Chapter Thirteen
Donal, as it turned out, was quite the chatterbox. Most days, while he flitted in and out of the kitchen tending to his various chores, he barely said a word. Yesterday, when he’d taken Ailis’s place, he’d spoken a bit more. But now, on the trek to the house of a woman who was possibly some kind of witch—one who might be able to hurtle Emmy forward through time, or might just as easily tell her she was doomed to stay in the fourteenth century—Donal kept up a steady stream of conversation.
Emmy doubted she’d remember half of what he said. Understandable, she justified, since her mind was a tangled mess of anticipation and nerves. The thought of going home thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. Being thrust through time without any forewarning and while unconscious, as she had been, was one thing—but knowing it might happen, bracing herself for something completely unknown, was something else entirely. Would she be awake for it this time? Would she feel it? Would it hurt?
She exhaled slowly, trying to push the swirling questions from her mind and focus on the present.
Half an hour ago, wrapped in her fur coat, Emmy had poked her head into the kitchen and announced to Maud and Agnes that she and Donal would go collect peat from the bog. Maud had given her a thoughtful look—just a touch more contemplative than the simple statement should have warranted—but Emmy had chosen to ignore it.
The sky above was pale and cloudless, the air crisp but not terribly cold, not unlike any winter day in New York City. That is, until the wind picked up. The wind here in the Highlands was a different animal altogether, she’d learned, biting and angry at times.
As she’d thought when she’d gone out hunting with Brody, the world beyond the keep was dazzling, the snow-covered hills rolling in every direction, untouched and pristine. Ahead, the tree line cut straight across the open field they were now crossing, marking the boundary between open sky and shadowy unknown.
Bundled in a scraggly woolen cloak, his freckled face pale in the morning light, Donal trudged along at her side, with the energy of a boy setting off on a grand adventure. His gray eyes sparkled beneath his mop of unruly red hair as he went on presently with a tale about a pig named Mag, whose piglets had starved last spring because, for reasons unknown, she had refused to let them nurse.
“She just wouldnae let ’em near,” he said with a dramatic shake of his head. “Duncan said she was sick, but I ken she was hexed—ye ken, by old Fenella or some such. Somethin’ wasnae right wi’ her eyes.” He paused for effect, then added gravely, “Maud said she’d gone mad—an’ sure enough, when she were butchered, inside her skull her brain was scrambled.”
Emmy hm-ed absently in response. Her thoughts remained elsewhere—on the road ahead, on the woman they were about to meet, and on whether this strange, impossible journey of hers was about to come to an end.
Donal’s words hit her a moment later.
“The pig’s brain was...scrambled?”
“Aye,” Donal affirmed readily enough. “Shrunken, nae as big as it should’ve been—twisted, too.”
“Fascinating,” Emmy acknowledged, wondering how one could tell a brain was twisted . Very strange. "How far exactly is Fenella’s place?"
"An hour’s walk," Donal said, kicking at a clump of snow with his boot. "Maybe longer with all this snow. But I ken the way.”
“And it’s easy? Like a straight line? One I’ll be able to follow there and back once we’ve parted ways?”
“I’ll take ye out of the forest,” Donal said, and then shrugged. “Ye keep the sun in front of ye going and behind ye coming back.”
They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the steady crunch of snow beneath their boots and the occasional rustle of branches shifting in the wind. The forest grew denser as they went, the path narrowing and twisting between towering pines, their snow-laden limbs drooping low. The air was still here, muted, the trees had swallowing up the worst of the wind.
Beneath the thick canopy, the snow thinned, patches of frozen earth visible in places where neither snow nor sun could reach. It made for easier walking, though Emmy still found herself stepping carefully over gnarled roots and uneven ground. She knew they were nearing the edge of the forest when the dim light filtering through the branches brightened, revealing glimpses of the open land beyond.
Donal stopped just as they emerged from the cold shade of the trees, his breath puffing white in the crisp air. He pointed straight ahead, where rolling hills stretched in every direction, their slopes blanketed in white, broken only by the dark patches of heather, rock, and a scattering of trees.
