Chapter Four
Left alone in the cold, sparsely furnished room, Emmy wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her gaze drifted to the bed, little more than a wooden frame with a lumpy mattress and coarse linens. She crouched down to inspect the space beneath it and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Oh, snap,” she muttered, her nose wrinkling as she stared at a chamber pot tucked discreetly under the bedframe. She was vaguely aware that people had used such things in the past, but the thought of actually having to use it made her stomach churn. This was the twenty-first century! What was wrong with these people here at Dunmara? They were really taking their cosplay business to the extreme. “Nope. Not happening,” she declared, standing up quickly and brushing off her hands as though the mere sight of it had dirtied them.
“How much longer am I expected to sit here waiting?” she muttered to herself.
The young woman, Ailis, had brought Emmy back to the same chamber she’d woken in and, in halting English, told her to wait while she fetched some clothes.
That was half an hour ago.
Once again, Emmy cautiously approached the door and pulled it open. The hallway was empty. She waited there a few minutes, listening, but hardly any noise or sound came to her. Clutching the fur with one hand at her neck, she ventured out into the hallway.
The castle was eerily quiet, and her own footsteps were soundless, her feet still bare and cold. All of her was cold. The very air inside this ancient castle was damp and icy. Emmy was surprised she couldn’t see her breath.
Curious and still wildly confused about how she got here, she investigated the immediate area, staying close to her assigned room. She peeked inside the first door she came upon, opening the door slowly. The room was vacant but not empty, though it struck her immediately as unused. She ran her hand along the uneven walls as she walked, marveling at the age of everything. The stones were massive, worn smooth in places but still sturdy. Old tapestries hung on two walls, faded and frayed, looking like something that belonged in a museum. Almost every other thing in the room was covered with linen tarps. She lifted the edge of one to find a stack of wooden crates, the top one filled with jute-wrapped items. A glance under another soft tarp showed an old spinning wheel. Props for the castle, she guessed.
“It’s like a movie set,” she whispered, glancing around. But there were no cameras, no lights, and no sound except for the occasional gust of wind whistling through cracks in the stone.
The next door she opened revealed a completely empty room, its shutters drawn and filled with gray gloom, though it wasn’t dim enough to hide the layer of dust on the floor.
The door at the far end of the hall creaked open under her hand, revealing a room that was clearly lived in. Instantly, she felt the warmth, an inviting to the rest of the castle, and noticed red coals smoldering in the fireplace. A large bed dominated the space, its frame carved from dark wood, and a thick fur was draped across the mattress.
“This must be his room,” Emmy murmured, her eyes darting around.
She knew she shouldn’t be here—this was definitely an invasion of privacy—but curiosity got the better of her.
The room was simple but functional, seeming to serve as both bedroom and office. A heavy wooden chest sat at the foot of the bed, and a small table near the bed held a half-burned candle and a dagger in a leather sheath. A pair of boots, scuffed and well-worn, were tucked neatly near the bed, and a cloak hung from a peg on the wall. Closer to the hearth sat a nondescript table, upon which lay scattered thick papers, inkwells, an assortment of quills, more stubby candles, a short stack of leather-bound books, and a small wooden box with an intricate latch. A chair was pushed against was pushed in against the table, being tall-backed though having no arms.
Standing again, she returned her attention to the bed. It looked warm and inviting, far more so than the cold little bed in her assigned room.
She stepped away from the bed, her curiosity mostly satisfied, and crossed back to the door, feeling a sudden twinge of guilt for having snooped so brazenly. Quickly, she made her way back to her own room and sat on the bed again, waiting.
Her thoughts drifted to the man, Brody MacIntyre. Good God, but wasn’t he something?
But aside from being fascinating to look at, who and what exactly was he? And why did his ancient castle seem to belong more to ghosts than to people?
The door creaked open then, startling her, and Ailis stepped in with an armful of clothes, nothing that looked familiar, not her green dress or her fur.
Emmy stood and received the bundle from her, smiling her thanks.
“Um, do you know where my clothes are?” she asked. “My coat and my dress?”
“I wasnae here when ye came in,” Ailis replied with a shrug and then clarified, “er, when the laird brought ye in.”
She wore an expression that clearly said she hoped Emmy asked no more questions.
“The laird?” Or had she said, lard ?
“Aye, Sir Brody.”
“ Sir Brody?” Emmy repeated. Well, lah-dee-dah .
Ailis stared at her, as bewildered as Emmy.
“Aye, Sir Brody.”
“Okay, whatever.” Weirdos. “Um, what is this?” She asked, inspecting the items Ailis had brought. She unfolded one on the top, made of dark blue linen, which turned out to a sleeveless blue dress that reached the floor.
