Chapter Six
Sleep had long been a stranger to him, a luxury he hadn’t truly known in years. It had first begun to slip away during the long marches, when every rustle in the dark might signal death, and battles loomed like storm clouds on the horizon. In those days, his body had learned to survive on restless snatches of sleep, always half-alert, ears attuned to the scrape of steel or the distant sound of the enemy.
More recently, it was neither battle nor marching that kept him awake, but the quiet, relentless weight of loss. Faces of those he'd failed to save lingered in the shadows, their presence as constant as the ache in his leg. Duty gnawed at him, a steady reminder of everything left undone. And failure—the worst companion of all—whispered in the stillness of the night, replaying every choice, every misstep, and too often, the hopelessness.
Rest refused to come. Even the silence mocked him now, filling the hours with too many thoughts and too few answers.
He supposed he should be thankful for the distraction of Emmy Carter.
His jaw tightened as the image flashed through his mind again—her wild, desperate eyes, her frantic insistence that she was from another century. Another world , practically. It had taken all his restraint to stay calm, to speak gently when every instinct had told him to have her tossed out on her arse.
It was almost laughable, wasn’t it? Whatever strange twist of fate had landed Emmy Carter on his doorstep—or in his watch tower, as it were. He’d thought her odd initially, more than a little mysterious even, but he couldn’t deny he’d been a wee bit intrigued by her. Ah, but she was apparently batshit crazy.
Brody smirked grimly, putting his arms under his head. Of course she’s mad, he thought. Why wouldn’t she be?
Still, there was something about her that lingered in his thoughts. In appearance she was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and far superior. And despite the clear desperation in her striking green eyes, she somehow managed to carry herself with an almost unearned confidence. He thought her bold, coming into the hall that first day in naught but a shift, covered in fur. Her questions, blunt and baffling, had been utterly foreign.
An odd creature, indeed.
But that oddness unsettled him far more than it should have. Not because she’d raved about traveling through time—that was madness, plain and simple—but because there was a spark in her eyes that made it hard to look away. A kind of stubborn brightness that defied logic, as though she truly believed every word she’d said. There was a clarity to her words, a strange conviction that gnawed at him. Even now, it sat like a stone in his gut, refusing to be ignored.
Two thousand and nineteen, she’d said. Not once but twice.
Brody shook his head. It was nonsense. Pure madness. Yet there was a whisper of something in the back of his mind, a question he couldn’t quite silence. What if it wasn’t madness? What if there was some truth to her tale?
He hated that thought. Hated that it lingered at all. He’d built his life on what was real, what he could fight with steel and outlast with sheer will. Stories of magic and time-bending witches were the realm of frightened peasants and old women. He had no time for them.
And yet, what if...?
Whether Maud and Agnes had managed to cajole her into taking a powder to enable her to rest, he did not know, and frankly, he didn’t care. He considered his responsibility to the woman complete; he’d offered her shelter, he owed her nothing more.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, his arms folded beneath his head. Another quarter hour passed in restless silence until finally, he could stand it no more. He cursed softly under his breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Shoving his feet into his boots, he didn’t bother with a tunic or cloak despite the chill that seeped into the stones of the castle at night. The bite of the cold air would be welcome, a distraction from the thoughts needling at him.
The door made no sound as he pulled it open. The halls were dark but familiar, every crevice and shadow as known to him as the back of his own hand. His nightly prowls were a habit born of routine and discontent, a way to chase away the demons that visited in the hours when the world was quiet.
He moved silently, his footsteps a soft brush against the cold stone. He hadn’t meant to check on her—hadn’t even planned to walk this way—but his pace faltered as he neared her chamber. It was only a few doors down, far too close to ignore entirely. The faintest glow of orange light spilled out from beneath her door, beckoning him.
Brody frowned, his gaze fixed on the light. Had she stoked the fire herself? Or had Ailis done it for her? Ailis had a soft heart, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the maid had taken to fussing over the lass already.
He meant only to pass by. That was all. But as he drew nearer, he was brought up short by a sound.
Crying.
