"The salt marsh ." James's eyes were kind as they studied her. "Your cheeks bear the kiss of the sea." He touched his fingers to her chilled face. "Her breath is brisk, and it's rare the lass who appreciates it."
His attentions unsettled her. He was so… vivid. His actions so specific, so focused on her. Looking away quickly, Magda replied, "I… yes, it's lovely."
She felt his smile at her back, but doggedly stared out the window rather than once again face that frank gaze.
"You don't seem to recognize where we are," he said solemnly. "Is it that you're newly arrived to Montrose town?"
She huddled closer to the window, pretending his question didn't exist, willing the chill wind to stop the tears that threatened to fall.
"You can place your trust in me, hen." Magda felt his h and warm on her wind-whipped shoulder. "You truly don't know this place? Don't know where you are?"
Magda merely sat in silence, willing her situation back to normal. It's time. Wake up.
Speaking over the rattle and creak of the carriage, James graciously changed the subject, pointing out the town of
Montrose growing visible in the far distance.
"Well, then, I shall tell you of it. You have before you my favorite burgh in all Scotland. And a fortuitous thing too." James edged close to the window and scanned the horizon. A thick cloud of geese swept across the sky, while a lone carrion crow hopped and jerked its head, pecking for mussels hidden in the rocks along the shore. "For I am its marquis."
Magda squinted beyond the stark panorama of brown and gray and into the distance. As the vista gradually resolved more clearly into Montrose town, her nerves nagged at her with greater intensity. I couldn't really have gone back in time, could I? Panic barreled back to the surface, blotting out the tired desolation that had suffused her just a moment ago.
Of course not. Wake up now.
She could just make out the rangy line of mismatched buildings that sprang up between the bleak marsh on one side and the frigid water of the North Sea on the other. A seascape was in the realm of the familiar, but these scant buildings were not.
The past? Alarm hummed along her body like a plucked violin string, dizzying her.
She heard James continue, unaware of her swelling hysteria, "Montrose offers an abundance of gentlemen's pursuits. Golf, fishing…" He looked at Magda and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. his touch jarring her already piqued senses. "Aye, gentlemen's pursuits abound," he sighed, "yet mostly what I do is return the Lowland cattle our mischievous Highlanders insist on reiving."
He mistook the bewilderment in her eyes for a question, and added, "You see, Graham family lands form a bit of a wedge between the Highlands and the Low. Highlanders yearn to put themselves in harm's way, and when skirmishes are scarce, such thieving in the night is a bit of a sport for them. And can be a rite of passage, for the younger lads. Though I'd wager they prefer claymores to cattle, generally speaking."
Dozens of cottages slowly came into view, low-slung and hugging the shore as if bracing against the wind off the sea. The number and variety of boats bobbing idly near the gray stone pier proclaimed Montrose a vibrant fishing community. Several roads spoked out from the harbor and connected further up in a winding, haphazard maze.
Just a very old town.
Two - and three-story buildings huddled over thoroughfares so thin they seemed perpetually cast in shadow, and yet Montrose didn't appear forbidding. Rather, the preponderance of red tiled roofs and buildings painted the color of yellowed linen made for a cheery backdrop, despite the close quarters.
Not the past. Just a dream. A vivid dream.
James had said his physician was off of High Street. As they traveled there, ambling down a path that grew more claustrophobic with every turn, Magda fought the sensation that, like Alice, she'd fallen down her own rabbit hole.
"Pray, what is this material?" James asked, leaning toward her intently. The warmth of his leg along hers jolted her attention to him like an electric shock.
When she'd been alone in his room, Magda had been able to deny what was happening to her. The simple luxuries of his home were recognizable enough, and what had transpired was so surreal, it had been easiest to let the experience happen to her, to watch from outside he rself, all the while waiting patiently to awaken from her dream.
But now that they'd left his home's luxurious confines and traveled beyond the serene landscape, nuances plucked from a history book overwhelmed her. Horse -drawn carts clattering along side streets; the thick brogue chants of fishwives hawking their glassy-eyed wares from mucky street corners; and the occasional person leaning out a window for a shout and a quick smile, showcasing vaguely soiled clothing and a number of brown jagged teeth.
Like a seventeenth-century town.
She craned her neck out the window, ignoring the frank stares she'd provoked. No cars. No cell phones. Not even a damned bicycle. Instead, Magda was assailed by foreign images, sounds, and such a stink. The astringent reek of old fish mingled with the sweet smell of refuse, turning her stomach.
"This red material, hen?" James prompted her, gently drawing her back in. He held the lighter in his palm. "What?" She took it from him. Her growing panic made Magda impatient, and without thinking, she flicked the wheel. "Plastic," she told him testily.
How could he not know that? If I dreamt him up, wouldn't he somehow know that?
James gasped at the tiny blue and yellow flame. "What magic is this?" he whispered.
He wouldn't know that if he were from the past, a small voice nagged.