"Ye’ll want to keep straight as we were till ye pass the old yew tree—ye’ll ken it when ye see it, all twisted and black as the devil’s own beard," Donal instructed, glancing up at her. "Then, keep left where it looks like two paths come at ye. There’s a wee burn just beyond that, and ye’ll need to step careful, for the stones are slick and it falls deep in spots. Cross it, then follow the ridge up—Fenella’s hut sits just over the rise, tucked against the crag. Red door she has—?tis said it’s bluid. Canna miss it."
Emmy nodded, committing the directions to memory, hoping they would be as straightforward as he made them sound.
"And ye’ll be all right going back?" she asked, glancing at him.
Donal grinned, rocking back on his heels. "Aye, I’m nae the one seekin’ out a mad old woman in the woods, am I?"
Emmy huffed a small laugh, rolling her eyes. "Fair point. Thank you, Donal. I really appreciate it.”
Still, as she turned to continue alone, a prickling sensation ran down her spine. However, she did think to turn back and caution Donal, “Don’t forget to bring some peat back,” Emmy reminded him, to keep up their charade. “And it anyone asks, I just went for a little walk. Don’t mention Fenella’s name.” She felt that was best, since it didn’t require that the kid lie outright.
Emmy pressed forward then, her boots sinking into the softer, uneven ground while Donal wasted no time heading back to Dunmara. She forced herself to focus, repeating Donal’s instructions in her head over and over.
The yew tree. That was the first marker.
The path remained mostly clear, though the incline grew steeper, forcing her to watch her footing. The old yew wasn’t hard to spot, found after about fifteen minutes—it stood alone just ahead, its gnarled trunk splitting in strange angles, its bark blackened as if it had been scorched in some ancient fire. Twisted and black as the devil’s own beard, Donal had said. He wasn’t wrong.
Emmy hesitated for only a moment before veering left at a very noticeable fork just beyond it, what looked like two pathways tucked into a depression between rocky hills. She followed the left track where the land sloped downward.
Moments later, she heard the burn before she saw it, the gurgle of moving water growing louder as she approached. The stream was narrow but swift, its surface partially iced over in some places along the fringes. The stepping stones Donal had warned her about jutted out from the water, slick with running water, and the current looked stronger than was safe.
Taking a deep breath, she tested the first stone with the toe of her boot. It held. Carefully, she stepped onto it, arms held slightly out for balance. The second was even more treacherous, tilting slightly beneath her weight.
Don’t fall in, don’t fall in.
The last step required a bit of a leap, but she made it, landing heavily on the opposite bank. Exhaling in relief, she took a moment to steady herself before climbing the ridge.
The wind picked up as she ascended, tugging at her fur coat and whipping strands of hair across her face. She hadn’t realized just how high she’d climbed until she glanced back and saw the trees spread out below her, Dunmara hidden somewhere beyond them. She was pleased to see how stark her fresh tracks were in the snow, imagining they’d be easy to follow upon her return. If she returned.
Finally, as she crested the ridge, she spotted it.
Fenella’s hut.
Just as Donal had described, it was nestled against the bluff, a squat, crooked structure built from uneven stones, its thatched roof sagging. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and there, right in the center of the house, was a deep, rust-red stained door.
Emmy swallowed hard.
Red door she has—’tis said it’s bluid.
Maybe Donal had been joking. Surely, it was just paint.
Or maybe she was about to knock on the door of an honest to goodness witch in the fourteenth century.
She pulled her coat tighter around her and tucked her icy hands into the pockets again, marching with purpose toward the dwelling. It looked ancient, part of the land itself, as if it had been here long before Dunmara—or anything else—was ever built.
Her breath clouded in front of her as she hesitated, hand hovering over the black iron knocker that depicted a dragon’s head.
Emmy swallowed her nerves and banged the knocker twice. Nothing.
She thumped the knocker again and waited. She heard no sound, sensed no movement. She would have peaked into the windows if there were any.
She called out hello but received no response.
Sighing with vast disappointment—all this way for nothing!—she was just about to turn away when the door creaked open on its own, revealing a dim interior bathed in orange, flickering light.