It was faint, barely audible at first, muffled by the heavy oak, but unmistakable. He stilled, his ears straining to catch it, unsure if it was real or a trick of his restless mind. Then he heard it again—a soft hitch in breath, followed by a muffled, uneven sob. The kind of sound someone made when they were trying not to cry but failing.
The weight of it hung in the air, fragile yet piercing. It wasn’t the wailing of someone seeking attention or comfort, but the quiet, restrained kind of crying, raw and private. A sound born of loneliness or despair.
Brody stilled, his head tilting slightly toward the door.
For a long moment, he stood frozen, staring at the narrow gap beneath the door. His brow furrowed, the slightest flicker of something—pity, perhaps, or awareness—stirring in his chest.
He didn’t like it.
Turning away, he started to move on, his steps slower now. But he stopped again, his hand coming to rest against the cold stone of the wall. A deep frown etched itself into his features as he glanced back toward the door.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering a barely audible curse.
Brody took a slow breath, his gaze lingering on the faint orange glow. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
He had his own demons to reckon with.
***
The fire that Ailis had so kindly stoked had died hours ago. The pale light of early morning filtered through the narrow window, illuminating the rough stone walls and the heavy wooden beams that supported the ceiling. Emmy sat huddled on the bed, wrapped in a tangle of furs and woolen blankets, her knees pulled to her chest.
Her thoughts churned wildly, refusing to settle.
She felt like she was trapped in some medieval version of Groundhog Day , waking up in the same bed, in the same freezing room, with the same unanswered questions circling her mind. What she wouldn’t give to see Bill Murray waltz through the door with a smug grin, telling her it was all a joke.
That’s where her mind was now—fantastical, improbable, desperate.
It had been hours—no, nearly a full day—since Agnes and Ailis had ushered her back to this room after the scene in the kitchen, her heart still pounding from what they had told her. They’d tried to press some doctored drink into her hands, insisting it would help her rest. But Emmy had waved them off, refusing it outright. Drugs—whatever the medieval equivalent might be—were the last thing she needed. Clear thinking was hard enough as it was.
She hadn’t left the room since. Half the night had been spent crying into the pillow, the panic she’d managed to eventually suppress earlier returning with brutal force in the dark, swallowing her whole.
Thirteen hundred and four. The number echoed in her head, absurd and impossible.
Her chest tightened as she thought it over for the hundredth time. This couldn’t be real. None of it could. She had to be dreaming, trapped in some strange, feverish nightmare. Any moment now, she’d wake up in her comfortable bed at the hotel, her friends laughing at how hard she’d hit the whisky the night before.
But no matter how many times she closed her eyes and wished for reality to snap back into place, it didn’t. She was still here, in a medieval castle that smelled constantly of woodsmoke, grease, and leather, wrapped in animal pelts on a bed that creaked with every slight movement.
She tried to rationalize it, to make sense of the impossible, but with little success.
No cell service. No electricity. Nothing to suggest this was anything other than what they claimed it was.
She pressed her hands to her temples, her fingers tangling in her hair. Think, Emmy. Think.
Her phone. God, her phone. She’d searched her borrowed room twice already, but it was nowhere to be found. She’d had it with her in the pub, hadn’t she? She could still picture it on the table beside her drink, the familiar weight of it in her hand. If she could just find it—just hold it again—everything would snap back into place.
But the more she thought about it, the more certain she became that it was gone. She’d tucked it into her purse when they’d left the restaurant and that was nowhere to be found either.
Her thoughts spiraled, taking her deeper into the dark possibilities that lurked at the edges of her mind. What if this isn’t a dream? What if it’s not some elaborate trick? What if it’s real?
Her chest tightened, her breath catching in short, shallow bursts. No, no. It can’t be . Things like this don’t happen. People didn’t just slip through time. That was the stuff of fantasy novels and some poorly scripted television shows—not real life.
And yet...
She glanced around the room again, her eyes tracing the details she had tried to ignore—the heavy wooden furniture, the uneven stone floor, the bed made of ropes and mattress of straw. There was nothing here that belonged in the twenty-first century. Nothing that felt remotely familiar or safe.
A shudder ran through her, and she pulled the blankets tighter around herself, cocooning against the encroaching panic.
