it to the edge of the woods, and could see the wide white snowy field and the stable, though it was much smaller. Oh no.
The castle wasn’t there. Instead there was a wooden fortress with timber walls, a short tower of stone standing in the middle of it. There was a gate, in the same place as Balloch. Within the walls I could see snow-covered roofs. The whole walled in area was so much smaller.
This was long before I came with Hayley and Quentin and —
Oh my god, I was in the past past past.
I was so far back I would never get home.
No vessel.
No Magnus.
Who even knew where I was?
The wind picked up, howling, spinning snow. The cold hurt my brain, like an icepick through my temple. The snow flurry made it hard to see. I could just die here, right here now, but also — it hurt.
The fortress was unrecognizable except for the small fence on the east side. It was familiar, as if a garden was enclosed there. I figured the kitchen door would be through that garden, and so I flung myself toward it, lurching through the knee-deep snow, the wind biting at my skin. I aimed for that kitchen, so I could beg the women there for help.
I made it to the door which was of course locked tight, and weakly banged on it. “Help me, please, help me!”
I banged again and fell on it sliding down to the muddy ground. “Please! Help me,” I begged. “Please.” It opened and I fell through to the ground with a flurry of snow following me. Exclamations of surprise from the women inside, they dragged me into the room.
Women rushed around, speaking all at once. They moved me toward the fire. One woman rubbed my hands. Because of my ring they knew I was married, but I couldn’t understand enough of the words they were using. But the way they were talking soothed me, another woman wrapped me in a blanket, and I cried — I sobbed for the warmth and for being saved and for how I was alive. A woman helped get my wet tartan unwrapped and she noticed the long drips of milk down my front into my skirt. She said something very like, “Och ye hae lost yer bairn?”
And I sobbed even harder, like my heart would break to pieces. Because yes — lost. Totally lost.
They left me alone, sobbing on a stool by the fire, shivering in fear, sadness, cold. Then a bowl of oatmeal was thrust into my hands and I ate and cried, wiping my nose on my wool blanket. I had to be the most piteous, desolate, lump of a near-dead being. They thought they had saved me, I knew that I was long dead, centuries dead.
I stared into the crackling fire and went blank.
Twenty-nine - Kaitlyn
A woman’s voice I didn’t understand spoke while hovering around me. She washed my face and my neck and my hands of dirt and grime and blood.
I allowed the cleaning with the bare minimum of cooperation, because of deep, overwhelming grief. The woman looked in my ears and had me open my mouth to see my teeth.
My focus was off. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, and my brain was a fog of confusion. They poked and prodded me and then got me up from the stool, and led me from the kitchen. The walls were mud and timber, the roofs thatched. Rooms were built right beside each other, leading from one interior to another. Floors were uneven dirt, and some door frames were so low I had to duck. It was freezing, cold, drafty, and there weren’t the luxurious artifacts of the Earl’s days, like carpets, and tapestries on the walls.
I was led through room after room, until we got to what must have been the nursery.
There were five children near the hearth gathering the only heat, hitting and fussing and carrying on, making a loud racket. A baby wailed in a cradle.
An older woman approached and met with the woman who had washed me. I didn’t understand, and couldn’t concentrate. My chin trembled. I was made to understand that the older woman was Mary. But all the other things were impossible to discern.
A tear slid down my cheek.
Mary gestured for me to open my blanket and show my breasts. I shook my head. Mary spoke sharply to me and then to the other lady and it seemed like they were questioning