But no person stood holding the door.
Oh, that’s not unsettling at all.
Bracing herself, she stepped inside. “Hello?”
The hut was small, but crowded—bundles of dried herbs hung from the low beams, casting strange, twisting shadows. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with bottles, bowls, and what looked suspiciously like bones. A fire crackled in a brazier in the middle of the room, its light illuminating a hunched figure stirring something thick and dark in a blackened pot.
Fenella.
The woman straightened, as much as she was able, and turned toward Emmy, neither surprised nor alarmed, it seemed.
She was older than Emmy had expected, her back curved like the arch of a bow, her silver-streaked hair coiled in heavy braids. When she turned, her dark eyes fixed on Emmy with an unsettling, knowing glint.
“I was wonderin’ when ye’d come,” Fenella murmured, her voice low and raspy, like wind rustling through dry leaves.
Emmy swallowed. “You were?”
“Aye.” The old woman gestured vaguely beyond the brazier, toward a battered stool. “Sit then, if ye must.”
Emmy hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, perching herself on the edge of the stool. The space felt entirely too small, too cluttered, the walls looming close. It smelled of burning herbs and something sharp—something metallic, maybe even blood.
“How did you... know I would come?” she asked.
Fenella gave a slow, halfhearted shrug. “I sensed it. Someone lost. Someone seekin’.”
Emmy exhaled, watching the old woman closely. “I heard that—I mean, people say you know things. About strange happenings. About things that can’t be explained.”
Fenella let out a soft, breathy chuckle, shifting a small pot off the fire with surprisingly strong hands. “Folk say many things, lass. Some of it foolish, some of it nae. They say I see shadows where there are none.” She turned back, wiping her hands absently on her skirts. “What is it ye seek?”
Emmy hadn’t prepared a speech—hadn’t even thought about how to phrase what she was asking. But she’d trekked all the way here, and she wasn’t leaving without at least asking.
“I heard you have... the Sight ,” she said carefully. “That you know things. About... the otherworldly.”
Fenella scoffed, shaking her head. “ The Sight , they call it. How quaint. How unassuming.”
“But do you?” Emmy pressed.
Fenella studied her, her gaze sharp and piercing. “What are ye askin’, lass? Dinna be coy.”
Emmy’s throat was dry. “Are you a witch?”
Fenella didn’t flinch. “We dinna like that word. But aye, I was... once.”
Emmy blinked. “You were ? What does that mean?”
“After centuries of it, aye, it grows old. I chose this life.”
“But...” Emmy hesitated. If Fenella wasn’t a witch anymore, how could she help?
Fenella’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “What is it ye seek?” she repeated.
Emmy exhaled, deciding to lay it all out. She had nothing to lose. “I think—no, I know —I was moved through time. I was born centuries from now. I was taken or sent or dropped here, probably by some form of magic, and I need to know who did it. Or I need to find someone who can undo it, who can send me back where I belong.”
Fenella tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “And how do ye ken where ye belong?”
Emmy frowned, irritation flashing through her. “I belong in the twenty-first century, where I was born, where my family is. No one had any right to move me.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending flickering shadows dancing across the stone walls.
Then, at last, Fenella exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. “Magic, ye say? And what makes ye so certain, then, that ye dinna just dream it up? That ye dinna fall and crack yer head and spin some wild tale to make sense of it?”
Emmy’s jaw clenched. “Because I’m not crazy. Because I know what year it should be, and it’s not 1304. One day I was in New York, and the next, I woke up in the Highlands, wearing the same clothes, no warning, no explanation. So if you know something—if you can help me—stop playing coy and just tell me.”
Fenella was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she let out a dry chuckle, shaking her hand at Emmy, pointing a crooked finger.
“Ye’re bold,” she murmured. “I’ll give ye that.”
Emmy leaned forward. “You’ve said enough for me to believe you are a witch—or whatever you want to call it—but what did you mean when you said you once were but now are not?”
Fenella’s lips curled slightly, a knowing, almost pitying smile. “Because, lass,” she said softly, “even a nigheanan sgàil can grow tired of bein’ untouchable.”