Her thoughts shifted to the people she’d met—Maud, Agnes, Ailis, Brody. None of them had seemed like actors playing a part. They were too... real. Their accents, their mannerisms, their clothes, even the way they looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and pity—it had been too convincing, too raw to be part of any performance.
If this was real—if she truly was trapped in 1304—then what did that mean? What would happen to her? How would she survive in a world so far removed from everything she knew?
Her mind conjured up wild images of her future: struggling to adapt to a life without modern conveniences, fumbling through a medieval existence where everything was foreign and dangerous. Never seeing her parents or her brother again.
Her breathing quickened again, her heart pounding in her chest. Stop. Stop it. You’re working yourself into a panic.
She forced herself to breathe, dragging air into her lungs in slow, deliberate gulps. It helped—barely.
Brody’s face flashed in her mind, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. Breathe, lass. One breath at a time.
She clung to that memory like a lifeline, her breaths gradually slowing. Her pulse settled into something resembling normalcy, though the tightness in her chest remained.
One breath at a time .
She repeated it to herself like a mantra, letting the words anchor her. Her thoughts slowed, the panic receding just enough to allow a sliver of clarity to creep in. She needed a plan. Sitting here, wrapped in blankets, wasn’t going to solve anything. She couldn’t afford to unravel, not now. Not as she so desperately wanted to cling to the hope that there was some way out of this.
Finally, she threw off the blankets with a sigh and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The stone floor was colder than expected, sending a jolt up her spine. Quickly, she shoved her feet back into her boots and stood,
Her borrowed dress was wrinkled and rumpled from tossing and turning all night, the sleeves crumpled and the skirt twisted awkwardly around her legs. She tugged the skirt into place, supposing she now looked like a ragged milkmaid.
"Great," she muttered, running her hands through her hair, brushing strands off her face.
Minutes later, Emmy stepped quietly into the kitchen, hovering once more at the door. She stood with her left arm crossed over her front, fingers gripping the opposite elbow, a subconscious shield, trying to hold herself together.
The kitchen was the only place that felt remotely familiar, even if nothing about it was modern.
Maud noticed her first, pausing as she chopped a fat turnip. Her sharp eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. Agnes glanced over next, pausing mid-stir at the kettle, her expression softening into something between concern and curiosity. Ailis, timid as ever, sent her gaze darting between Emmy and the other two women as if bracing for something dramatic.
Emmy hovered in the doorway, suddenly very aware of how quiet the kitchen had become. She forced a smile, awkward and tight.
"Um... morning," she offered, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave. "I—uh—I’m sorry about yesterday."
Maud tilted her head slightly, but Emmy thought her countenance relaxed a bit.
"Sorry?" Agnes echoed, straightening fully, her brows lifting. "For what, lass? Ye’ve naught to be sorry for."
"Oh, I don’t know," Emmy said, wrapping her arms around herself, "maybe for the whole meltdown in your kitchen thing? Not exactly my proudest moment." She gave a short, breathy laugh.
Ailis’s lips twitched, as if fighting a smile. Agnes clucked her tongue and waved a hand dismissively.
"Och, we’ve seen worse," Agnes said. "Ye canna scare us."
"Aye," Maud added, her tone brisk but not unkind. "Yer reaction was understandable, given the circumstances. We’d all be rattled waking up somewhere we dinna ken." Her eyes narrowed but not unkindly. "But lass... have ye come to grips with it yet?"
Emmy hesitated, her smile fading slightly. She had no idea how to answer that. Come to grips with it? Hardly. But at least she wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.
"I’m... working on it," she said finally, meeting Maud’s gaze with as much steadiness as she could muster.
"Good enough," Maud declared as she resumed chopping the leeks
Agnes grabbed the stool and gestured toward it. "Sit yerself down, lass. Ye’ll feel better with some food in ye."
Ailis wiped her hands on her apron and nodded eagerly. "We’ve fresh bannocks. The fire’s warm. Ye’ll be right as rain in no time."
Emmy moved to the stool, lowering herself slowly. She kept her gaze fixed on a knot in the wood grain of the table, feeling the weight of their glances still lingering on her. A moment later, a steaming bowl of what looked like breakfast porridge was set in front of her, along with two thin rounds that appeared to be fried dough, and a small wedge of crumbly cheese.