“?Tis a léine and kirtle,” the maid answered.
Good God, it was absolutely atrocious.
Emmy held the dress at arm’s length, her eyes narrowing as she inspected it more closely. Thick, coarse fabric, completely shapeless, and not a zipper in sight. There was some decorative stitching along the neckline—if you could call three uneven lines of thread decorative .
She could practically feel her skin itching just looking at it.
"And this?" Emmy pulled out the other piece—a long-sleeved shift in an off-white color that might have once been cream but now looked like it had lost a battle with hard water.
Her mind immediately went into fashion triage mode. Okay, layer the dress over the shift, belt it, maybe roll up the sleeves... Nope. No saving this. Even her worst thrift store finds back home had more personality than this.
Still, she managed a tight-lipped smile and glanced at Ailis, who was watching her expectantly, her hands clasped in front of her.
"Is there... uh... anything else?" Emmy asked, hoping there was a secret stash of clothes somewhere—maybe something with actual tailoring—or gasp —buttons.
Ailis tilted her head, a little puzzled. "Anything else?”
"You know, like... something a little... different?" Emmy gestured vaguely at the blue dress. "Something... more, um, fitted? Maybe in black? Or is there a boutique here, close by?” Not that she had her purse or credit cards, but a few phone calls could solve that problem.
Ailis blinked, clearly baffled. "I’m nae sure what ye mean by ‘fitted,’ but this is a fine dress. It belonged to the laird’s mother."
Emmy blinked. “The lard’s mother?” Hearing how that sounded brought forth a giggle. The term lard ass came to mind, though Brody MacIntyre certainly was not that. Maybe Ailis wasn’t saying lard ...?
Ailis continued to stare blankly at her.
“Sorry,” Emmy waved it off. “Would you tell her I said thank you?”
Ailis’s sparse brows drew together. “I would...but she’s dead.”
“Oh, shit. Really?” Oh, my God. They want me to wear the clothes of a dead woman. This place was so bizarre.
"I’ll leave ye to get dressed," Ailis said with what seemed false cheer, as if she only wanted her task done "If ye need anything else, just call out."
Emmy watched the door close behind her, then turned back to the offending garments with a long, suffering sigh.
"Okay, Emmy. You’ve handled worse," she muttered, tossing the shift onto the bed. Like that time in the Hamptons when your luggage got lost, and you had to wear a beach cover-up to a cocktail party. This is no different.
Except that it is. It was a hundred times worse.
She tossed the fur blanket back onto the short bed and changed out of the sleeveless shift into the long-sleeved one, wrestling to get her arms through the sleeves, which were surprisingly tight at the wrists though the dress was ridiculously billowy everywhere else.
When she pulled the blue dress on over the shift, she glanced down, grimacing. Both garments barely reached her ankles, and the blue gown fit... well, better, but not by much. Apparently, the lard’s mother was much shorter and possibly a little rounder.
"Great," she muttered, her eyes narrowing at her reflection. "I’m a shapeless milkmaid."
God willing, she wouldn’t be caught in this get-up when she was reunited with her friends.
Bending down, she picked up the discarded sleeveless shift and folded it with more care than it deserved, laying it on the bed. As she straightened, her eyes caught something on the opposite side of the trunk.
Her breath caught.
Her boots!
Sitting there all this time, just waiting for her like long-lost friends.
"Oh, thank God!" she gasped, her voice almost giddy with relief. She rushed over and grabbed them, clutching the buttery-soft leather to her chest like they were a beloved childhood toy. She dug her hand inside, deflated when she didn’t encounter her socks tucked in there. "Ugh, of course," she groaned, flipping the boots upside down just in case. No luck. Her favorite boot socks—warm, cozy, and perfect for tall leather boots—were nowhere to be found.
Her excitement dimmed slightly as she sat on the side of the bed and she slipped her bare feet into the boots, wiggling her cold toes. She grinned sardonically. Oh, this is going to really complete the outfit, she imagined . Four-inch heels for the milkmaid. Nice.
And now, what? She wondered, biting her lip.
A phone. I need to find a phone. The very thought made her frown, her eyes flicking toward the door. Brody MacIntyre had seemed either confused or unfazed when she’d asked earlier for a phone.
Her frown deepened as she glanced around the room. There had to be a phone. Or at least something familiar—a light switch, a power outlet, a charger, a plug. Anything.
She crossed to the armoire and peered behind it. Nothing. She crouched down, craning her neck to peer behind the bed frame. Also nothing. No outlets. Not even a rogue power cord trailing along the floorboards.
Her pulse quickened. "Seriously? Not even one?"