A strange chill crept down Emmy’s spine, settling deep in her bones. “What is that? Nee-yuh—what did you say?”
“ Nigheanan sgàil ,” the old woman repeated, unmoved by Emmy’s stumbling. “Daughters of Shadow.”
Emmy swallowed. “Witches?”
“As ye say, ye mortals.”
Emmy’s skin prickled. “So you’re... not mortal?”
“I’ve taken the form. But nae.”
Emmy’s mind reeled. “And what? These daughters, you’re like a... coven?”
Fenella smirked, as if the word itself amused her, or Emmy’s use of it did. She moved slowly, settling into the chair opposite Emmy, the firelight deepening the hollows of her face.
“Moireach is fading,” she said, her voice lowering to something barely above a whisper. “Her power dims. Her eyes turn blind to our ways.”
“Wait—back up.” Emmy raised a hand. “Pretend I know nothing and start from the beginning. Who is—?”
“Ye do know nothin’,” Fenella muttered, frowning.
Exasperated, Emmy huffed. “Then stop talking like I do.”
Fenella let out a low chuckle. “Moireach is our Mother, from whom all daughters are breathed life. And with her light flickerin’, some of our kind have begun to act out. Some out of ambition. Some out of foolishness. Some, perhaps, because they believe they can shape fate to their own liking.”
Emmy swallowed hard. “So you’re saying... one of them did this to me? Brought me here?”
Fenella nodded slowly. “It seems likely, aye.”
“Then how do I undo it?” She asked, her pulse pounding. Finally, they were getting somewhere.
At that, Fenella sighed, leaning back. “That, lass... I canna say.”
Emmy’s stomach clenched. “What do you mean? If a witch brought me here, why can’t you just—” she made an impatient motion with her hands, as if she swirled a magic wand “—do whatever it is you all do and send me back?”
“Lass.” Fenella’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Only the one who moved ye can move ye again.”
The words landed like a stone in Emmy’s gut.
She stared. “You’re telling me that unless I find whoever did this to me, I’m stuck here?”
“I’m tellin’ ye,” Fenella said with quiet finality, “that fate doesnae take kindly to bein’ tampered with. Ye were brought here for a reason, even if the one who did it had nae business doin’ so. Like as nae, ye’ll nae go back.”
Emmy’s breath quickened. “No, see, that doesn’t work for me. I have a life. I have—” She faltered, thinking of her sleek, empty loft in New York. A job she barely tolerated. Social events. Brunch. Instagram.
God. It all felt so... far away. So pointless.
Fenella watched her closely. “Ye dinna find one of the daughters, lass. They find ye .”
“I found you ,” Emmy pointed out.
“Aye, in this form, ye can. Nae all of us who take human form can still move mortals through time.”
Emmy hesitated, then asked, “Are there... others? Witches who’ve done what you’ve done?” A new thought struck her, making her pulse jump. “Could some of them be in my time?”
Fenella gave her a small, knowing smile.
“Like as nae, lass. Like as nae.” Fenella watched her carefully. “Several here, I ken,” she said cryptically.
“Several...what?” Her eyes widened. “Several people like me? Moved through time? And here now? Here in Scotland? In 1304?”
A smirk answered before Fenella did. “Answering yer own questions, ye are.”
“Oh, my God.” There were others, like her, tossed around in time, stuck here in the fourteenth century! “Did any of them get back to where they came from?”
Fenella shrugged. “Nae as I’ve heard.”
Emmy felt she’d been frowning—in confusion, shock, disbelief—since she’d walked through the door. “Not as you’ve heard. Who do you hear these things from?”
“I hear, lass,” was the vague answer. Fenella waved her hand, a bit stiffly. “It...comes to me.”
Emmy sighed. For as much as she was learning—and as improbable and fantastic as it was—she felt as if she were no further ahead.
“Are ye so certain ye wish to leave?”
“Yes,” Emmy said immediately, but something inside her wavered.
The old woman’s lips quirked slightly, as if she knew something Emmy did not.
Emmy’s throat tightened. The flickering fire cast Fenella’s face into strange shadows, the room suddenly too small, too warm.