A strange quiet encompassed the room, broken only by the regular chop of Maud’s knife and the scrape of Agnes’s spoon in the kettle. Emmy tore a piece of bread and dipped it into the porridge, chewing slowly, savoring the warmth that spread through her.
The kitchen seemed unusually quiet, and Emmy felt glances darting on and off her. She ate in silence, grateful for the temporary peace, unsure if the silence was a kindness or more their wariness, unwilling to set her off.
"Awful quiet ye are," Agnes finally said, her voice softer than usual.
Emmy blinked slowly. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Still processing everything.”
As if that were incentive to broach the subject, Ailis leaned over the counter across from Emmy, curiosity flickering across her face. "Were ye serious about what ye said yesterday? About living in... what was it? Two thousand and nineteen?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and expectant. Again, Maud’s knife and Agnes’s spoon stopped moving.
“Yes. I was serious," she said quietly. "I am serious. I lived— live —in twenty-nineteen."
"But how?" Ailis pressed, her eyes wide. "How did ye move through time like that? Did ye cast a spell? Are ye a witch?"
Emmy’s head shot up, panic flashing in her eyes. "No! I’m not a witch! If I were, I’d have sent myself back home already."
Maud narrowed her eyes, studying her carefully. "Then how did ye get here?"
Emmy shook her head, her voice breaking. "I don’t know. But...I’ve been thinking that maybe I met a witch?”
“What do ye mean? Ye did or ye dinna?”
“When we left the restaurant, my friends and I, we came across this woman,” Emmy explained. “She was old and... I don’t know, something about her was odd. Maybe more...otherworldly. And she seemed to zero in on me immediately. And she said some strange things. She said I was kind and she’d chosen well, or something like that.” Emmy frowned, recalling how she’d been a little unnerved by the woman. “She said—and I remember this particularly— go and see to him .” Him, who? Emmy still wondered. “She was holding my hand...and I remember I was overcome by a strange sensation. I can’t even describe it.” She shrugged helplessly. “And then I fainted. I specifically recall...falling, slumping, knowing I was losing consciousness. It was all very...surreal.” With that, she took a deep breath and looked up at her rapt audience. “And then I woke up here.”
Maud nodded, as if it all made perfect sense now. “Aye, a witch indeed. Powerful one, I’d say.”
“Mm-hm,” Agnes readily agreed. “Seems as such.”
Which begged the question from Emmy. “But...do you know any witches? How do you know—”
“Druid, my guess,” announced Maud, speaking to Agnes. “Fae folk rarely make themselves old. And they might speak in riddles, but nae ever so vague.”
“How do you know this?” Emmy persisted. “I mean, where I come from, there are no witches. Not real ones, who... who can move people around simply by taking their hand—who can do anything like that. They don’t exist.”
Maud exchanged a knowing glance with Agnes before settling her gaze on Emmy, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Och, lass, ye’re in Scotland now," she said, her tone patient but firm. "This land’s steeped in magic, older than the stones beneath yer feet. There are things here ye’ll nae find in books nor tales from across the seas."
"Aye," added Agnes, her voice quieter but no less certain. "The fae folk, the Druids—these hills have kent their footsteps longer than ours. The air itself hums with their power, though most folk go their whole lives without noticing it."
"But... how do you know this?" Emmy pressed, frustration bubbling beneath her words. “Witches aren’t real. Traveling through time is not possible.”
Maud raised a challenging brow. "Impossible, ye say? And yet here ye are, sayin’ yerself ye come from another time. Seems to me impossible is nae so impossible after all."
Agnes nodded sagely, flapping the spoon to highlight her point. "Many things happen in Scotland that canna be explained. There are stories—old stories—of folk vanishing and returning years later, unchanged but nae the same. Stories of circles in the earth that ye must never cross, stones that whisper, and lights in the sky that lead ye astray."
Across the counter from them, Ailis listened intently, nodding as if she knew and believed all this.
"And the Druids," Maud continued, her voice dropping slightly. "They were the keepers of the old ways, before the Christians drove them underground. Some say their power never left this land, only went quiet, waiting. A few, the rare ones, still walk among us, hiding in plain sight."
