Chapter Thirty-One
Joey
"I know exactly where we should go," I tell Rachel. "Let's return to the place where I got sucked into a tornado and then tossed into the moat. You saved me then. The moat is where our origin story begins, and it would be fitting for the next chapter to start there too."
"But the moat does not exist in this time period."
"The location where it used to be is still there, though. The gates no longer exist, but the area where the moat was filled is right outside the castle walls."
She grasps my hand. "Aye, that's true. Let's walk to the spot where the moat would have been and see what happens."
As we make our way across the courtyard and through the gateway that has no gates anymore, I can't help but notice how different everything looks in this time. Where imposing gates once stood, and a drawbridge used to access a murky moat, all that's left now is open land with scattered wildflowers dancing in the Highland breeze and a modern gravel driveway. The castle behind us seems smaller somehow, less formidable than the fortress I'd tumbled into when I first arrived in the seventeenth century.
Rachel threads fingers with mine, her touch a welcome warmth compared to the cool Scottish air. Her golden-brown hair catches the late afternoon sunlight, and for a moment, I'm distracted by how it frames her face.
She nudges my shoulder. "Joey, are ye even listening to me?"
"Sorry. It's just...weird being here but not here , you know?"
"Aye, time has a way of playing tricks on the mind." Rachel releases a wistful sigh, observing the landscape with almost reverent curiosity. "For me, this is all new history. But for you, it's where your adventure began."
We stop at roughly the spot where I'd once splashed down and nearly drowned. Now it's just a gentle depression on the earth, dotted with heather and wild grasses. The sun casts long shadows across the ground, painting everything in amber and gold.
"Do ye feel anything?" Rachel asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Tingling, mayhap?"
I close my eyes, trying to sense anything that might indicate the presence of magic. "Nothing yet. Maybe we need to---"
A powerful wind erupts around us, making it hard to speak. The wind seems unusually warm for the Highlands. Rachel's clutches my hand as the air shimmers, distorting the landscape around us like heat waves rising from summer pavement.
"Joey!" Rachel shouts over the sudden howl of wind. "I feel the magic stirring!"
The ground beneath our feet trembles, and I swear I can hear water---the phantom splash of a moat that hasn't existed for centuries. My skin prickles with goosebumps despite the unnatural warmth swirling around us. The sensation is familiar, reminiscent of that first disorienting plunge through time.
"Is this supposed to happen?" I yell, but my voice sounds distant even to my own ears.
Rachel flaps her head, clearly confused.
Without warning, my vision goes black, and I can't hear any of the normal sounds of nature. Not birds. Not even the distant chatter of tourists. What the hell? I reach for Rachel's hand but feel only a cold stillness. I start to shiver, but it isn't entirely from the freaky emptiness. Being alone, it evokes memories of my childhood, of the foster moms who only wanted me for the money the state would provide.
No, no, I won't go back there. I'm not the boy anymore.
Then I hear Rachel's voice, faint but unmistakable, calling my name through the darkness. "Joey! Joey, hold fast!"
And the fear vanishes. Because of her. Rachel is my anchor.
The world snaps back into focus with dizzying speed. I need a minute to reorient myself. We're still in the twenty-first century. An airliner soaring high above us proves that.
"Hot damn," I blurt out, grinning at Rachel. "We did it. Or rather, magics did something to us."
Then I finally realize where we are. "We're standing on Bow Bridge in Central Park. That's New York City, Rachel."
She stares at me, eyes wide. "You've come home again?"
"Yeah. But I never really had a home until I met you."
Rachel kisses my cheek. "Yer a MacTaggart now, Joey. We are your family."
My throat feels tight, and my eyes burn. I've rarely ever gotten this emotional about anything. But I can't help it now. My unwanted journey into the past has given me a home, a family, and a woman I love with all my heart.
I cough into my fist. "We, uh, should search for the book. It must be somewhere in the vicinity of Central Park. Why else would your magics drop us here?"
"Aye, that makes sense. The ancient magics wouldnae bring us here without purpose."
Rache surveys the sprawling green expanse of Central Park, noting the joggers, tourists, and street performers with undisguised wonder. For someone from seventeenth-century Scotland, she's adapting amazingly well. I can only imagine what's racing through her mind.
"So many people," she says, her voice hushed. "And such strange garments they wear. The clothing reminds me of your attire when you arrived at Dùndubhan."
I give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Just stick close to me. Your outfit might turn a few heads, but this is New York. People have seen weirder."
A rollerblader dressed as Darth Vader glides past us, complete with a portable speaker blasting the Imperial March. Rachel jumps back, her free hand instinctively reaching for the dirk that isn't there. She'd left it back in the medieval era.
"Just a costume," I explain quickly.
Rachel lowers her hand, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "Of course. I should have realized."
As we start walking along the winding paths of Central Park, Rachel's wide-eyed wonder gives me a new perspective on the familiar landscape. Every fountain, every statue, every hot dog vendor becomes a marvel through her eyes.
"This place," she whispers, "it has a pulse of its own. I swear I can feel the city's heartbeat."
I sling an arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer, and peck a kiss on her forehead. I understand exactly what she means. New York has always had that effect, even on a jaded jerk like me.
"So, the book," I say, trying to focus on the task we came here to accomplish. "Any witchy feelings about where we should look?"
Rachel closes her eyes momentarily, her brow furrowing in concentration. The wind picks up around us, tugging at her hair, almost as if it's responding to her silent inquiry.
"There," she announces, pointing toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art that looms at the edge of the park. "I feel it calling to us. The book is nearby, Joey."