The realization crept in slowly, her breath catching in her throat. No outlets. No lights. No electricity.
Her fingers tightened around her skirt. This wasn’t just old-fashioned. It was... medieval.
A soft creak drew her attention to the door.
Hesitantly, Emmy crossed the room and pulled it open to find Ailis waiting for her.
"Och, there ye are," Ailis said with a hesitant smile. "I kent ye might need some help findin’ yer way.”
“My way...where?” She asked, glancing around the hallway walls, seeing no outlets there either.
“Maud said ye might be hungry,” Ailis supplied, a question in her tone.
Emmy straightened and took stock of herself. She laid her hand against her stomach, which felt hollow. “I am hungry.” Good Lord, and she desperately needed a drink. Or two.
“This way,” said Ailis with a bob of her head.
Emmy followed, her boots tapping softly against the stone floor as they made their way down a spiral staircase. The air grew warmer as they descended, the faint scent of smoke and something savory growing stronger with each step.
The staircase opened into a long corridor lined with wooden beams and weathered stone. Emmy hesitated, her eyes catching on the heavy iron sconces that flickered with warm, golden light.
No signs, no front desk, no cheerful concierge to offer directions.
This isn’t a hotel. The thought hit her with a cold certainty. Dunmara was the lard’s home, she assumed.
She stepped into the kitchen behind Ailis and froze.
The room was far larger than she’d expected—not quaint or rustic like a cozy B&B kitchen, but grand and imposing, like something pulled straight from a historical drama. A massive stone hearth dominated the far wall, its fire roaring with an intensity that bathed the room in flickering light. Above it hung an array of blackened pots and iron cauldrons, their surfaces glinting with grease and soot. Spits jutted from the hearth, holding what looked like chunks of roasting meat, while a cauldron bubbled with something rich and savory.
Emmy’s breath caught. This wasn’t some quaint throwback to rustic charm. This was old, functional, and utterly authentic. She felt like she had wandered into a living museum or onto the set of a period film—except, again, there were no cameras.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe, hesitant to enter fully. Emmy’s eyes swept over the vast room, her breath hitching as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings. A single long worktable stretched down the center of the room, its scarred wooden surface covered with dough, bowls of chopped vegetables, and an assortment of knives that looked more like weapons than kitchen tools.
Two other women occupied the kitchen, one at the counter, her hands stilled inside a mound of dough, while the other stood near the hearth, stirring the contents of the large kettle. Both paused in their work to stare at Emmy.
“Ye’ll be the strange lass the laird found,” said the stout woman with a flour-dusted apron at the counter. Her voice was brisk, but there was no unkindness in it.
Emmy clearly heard what she previously thought was lard as laird now.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing Emmy with curiosity and a touch of wariness.
Emmy nodded, her throat tight. "I—yes. I suppose that’s me."
The woman gestured toward a lone stool at the long table. "Sit, then. We’ll not have ye fainting again. A bit of food will set ye right."
Emmy hesitated, her eyes darting around the room, unsure if this was an offer or a command.
"Go on, then," the woman urged, a hint of impatience creeping into her tone. "Ye’re nae a ghost, are ye?" Her brows lifted, her mouth curling into a semi-amused smile. "Ye’re nae... are ye?"
Emmy blinked at her. "No. I’m not a ghost."
The woman chuckled and waved her hand dismissively. "Of course ye’re nae. Come. Sit and eat."
Reluctantly, Emmy moved to the stool and perched on the edge, her back stiff, her eyes darting to the kettle, half expecting it to bubble over or belch smoke. The other woman placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of her, along with a hunk of coarse bread.
The stew’s aroma hit her immediately—earthy and rich, with hints of onion, herbs, and something vaguely gamey she couldn’t quite place. Her stomach growled loudly in response, making her painfully aware of how ravenous she was.
She reached for the bowl, glancing around for a spoon. None appeared. She cleared her throat, looking at the women.
"Um... do you have a spoon?" At the blank looks that greeted her request, Emmy repeated. "A spoon? You know..." Emmy mimed eating with an invisible spoon. "For the stew?"
The stout woman burst into laughter, slapping her thigh. "A spoon! Saints help us, lass, who needs a spoon when ye’ve got bread?" She gestured toward the chunk of coarse bread in front of Emmy. "Ye use that. Dip it into the stew. That’s what it’s for."
"Right," Emmy said weakly, picking up the bread. She tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the stew, watching the thick broth soak into the chunk. She took a bite, the rich flavor spreading across her tongue—hearty and warming, unlike anything she’d ever had before. It warmed her from the inside out, chasing away the lingering chill in her bones. She took another bite, then another, her appetite returning in earnest.