She needed air. Emmy exhaled, rubbing her fingers over her temples, against the sudden ache there.
“Fantastic,” she muttered. She wanted to pull a full-blown Karen , demand to speak to her manager—a more powerful witch, someone actually competent , who might know how to fix this.
What a joke. The whole thing was a joke. Fenella had spun her some eerie little bedtime story, full of cryptic nonsense and ominous warnings, but none of it helped her in the slightest. What did she even do besides sit in this cramped, smoke-filled hut and talk in circles?
Emmy was suddenly sure that the old woman was blowing smoke up her ass. Maybe she was just a clever, superstitious hermit, a fraud who thrived off rumors and made a living off spooked villagers who came seeking answers. Maybe there was no such thing as real magic. Maybe Emmy had hit her head harder than she thought, and the simplest explanation was that she’d just—what? Accidentally time-traveled?
God, she needed to get out of here.
Emmy turned toward the door, exhaling roughly. “Well, thanks for nothing.”
She made it two steps before she felt it—eyes not only watching her but...touching her. Emmy turned sharply, almost as if she expected to find the old fraud right behind her, about to attack.
But no, she was still sitting in the little chair, though her sharp-eyed gaze was fixed intently on Emmy.
Emmy sensed an air of expectancy, like a hand held out and waiting.
Fenella’s gaze had dipped, subtly but unmistakably, to Emmy’s hand.
“What?” Emmy snapped, glancing down at her fingers.
The ring.
The small silver band, simple but elegant, with its delicate Celtic knotwork. The one her Scottish grandmother had given her for her sixteenth birthday. The one she’d worn ever since.
Emmy clenched her fist protectively. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Fenella just tilted her head, patient as ever.
Seriously? Payment? For that useless excuse of a prophecy?
“You want this ?” Emmy demanded, holding up her hand, the ring glinting in the dim light. “For what? Telling me I’m screwed?”
Fenella’s expression didn’t waver.
Emmy groaned. She had no coin, no possessions, nothing else to trade. And while she hated the idea of giving anything of sentimental value to this smug, cryptic old woman, she also didn’t feel like the idea of testing whatever ancient rulebook of witchcraft or fortune-telling this fell under.
Grinding her teeth, she pulled the ring from her finger. It felt wrong—like parting with a piece of herself, with a thread that tied her to home, to who she was. But what choice did she have? With an irritated flick of her wrist, she tossed the ring onto the nearest table. It landed with a quiet clink , spinning once before settling.
“There,” she said, folding her arms. “Happy?”
Fenella gave Emmy a single, slow nod. “Safe travels, lass.”
Emmy made a strangled noise of frustration and spun on her heel, storming toward the door, not even bothering to close it behind her. The witch had opened it seemingly without touching it; she could damn well close it herself.
The whole thing had been a bust. A waste of time. She was no closer to answers than when she’d arrived, and now she was down a perfectly good ring.
Perfect. Just perfect .
Emmy stormed away, boots crunching through the half-frozen ground with each irritated step. The scent of burning peat clung to her clothes, the cold biting at her cheeks as she put as much distance between herself and Fenella’s hovel as possible.
She barely noticed the darkening sky at first, too consumed by frustration. Stupid, cryptic old woman. Stupid, pointless conversation. Stupid, ridiculous magic.
But after a good twenty yards, something made her hesitate. A prickle of unease crawled up her spine, urging her to stop.
It was too dark.
Much too dark.
Emmy turned in a slow circle, scanning the landscape.
That wasn’t right.
She'd have sworn she wasn't inside the witch's hovel for more than thirty minutes. She should have had plenty of daylight to see her back to Dunmara. Had she lost track of time? Had that annoying witch played with time?
Emmy glanced back toward the small, squat hut, at the line of light glowing at the bottom of the door. She had half a mind to march back and demand to know what kind of trick Fenella had pulled.
But another glance at the deepening twilight told her she didn’t have time for that.
She needed to get back— now .
Jaw tightening, Emmy turned on her heel and picked up her pace, using the same tracks that had brought her here.