"At the museum?" I squint at the massive stone building. "That makes sense, I guess. Lots of old stuff in there, dating back much further than the seventeenth century."
Rachel tilts her head, studying the grand entrance, its columns and steps crowded with tourists. "What manner of castle is that?"
"It's a museum---a place where they keep important artifacts and art from throughout history," I explain as we approach the imposing steps. "If your book ended up somewhere in this era, a museum would be a logical place to find it."
Rachel begins to shuffle her feet as we near the entrance, her head tilted back to study the structure, her eyes wide with both wonder and a hint of wariness. "These artifacts...they're kept behind glass, aye? Like precious jewels?"
"Exactly. But getting to anything in their collection that's not on display might be tricky." I knife a hand through my hair, mentally cataloging all the security measures we'd need to bypass. A cold realization washes over me. "I don't have my wallet. Or ID. Or money."
The cutest little dimple of confusion forms above her nose. "What is 'ID'?"
"Identification. In the twenty-first century, everybody needs to have some way of proving who they are. Driver's licenses are a common type of ID."
"I see." Rachel gives me a curious look, tipping her head slightly. "I understand money, but what need have we for coin? Can ye not simply explain our purpose in visiting this mew-zee-um?"
I can't help but laugh. "Things work differently here, Rachel. We can't just walk in and ask to see their ancient magical artifacts. Actually..." I pause, considering the problem. "Maybe that's exactly what we do. The direct approach."
Rachel grins. "Aye! The truth, or some version of it."
"Some very edited version," I agree, guiding her up the steps toward the museum entrance. "Follow my lead."
The massive entrance hall of the Met swallows us like a giant marble monster. Myriad voices echo in the hollow space. Rachel gasps beside me, her fingers tightening around mine as she takes in the soaring ceilings and imposing statues.
"Och, 'tis like a cathedral," she whispers.
I spot an information desk and make a beeline for it, Rachel trailing behind me with her eyes darting everywhere. The middle-aged woman behind the counter gives Rachel's medieval Scottish attire an appraising look.
"Shakespeare in the Park," I explain. "My fiancée is playing Cordelia in King Lear ."
The woman lifts her brows briefly, then offers us a practiced smile. "Welcome to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. How can I help you today?"
I clear my throat, channeling the confident persona I'd perfected during my years of talking my way into places where I didn't belong. "I'm a professor at Edinburgh University, working on a project about Scottish artifacts in American collections. My fiancée is tagging along to help me. We're particularly interested in examining any medieval Scottish texts you might have, especially those related to Highland clans."
Rachel stands tall beside me, her posture shifting subtly into something more regal. "Aye. We're especially focused on clan histories from the Highlands, particularly texts that might contain...unusual illustrations or symbols."
The woman types something into her computer. "Most of our Scottish medieval manuscripts are in the European Collections. Some are on display in Gallery 304, but many are in our archives." She peers at us over her reading glasses. "Do you have an appointment with our curator?"
"Not yet," I say smoothly. "We just arrived in the city and wanted to see what was on public display before requesting a more formal consultation."
"I see." She hands us a museum map, circling an area with her pen. "The medieval European galleries are this way. If you'd like to arrange a viewing of the archived materials, you'll need to speak with Dr. Winters. His office is on the third floor, but he typically requires academic credentials and advance notice."
Fuck . Credentials? I'm not that good a thief. Snatching a necklace---no problem. Forging diplomas? That's way beyond my wheelhouse.
"Thank you kindly," Rachel says, her Scottish accent drawing an appreciative smile from the woman.
As we walk away, Rachel whispers, "What are these academic credentials?"
"Letters that say I'm a real professor," I mutter, steering her toward the medieval exhibits. "Which I'm definitely not. I dropped out of college after one semester."
Rachel's brow furrows. "But you speak with such authority. Surely that counts for something."
A laugh snorts out of me. "In my line of work--- former line of work---sounding like you know what you're talking about is half the battle. But these museum types need paper proof."
We wander into a gallery that's filled with glass cases containing ancient manuscripts, armor, and ornate weapons. Rachel gasps, her fingers clenching around mine as she recognizes pieces similar to those she'd grown up seeing.
"Joey," she whispers, pressing her face close to a display containing a worn leather-bound book. "Look at this. The patterns along the binding---they're like the ones in my father's study."
I lean in, studying the intricate knotwork patterns etched into the leather. They do bear a striking resemblance to the designs I'd seen in Rachel's family castle.
"You're right, Rachel." I squint so I can read the small descriptive plaque. "Purported Scottish witchcraft manual, circa 1400s, acquired from the estate of Lord Loughty in 1932. Believed to contain herbal remedies and folklore from the western Highlands."
Rachel's breath catches. "Lord Loughty? That canna be a coincidence. Clan Loughty were bitter enemies of the MacTaggarts for generations until finally made peace. But the last Lord Loughty died in the nineteen forties with no children to carry on the line."
"But this Loughty guy might have stolen your family's book?" I keep my voice low as a security guard passes by.
"Or one very like it." Rachel presses closer to the glass, her fingers hovering just above the surface. "I can feel something...a faint pulse of energy."
The display case seems to shimmer, visible only to my eyes and Rachel's. A soft golden glow emanates from between the pages of the ancient tome, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"It's calling to you, isn't it?" I position myself to block the security camera's view of Rachel's hand. "Can you tell if it's the right one?"
Rachel closes her eyes, her fingers splayed just above the glass. "Aye, this is the one. I feel it in my bones, in my soul. This book belongs to the MacTaggarts. We must reclaim it."
"Okay then, that's what we'll do." I press my lips to her ear, whispering too softly for anyone to hear. "I'm going to steal the book tonight."