"So... you think this woman might have been a Druid?" Emmy asked, hardly able to believe she was having this conversation.
"Aye," said Maud, her voice steady. "Druids are the only ones with power enough to weave between the worlds. The fae folk play tricks, aye, but they’re mischief-makers at heart. This woman... she sounds more like one who was guiding ye, nae playing games."
"Guiding me?" Emmy repeated, her mind reeling. "But... to what? To whom? She said, ‘Go and see to him.’ I have no idea who she meant."
"The answers will come in time," Agnes said gently. "But beware, lass—magic doesnae always reveal its purpose all at once. Sometimes ye must walk the path before ye understand why ye were sent down it."
Emmy swallowed hard, her heart thudding. Magic. Druids. Fae folk . This was a lot to process. She glanced down at her hands, half-expecting them to glow or spark with some untapped power. But they looked perfectly normal—pale and trembling.
"So, what do I do now?" she whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Maud shrugged though her eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Ye live, lass. Ye listen, ye learn. This is Scotland. If ye’re meant to find answers, they’ll come to ye in time."
Emmy nodded, but only to say that she heard, not that she understood, or actually believed any of this...hooey.
Silence fell again.
"Well," Agnes said after a moment, "witch or nae, ye’re here now, and there’s nae sense in worrying yourself sick over what ye can’t change."
“But that’s just it,” Emmy countered. “I want to change it. I need to change it. I can’t stay here. I need to get home.”
Across from Emmy, Ailis stood at the edge of the worktable, her thumbs curled beneath it and her fingers drumming rapidly on the surface, a telltale sign of what seemed a nervous excitement.
"Aye, and if ye are a witch, ye’re the worst one I’ve ever heard of,” she said, completely ignoring Emmy’s heartfelt plea. “Imagine being able to travel through time and having nae idea how to get back."
Emmy managed a weak laugh. "Again, I am not a witch," she thought it prudent to remind them.
The hum of conversation faltered, and Emmy barely noticed the shift in energy—until Agnes straightened and greeted someone over Emmy’s shoulder.
"Laird," Agnes said with a slight nod.
Emmy turned, her heart giving a sudden jolt as Brody MacIntyre filled the doorway, his broad frame blocking the light from the corridor behind him. His presence seemed to shrink the kitchen, making the vast space feel strangely intimate, almost too small to contain him. His eyes locked on her with an unsettling intensity, sharp and unreadable, holding her gaze for what seemed a very long moment.
He said nothing at first, his brown eyes lingering on her as if trying to determine her state of mind.
"I came to see how she fares," he said, his voice gruff and abrupt. He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Has she eaten?"
Emmy wasn’t sure why he was talking about her as if she weren’t sitting right there, especially while holding her gaze so intently.
"She’s at it now,” Agnes said. “Working on it, anyway.”
Brody crossed the room in a few long strides. He stopped just short of the table, and peered over into the bowl before Emmy, which she’d given up on already. Her stomach was too twisted for food.
"Ye should eat," he said, his tone brusque. "Ye’ll need your strength."
Emmy looked up at him, her eyes dull. "For what?"
His brow furrowed slightly, as though the question had caught him off guard. "For whatever comes next," he said finally. "Ye canna face it on an empty stomach."
Emmy wondered, Face what? Dragons? Demons? A mob with pitchforks?
Brody cleared his throat again and tapped his finger on the counter. "See that ye eat,” he said, his voice stiffer than before. Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the kitchen, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.
A heavy silence lingered for a moment, the air in the kitchen seeming to thrum with unspoken thoughts.
Maud glanced toward the door, then shifted her gaze to Emmy, her expression thoughtful—almost speculative. Agnes busied herself stirring the kettle, but her eyes flicked toward the doorway more than once.
"Years, it’s been," Agnes said at last, her tone reflective, “since the laird stepped foot in the kitchens."
Ailis nodded, tapping her fingers on the worktable. "Mayhap since the harvest feast three autumns ago. And now... twice in two days." She cast a quick glance at Emmy, her lips curving just slightly.
“Hm,” Maud murmured. “Verra curious."