"Guid, aye?" said the woman at the hearth, her eyes twinkling.
Emmy swallowed and nodded, surprised by how much she liked it. "Really good," she admitted, taking another bite.
The women smiled approvingly, returning to their work. Emmy relaxed a little, tearing off another piece of bread, her stomach no longer twisting with hunger. It wasn’t exactly five-star dining, but at least it was delicious.
"There now," the woman said, crossing her arms. "Better already, I’d say."
Emmy nodded, managing a small smile. "Thank you."
"I’m Agnes," the woman near the hearth said, watching her closely. "And ye’d be...?"
"Emmy," she said quickly, recalling her manners. “I’m sorry. I’m Emmy Carter.”
"Emmy," Agnes repeated, sounding as if she were testing out the sound. “Fine, sure. And that’d be Maud,” she said, pointing her wooden ladle toward the woman working on the bread dough, “And ye’ve met Ailis. And dinna mind me askin’, lass, but how’d ye come to be here?”
Emmy gave a short laugh. “I still haven’t figured that out. The...ah, the laird said he found me in the watch tower.” To her ears, it sounded like a question, which she supposed it was, since she couldn’t remember anything.
“Aye, so we heard,” said the other woman, who’d returned to her dough kneading. “Strange, that.”
Ailis stood at the far end of the counter, grinding something in a mortar with a wooden pestle. Though she had her head down, she kept glancing up at Emmy.
“Strange, indeed,” Emmy concurred. “It’s baffling and driving me mad. I have no idea what happened or how I ended up there—here, I mean. It makes no sense. And Mr. MacIntyre said he didn’t even know where Pitlochry was, but how is that possible?”
“Never heard of it,” the woman named Maud said emphatically.
“But...” Emmy paused and blew out a sigh. She didn’t even know what questions to ask. These women seemed as bewildered as she felt.
“Is that where ye’re from? Pit-loch-ry?” Asked Ailis.
“No—well, Yes. I mean, I’m not from there. I was staying there with my friends, though. I’m from the States, as you’ve probably guessed.”
“The states? State of what?” Maud inquired.
An odd way to phrase it , Emmy thought. “From New York state.”
“Where’s that?” Ailis wondered.
Nonplused, Emmy waved her hand airily. “Um, New York. America? The United States?”
The three women exchanged a series of pointed looks, their expressions shifting from mild curiosity to something more cautious. Maud’s lips pressed into a thin line, while Agnes raised a brow, glancing sideways at Ailis.
Emmy caught every glance, every twitch of their eyebrows. Her pulse quickened. Stares that returned to her suggested blatantly that they thought she was crazy.
"America?" Agnes said finally, her tone gentle, as if she were humoring a small child. "Dinna ever hear of that, either. What country is it near?"
Emmy blinked. "You’ve... never heard of America?"
"Nae," Maud said flatly, giving her a suspicious once-over. "Sounds made-up."
"Made-up?” Emmy’s voice rose an octave, her pulse fluttering in her throat. "It’s—it's a whole continent! The United States of America. North America. You know—fifty states, apple pie, baseball? Disney? Lady Gaga?”
Their blank stares were almost comical. Almost.
Agnes muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like poor dear .
Emmy opened her mouth to argue but stopped herself, suddenly unsure. Were they serious ?
Her eyes darted from one woman to the next. They were dead serious.
"You’ve really never heard of America," she said in a small voice, her bafflement increasing tenfold.
A heavy silence hung between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Finally, Agnes shrugged, giving Maud and Ailis another look, this one almost conspiratorial.
"Well, from far or near, ye’ll be well enough here. Finish yer stew now, lass."
The other women gradually returned to their tasks, though Emmy could feel their glances every now and then. She ate slowly, her nerves on edge, a bit of alarm creeping in.
Suddenly, Agnes spoke up again, with some excitement now, as if she’d just thought of something. “Ye’ve had a knock on the head, have ye now? Is that what’s what?”
Emmy touched her temple, the memory of her fainting outside the pub still fresh, though she had no idea how hard she’d fallen to the ground. "I don’t think so." She didn’t have a headache, or any pain or soreness.
“Hm,” Agnes murmured, with some disappointment.
"Nae kinfolk nearby, then?" Ailis asked. "Nae one wondering where ye are?"
Emmy sighed again. “I was with friends, three friends.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “God, they must be worried sick.” But how did she get separated from them?
Her confusion was relegated to the background for a moment when she caught Maud’s gaze dropping to Emmy’s hands. A flicker of something—disbelief? alarm?—crossed the older woman’s face. Her flour-dusted hands stilled mid-motion, and her eyes locked onto Emmy’s fingers with a sharpness that sent a prickle of unease down Emmy’s spine.
