Watery light filters in through high, cobwebby windows. So…midmorning. About nine a.m.
I know this simply from the quality of the light. Because I’m good at this. I can tell time without a watch, start a fire without a match, and forage for food. I give the walls a smug smile like it’s the mean parent who said I’d never amount to anything.
I can do this. Will do this.
“You don’t get to send me away. I’ll tell you when I’m ready. And I was completely freaking unready.”
I flex my calf, and the hard lump of steel tucked in my stocking reassures me. Everything will be okay. How could it not, while I still have my wee lady’s blade?
I go to the sink to wash up, bracing for what I’ll find in the mirror. It’s foggy and cracked, but it’ll be the first clear reflection I’ve seen in months. I meet my own eyes, and a laugh bursts out, ragged and broken. This is who Callum loved? This filthy, tangled, mess of a girl?
“Oh, Callum.” I swipe a sudden tear from my cheek. “I’m coming back for you.”
I splash several brisk handfuls of water on my face, but when I grab a paper towel, all I can do is stare at it. I’m surrounded by such modern conveniences. Clean water, flushing toilets, soap, a mirror, and as many towels as I want. An endless, disposable supply of them.
Loathing fills me, for every excessive bit of it.
I don’t need any of this. I only want one thing, and he lived hundreds of years ago. “I’m leaving, and when I see you—” My voice cracks, because will I see him? I scrub the towel roughly over my eyes. “When…I…see…you,” I repeat, “you are in such trouble.”
I face my reflection again. The dress that seemed so luxurious in the past hangs from me like a rag, and I retie the laces, settling Janet’s ring between my breasts. Its cold weight reminds me who I am. I may be half MacGregor, but for better or for worse, I’m half Campbell, too.
I lean in, searching for the girl I knew before. This new me is more gaunt than the old Rose. And yet somehow I look radiant, my skin fever-bright.
Somewhere far away, Callum’s whisper echoes. Rosie.
That’s who this new me is. An ember of vitality had burned deep inside me, but he’s the one who recognized it, who kindled it to life. I’m glowing with Callum. Like some fairy tale sorcerer, he transformed me. Encouraged this brave new girl to materialize from the shadow of herself. Like magic.
Which he is. Callum is magic. He’s brave and strong, with power enough to send me to safety. Just thinking of him makes me feel stronger. I speak his name like a vow. “Callum MacGregor.”
I’m MacGregor, too. Which means maybe I’ve got my own magic.
The chant that sent me to him—would it work a second time? Can I be the one to speak the words? Her heart’s true longing lies on Scottish land. Callum is all I long for. Come to us now, beside kin take thy stand. He’s my kin, my chosen family. Come thee, bold lass, whose soul burns steadfast.
I’m coming, Callum.
Then a horrific thought hits me: What if Donag beats me to it? What if she decides to get her revenge and pulls me back in time so she can torture me in hideously creative ways? Returning to the past—to a time after Callum’s death—would make it permanent.
Which means I need to act before Donag has a chance to.
It starts at the graves. At the grave.
I storm out the door into…is this a café? No, it’s a tourist shop with a café attached. As I try to make sense of it all, I bump into a woman.
She jumps, hand to her chest. “Oh! You gave me a fright. Where’d you come from?” She glances around, shrugging off her coat. “Och, never you mind. I need coffee. Nine o’clock is uncivilized. Morning’s only for birds and babies.” She bustles to the coffeemaker. “No offense to you, love.”
I can only nod. She’s torn open a paper bag, and the scent of baked goods washes over me. Cinnamon, brown sugar, vanilla. Things I haven’t smelled in months.
I must make some sound, because she laughs and says, “The truth is out. We serve homemade muffins and scones. They’re just no made in my home.” With a wink, she hands me one. “For keeping my secret.”
I gape at the giant hunk of warm, crumbly goodness. “Thanks—”
My voice cracks around the word, and her eyes widen, like she’s just now registered my state. “Oh, you poor thing,” she says, soft with concern as she steers me to a chair. “You look like you’ve been pulled through a knothole backward.”
Embarrassment burns my cheeks. Suddenly, all I smell is me, days of dried sweat and dirt making my skin crawl.
“Have a seat. The coffee will be done in a jiff. On the house.” She gives my shoulder an affectionate pat, then after a second, I catch her surreptitiously wiping her hand on a rag.
A flare of pride incinerates my self-consciousness.
I’m not a thing to be pitied. I am strong and capable.
Maybe even of magic. Sitting up straight, I ask, “Do you have today’s paper?
” I need to know the date. Did as many months pass here as I experienced in the past, or have I been gone only minutes?
There’s no way for me to ask that doesn’t end with this woman calling social services.
She points me to a rack by the front door, past shelves filled with tourist knick-knacks—gaudy kilt pins, crisp stacks of tea towels, stuffed toy cows wearing bonnets.
It’s all so surreal. Ridiculous. Meaningless.
My gut lurches with nausea, and I convulsively swallow it back, focusing hard on the newspaper rack instead.
The woman appears from behind me, and I startle, automatically bracing for a fight.
But she’s only handing me a to-go cup of coffee with a cheerful “Here you are, love.” Because of course she is.
She’s not going to attack me for being a servant, or a MacGregor, or whatever.
If I announced a devotion to witchcraft, she’d probably just think it was cool.
Pasting on a smile, I thank her. But she’s no longer looking at me—she’s reading the headlines.
An understanding smile bursts onto her face. “I’ll wager you’re off to the games.”
I follow her gaze. ANNUAL STRATHbrIDE HIGHLAND GATHERING. The headline clicks, and I remember the TV commercials, promising dancing, feasting, caber tossing. It feels like a lifetime ago. But here, that was only yesterday.
Barely any time has passed.
Terror shreds through my chest like a physical thing. If time maps that differently, how soon will I run out?
The woman is chattering, jokingly fluffing her hair. “They say Ewan McGregor may show, and I’m dreaming he’ll—”
“Who?” My eyes snap to her, the name MacGregor a spike of adrenaline.
But she only laughs. “The actor. Have you been living under a rock?”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Something like that.” I feel so disconnected. This is not where I belong. “I need…I need to go.”
First, I’ll go to the graveyard. Maybe there’s a way to find that cottage again, and Callum will open the door like the first time, safe and sound, as though none of this had ever happened.
Except when I left, he wasn’t safe. He wasn’t sound.
I blurt, “Is there a bus?” But now she’s eyeing me with vague alarm, so I quickly add, “I got separated from my family. They’re near the inn. That Merry Widow one, by Loch Lomond.”
Her expression relaxes. “That’s nae so verra far. Postman will give you a lift.” She nods to the door. “You can wait for him on the bench out there. Should be by within the hour.”
I bolt outside, and shield my eyes. It’s sunny. How can it be sunny? It feels so wrong. More proof this isn’t my Scotland. That I don’t belong here, or now.
Posters litter the outside of the building. Faded hiking maps with highlighted trails. Ads for boat tours. Endless brochures with promises of Whisky Tastings Nightly…The Real MacBeth Experience…The Original Nessie Encounter.