walking down the steps to the sand and across it to the spot. The sand sizzled. It smelled sweet and pungent and weird, like otherworldly.
Zach tapped the sand, where they had been standing. It was hard. He knocked it. The sand was hard for a ways, Iike the sand had turned to glass. Zach said, “Fucking A, that was terrifying.”
“Did they survive it?”
He said, “I don’t know.” We both looked up at the house. Lady Mairead was there on the boardwalk, her eyes on the sky.
“She made it though. If she can, they had to, right?”
Zach said, “Yeah, of course, but my fucking skin is crawling, that’s not good.”
That anxious feeling wouldn’t go away. We paced. We ordered in dinner. Hammond guarded the house. Lady Mairead retired to the guest room. We paced some more. The kids were little monsters: Zoe was colicky. Isla was clingy and frightened. Archie and Ben were put to bed earlier than usual, or we were all going to freak out.
I said, “What is happening? I can’t relax. Are they okay?” It was this constant skin-crawling sensation on the back of my neck.
But nobody could answer.
Eighty-two - Hayley
Lady Mairead was quiet at breakfast. Emma asked if she was anxious too, she replied, “Aye, Madame Emma, I have felt it since I tried the use the machine myself.”
The feeling lasted all day, while pacing and waiting and worrying and barely talking. Lady Mairead used the guest bathroom to change into a dress she had brought for wearing into the sixteenth century. She gazed out the sliding glass door, hands clasped in front of her, looking a great deal like a renaissance-style painting, Portrait of a Lady, or something.
She ignored the children, except for the occasional wistful look at Isla. She had a packed bag and Hammond had a larger gear bag on the back deck waiting for her.
Then there was a storm, a big one, Zach and I rushed out to meet it, and there on the sand dunes in front of the house, sprawled, Fraoch and Quentin. Quentin had a full beard, Fraoch’s was even longer. They were both filthy, smelly.
Zach said, “God, they look like they’ve been rode hard and put away wet.”
“Fraoch? Fraoch, wake up.”
Lady Mairead stood on the boardwalk above us. “Wake them up, I need tae ken how far they went.”
I said, “I know, sheesh.” I rolled my eyes at Zach.
“Fraoch wake up. Quentin, come on, time to get up.”
Slowly they began to move and shift and struggle to wake up.
Quentin opened his eyes first. Zach asked, “How far did you go?”
He moaned, “Far enough.”
“She can jump to get them?”
He nodded.
Lady Mairead said, “Hayley, this is for ye.” She over the rail with something small in her hand, a small piece of paper, I reached up for it. She said, “Tell him I said thank ye. I left a gift for Quentin with Beaty.”
She walked, head held high down the boardwalk to the beach, and a few moments later the storm, wrought from her leaving, rose. I covered Fraoch’s unconscious face to keep the whipping sand from stinging and settling there.
“Och. I am home?” His eyes were closed.
“Yes, Quentin’s here. Lady Mairead left to go get them.”
“Good.”
He groaned and patted his arms. “Dost I hae all m’parts?”
“It looks like it, though you, sir, need a bath.” I held his hand. “How long did it take you?”
“We were gone for forty-three days, Black Mac did the countin’ though I begged him tae stop.”
Quentin groaned and struggled to sitting. Beaty was sitting beside him. She kissed his fingers. “Quenny was it verra terrible?”
“Aye,” he said, “twas.”
“Ye were gone so long ye sound like a Scottish man.”
Quentin said, “I was gone so long I smell like a caveman.”
Fraoch said, “Aye, m’bhean ghlan has changed me, I am wantin’ a proper meal, but I want a shower afore my proper meal.”
I laughed.
His eyes were open, his color coming back. He lumbered up to sitting. I asked, “By proper meal you mean...?”
He grinned. “A meat sandwich and the potato sticks from the new world, but with a whisky, because I am still Scottish.”
In the bathroom, while he was taking off his disgusting clothes for a shower, I showed him the piece of paper. He glanced at it and asked, “Can ye read it tae me?” He dropped his kilt to the floor.
“It only has a name, it says, Jeanne A. Smith, born 2359.”