Chapter 7 #3
Finally, he called an end to the lesson. Philippe was flushed and happy, more animated than I’d seen him all morning.
“That was actually fun,” the boy said. “Miss Carter, you’re terrible at it, but at least you tried.”
“Thank you,” I said dryly. “That’s very encouraging.”
“I’ll see you in the classroom for my next lessons,” Philippe laughed and ran off toward the house, leaving me alone in the courtyard with the Scotsman.
MacLeod took the practice sword from my hands, our fingers brushing. He pulled back quickly.
“Ye did well for a first time,” he said, not quite meeting my gaze. “Most people freeze when they’re attacked.”
“I had good instruction.”
“Hmm.” He returned the swords to the rack, his movements precise. When he finally looked at me, his expression was carefully neutral. “Mrs. Browne said ye survived a shipwreck. That ye were the only one.”
“Yes.”
“Must have been terrifying.”
“It was.” The lie tasted bitter, but what was I supposed to say? Actually, I touched a magic stone and fell through time?
“Funny thing about shipwrecks.” He leaned against the rack, arms crossed. “Usually the survivors have injuries. Cuts, bruises, burns from rope. Saltwater damage to their skin. But ye look untouched, Miss Carter. Not a mark on ye.”
My pulse hammered in my wrists. “I was fortunate.”
“Aye, fortunate.” The way he said it made it clear he didn’t believe that. “Or something else entirely.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing.” But his tone said otherwise. “Just that this household has enough mystery in it without adding another.”
The warning was clear. He suspected something was wrong with my story. And he was telling me to be more careful.
“Thank you for the lesson, Mr. MacLeod,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I should get back to finish Philippe’s instruction for the day.”
“Brodie.” He nodded to me.
“Millicent, but everyone calls me Maddie.”
He didn’t move. “One more thing. Philippe is clever, and he’s cruel. He’ll play us against each other if given the chance. Try to make one of us look incompetent so the widow favors the other.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he can. Because he’s bored. Because his mother encourages it.” Brodie’s jaw tightened. “We’d do better to stay out of each other’s way outside of the lessons. Less chance of getting caught in whatever games the widow and her son are playing.”
He was right. I knew he was right. The smart thing would be to keep my distance, to avoid complications, to survive my week and hope I could figure out how to get back to that stone.
But the way he looked at me made me hesitate. Like he recognized the trapped thing in me because he saw it in himself.
“I’ll do my best,” I said finally.
“See that ye do.” He straightened, heading toward the house. “And Maddie? Whatever ye’re hiding—and ye are hiding something—ye might want to get better at it. Margaret’s already whispering about witchcraft, and the widow notices everything.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the courtyard with wooden swords and the certainty that I’d just made everything infinitely more complicated.
Because the one person who might understand what it felt like to be trapped in this place was also the one person I absolutely couldn’t afford to trust.
I looked down at my hands. They’d stopped shaking from holding the practice sword, but the awareness of where he had touched my shoulders, adjusted my grip, still lingered on my skin.
One week to prove myself. One week to convince everyone I belonged here when I belonged three centuries away.
And a Scottish stranger who looked at me like he could see every lie I’d told.
I turned back toward the house, its windows bright in the afternoon sun. The widow was somewhere inside, probably already planning her next test.
The servants’ entrance was closer, so I headed that way, trying to remember the route back to the schoolroom. I’d just reached the kitchen garden when I heard voices—low, urgent, speaking too quietly to make out words.
I slowed, staying in the shadow of a jasmine vine that climbed the garden wall.
Through the leaves, I could see two women standing near the herb beds.
One was Margaret, the Irish woman from breakfast. The other I didn’t recognize—she was Black, older, with the kind of bearing that suggested some kind of authority among the household staff.
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with that girl,” Margaret was saying, her accent thick. “She asks what year it is. She doesn’t know how to curtsy proper. And the way she looks at things—like she’s never seen a house before.”
“Perhaps the shock—”
“No shock makes a person forget how to be a person.” Margaret crossed herself. “She survived when everyone else died. That’s not natural. That’s not God’s work.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m saying the widow should be careful. Strange things have been happening since that girl arrived. The milk curdled overnight. Three chickens are dead for no reason. And Duncan swears he saw lights in the old garden last night, where Mrs. Browne found her.”
I pressed closer to the wall, barely breathing.
“The old ways are still strong in this place,” Margaret continued. “You know it, even if the widow pretends otherwise. There are powers here older than her books and her French furniture. And that girl—she reeks of it.”
“Margaret—”
“Mark my words. That one’s going to bring trouble to this house. And when she does, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path—someone else approaching. I used the distraction to slip away, pulse pounding in my ears, making my way back into the house through a different entrance.
Margaret thought I was cursed. Or worse. And she was watching me, waiting for me to slip up.
The widow suspected I was hiding something. Philippe knew I didn’t belong. Brodie MacLeod had seen through my lies.
And they were all right.
I climbed the narrow servants’ stairs, making my way back to the schoolroom. Philippe wasn’t here yet. I sat at the desk, thinking, trying to figure out how I was going to survive another day in this place with everyone watching me.