35
FINN
Finn had been at Alys’s cottage for two weeks, and Cecily’s wedding was less than a month away. Every day he lost was a day closer to losing her completely.
He woke before dawn and sat up carefully. His ribs still ached, but they no longer screamed. Today he would walk to the cave. Today he would bring the machine back and begin to repair it.
Alys was already at the fire, stirring the pot that never seemed to empty. The children were still asleep behind the curtain that divided the cottage.
“Ye’re up early,” Alys said without turning.
“I need to fetch something from the woods.”
She glanced at him. “Should ye be wanderin’ about? Ye’re still mendin’.”
“I have to. I’ll be careful.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded and went back to her stirring.
∞∞∞
The walk to the cave taxed his strength. His body was stronger, but his ribs still ached. By the time he reached the hidden entrance, his breath was coming short.
The machine sat where he’d left it, covered with branches. He pulled them away and stared at it. This was their only way out. The machine was Cecily’s only hope to avoid marriage to Julian de Veyron.
He ran his hands over the timing mechanism, checking for damage that might have occurred while he was at Alys’s cottage. The gears were dusty but intact.
“Alright,” he said aloud. “Let’s see if we can fix you.”
He fashioned a crude sled from branches and rope, tied it to the machine’s base, and began dragging. Every pull sent pain lancing through his chest, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
Halfway back, a thin voice called out from behind him.
“What is that thing?”
Finn turned. Wat stood on the path, staring.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was checkin’ the snares.” The boy came closer, eyes wide. “What is that?”
Finn hesitated. “Something I need to repair.”
“Can I help?”
His ribs hurt, and the cottage was a long hike away.
“Alright,” Finn said. “But you don’t touch any of the parts.”
Wat nodded eagerly and took hold of the rope.
Together, they dragged it back to the cottage.
∞∞∞
Alys met them at the door, her gaze fixed on the strange contraption. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was not. “What is that thing, Finn? It looks like trouble.”
“It’s my way home,” he said, deciding on a partial truth. “But it’s broken.”
Her eyes narrowed, filled with a concern that bordered on suspicion. “And what sort of trouble will it bring to my door while ye’re fixing it?”
He couldn’t tell her the truth. But he couldn’t lie to her either, not after everything she’d done for him.
“It’s a device that helps me travel,” he said carefully. “I need to repair it, if you have some tools. It’s dangerous, Alys. No one must touch it but me.”
“And then ye’ll leave?”
“Yes.”
Alys studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Bring it inside. Ye can work by the window, where there’s light. I’ll take the children to help old Angus with the plantin’. Give ye some peace.”
“Thank you.”
She disappeared into the cottage and returned with her late husband’s tool roll. A hammer, a rusted file, a pair of thick smithy’s tongs, a handful of bent nails. It was a poor collection, but it would have to be enough.
“Will these help?”
Finn took them.
“Yes, very much.”
∞∞∞
By midmorning, Alys and the children were gone, and Finn was alone with the machine.
He examined it in the daylight streaming through the window.
The timing mechanism was the fundamental problem, the gears that controlled the jump.
Anton’s work. He set to the task, hands moving with remembered purpose as he muttered about alignments and resistance.
A small file, a slight adjustment, and a wheel clicked into place.
There. Now the distance. Ten years, he thought, the number a silent prayer. Enough to be safe. Enough for Julian to have moved on. Enough for him and Cecily to start over. The hope was so sharp he spoke her name.
Suddenly, the quiet of the cottage felt different. A pressure in the air. Watched. He froze, then moved to the door and looked out. Empty fields, still woods. Then he saw them: fresh footprints in the mud beneath the window. Not his. Not Alys’s. A cold dread seeped into him.
What had he muttered aloud? Had he said her name? He couldn’t be sure. But whoever had been there had seen the machine. That alone might be a death sentence. It was a catastrophic mistake, born of solitude and desperate hope.
He went back inside and closed the shutters. He worked the rest of the morning in silence, his hands steady on the tools, his mind racing. Whoever had been listening knew about the machine. Knew about Cecily. Whatever time he had thought he had to plan, he had less now.
He forced himself to focus. He had to finish the repairs. The final gear clicked into place. Finn tested the mechanism again, turning the wheel slowly. It moved smoothly, all the gears catching in sequence.
That should do it. He sat back. He’d repaired the machine. Or repaired it as best as he could without Anton’s expertise. It would work. It had to.
Now he just had to get to Cecily. He would not—he would never again—test it without her by his side.
∞∞∞
Alys returned with the children in the late afternoon. They burst through the door, muddy and excited.
“Did ye fix it?” Wat asked, eyes on the covered machine.
“Can we see it work?” Emma added.
“It’s dangerous,” Finn said. “No one touches it. Promise me.”
The children nodded solemnly.
Hugh tugged at Finn’s sleeve. “Are ye really leavin’?”
Finn looked at the boy’s upturned face and said nothing for a moment. Then he said, “Yes, soon.”
“But why?” Hugh’s eyes were wide. “Don’t ye like it here?”
“I do. Very much. But I have to go.”
Alys called from the fire. “Come help with supper. Leave Finn be.”
The children retreated reluctantly, casting glances back at both Finn and the machine.
∞∞∞
When evening came, Hugh fell asleep with his head against Finn’s leg. Wat watched Finn the longest, his expression unreadable, before finally turning to his pallet to sleep.
Alys banked the fire, then brought him a bowl of pottage and sat across from him. For a while, neither spoke.
Then Alys said quietly, “Ye’ll be leavin’ soon, then?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, looking at her hands. “The children will be upset. They’ve gotten used to havin’ ye here.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They needed this. A man around, even for a little while. Someone kind.” She paused. “I needed it too.”
Finn set down his bowl. “Alys…”
She held up a hand. “Don’t. I knew what this was. Ye were always leavin’. I just… I hoped maybe…” She stopped, shook her head. “Doesn’t matter now.”
Finn said, “What you did for me. Taking me in. Caring for me when I had nothing to give. I won’t forget it. Not for the rest of my life.”
She looked away then, out the window, at nothing.
“Go to yer woman,” she said. “I know there’s someone. Maybe that noble lady, the yellow-haired one, who came with Lady Isabel.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were moist. “I want ye to be content.”
She stood, touched his shoulder briefly, then went to her bed behind the curtain. Finn watched the curtain fall behind her and sat for a long time without moving.
Tomorrow. He would find a way to Cecily. The rest—the machine, the escape, the impossible future—would have to follow.
Finn lay by the hearth, the fire’s warmth a small comfort against the chill of the unknown. Sleep did not come easily. When it did, it was not Cecily’s face he saw, but the fresh footprints in the mud outside the window.