“What is it?” Emmy asked, looking down and then back up at the woman, who had fixed her gaze on the woman, Agnes, while jerking her head pointedly toward Emmy and then aggressively staring at Emmy hands.
Emmy followed her gaze and imagined her ring must have caused this little drama, for whatever reason.
She had forgotten about it completely, but there it was, gleaming in the firelight. A simple gold band adorned with a delicate Celtic knot design. She had never taken it off—not since her grandmother gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday, pressing it into her palm with a wistful smile. You’ll always carry a piece of me with you, Emmy-girl, her grandmother had said.
She curled her fingers protectively as Agnes sucked in a breath, and Maud made a noise low in her throat. Ailis, standing at the far end of the table, looked from the ring to Maud and back again, her eyes wide.
Emmy blinked at them. "What?"
The air had changed. The warmth in their expressions had cooled, replaced by something guarded—something cautious. Maud wiped her hands on her apron and straightened. "Mistress," she said slowly, her gaze still fixed on Emmy’s hand. "I dinna ken why ye were found in the watch tower, but if ye wear that on yer finger... ye ought nae be sitting here."
"Excuse me?" Emmy’s pulse quickened. "Why not?"
Agnes cleared her throat. "Ye should be dining in the hall, nae in the kitchen like some common wench—pardon, Mistress."
Emmy set down her bread. "What difference does it make where I eat?”
"Difference?" Maud exchanged a meaningful glance with Agnes. "A lass wearin’ a ring like that—fine gold, fine craft—ye must be of high birth."
"I—what?" Emmy’s stomach twisted. "It’s just a ring. It was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me."
Agnes tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "A noblewoman, was she?"
Emmy exhaled sharply. "No,” she answered, confused. “She was just my grandmother. She liked Celtic designs. It’s not—"
Ailis suddenly stepped forward, saying, “Ye wear a ring like that, and folk’ll think ye’ve a claim to something."
"Claim to what?" Emmy demanded, her frustration mounting, though she thought maybe she began to understand. She had a sudden impression of the kitchen downstairs in the show, Downton Abbey . “Oh, wait. No. I’m not upper class, not a mistress of anything, and neither was my grandmother. I’m a common...wench, I suppose, just me. A regular person.”
While none of them seemed appeased, they pressed no more for Emmy to vacate the kitchen.
After another moment, however, Emmy lifted her pale face to Maud, closest to her, who was watching her carefully. “I’m not feeling so well,” she whispered, panic gripping her chest.
"Perhaps ye should lie down, lass,” Maud suggested mildly. "A bit of rest will clear yer head."
Emmy nodded slowly but then hesitated, setting down the last bit of bread next to the half-eaten bowl of stew. Rest sounded good, but what she needed was answers.
"Before I do... is there a police station nearby?" Emmy asked, her voice tight with hope. "Or... or somewhere I can get some help? I need to call my friends. They’ll be looking for me, and—"
The women exchanged yet another set of glances, each one more pointedly confused than the last.
"A po-lice station?" Maud repeated, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"The authorities?” Emmy clarified, though even as she spoke, her stomach sank. The blank stares were back, and this time, they were accompanied by faint smiles that felt more like indulgence than reassurance.
"Come on, now," Ailis cut in with a soothing tone, placing a steady hand on Emmy’s arm. "I’ll show ye to yer room."
Emmy pressed her lips together, swallowing the rising lump in her throat. She allowed herself to be nudged off the stool. She’d rest, clear her head, and then figure out her next step.
"Thank you," she said softly, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill.
Ailis led her out of the kitchen, guiding her back up the spiral staircase to the small chamber she had woken in earlier. She shivered as they went further and further from the warmth of the kitchen.
"There ye are," Ailis said, pressing her to sit on the bed.
Emmy nodded mutely, waiting for the door to close behind the maid before she let out a shaky breath.
Then it hit her all at once—the confusion, the panic, the overwhelming sense that something was very wrong . She collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in her hands.
"What is happening?" she whispered, her voice trembling as tears slipped down her cheeks.
She cried quietly at first, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hold it in. But the more she tried to suppress it, the harder it became, until she was sobbing into the coarse linen pillow, her body trembling with the force of it.
She had no phone, no way to contact her friends, and no clue where she was—or how she’d ended up in this strange, unsettling place.
Emmy curled into herself, clutching the fur and blankets tightly. For now, she just needed to cry, to let herself fall apart, if only for a little while.
Then I’ll figure this out, she promised herself.