Claire followed obediently, supposing now that she’d been found or taken in by a family and was not in a hospital.
Outside, an enclosed courtyard opened wide, fenced by towering walls mottled with moss. A massive gatehouse loomed to the left, its iron-bound doors shut, twin towers hulking above. Several squat buildings lined one side, their roofs thatched and weathered. The smell of hay and horse drifted on the air. The yard itself was hard-packed earth scattered with straw, more realistic than any of the castle sites she and Jason had visited here in Scotland.
“This is...” She turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. “...picturesque. Really well done.” Her laugh came out thin, a little nervous. “We only visited two castles, and honestly they were kind of disappointing. All the modern stuff ruined the vibe—smooth walkways, fire extinguishers and exit signs every twenty feet.” She glanced up at the figures up on the elevated walkways—was one of them wearing a helmet? “But this—this feels authentic. Like, uncomfortably authentic,” she added, thinking of the chamber pot. And then it dawned on her, “Oh, wait. This isn’t a tourist place,” she guessed, following Ivy through a man-size door in the side of the wall. “Like these Kerrs actually still live and work here—it’s a working castle and not a historical site?” And these people eschew every modern convenience?
“You are at a castle,” Ivy said, using both hands to shove the door closed behind them, “but no, this isn’t merely a historical site—and it’s not a reenactment, if that’s what you’re thinking,”Ivy said gently. “It’s more of a... well, as you said, a working castle.”
Ivy continued to walk along a narrow path that flanked the castle wall and opened suddenly to a cliffside view. A body of water stretched out below, a broad sweep of silver-blue water broken by the dark shapes of scattered islands. Sunlight struck the surface in shifting patterns, glinting where the wind raised whitecaps.
Claire’s breath caught. She had always loved the sea, and was momentarily spellbound. The cliff beneath her feet dropped steeply, the slope jagged with dark stone and patches of wiry grass. At its base, the water pressed and surged restlessly, tugged by invisible currents, swirling into froth where it met slick rocks.
For a moment, all her questions slipped away. She only wanted to breathe it in—the sharp taste of salt on the air, the sweep of sky and water that made her feel small and yet so vividly alive.
Beside her, Ivy shaded her eyes, gazing out toward the horizon. “This is the Firth of Lorn, I’ve been told. There’s a path further along,” she added vaguely, nodding to the left. “Takes you down to a beach.”
It took Claire a moment to catch the unexpected part—I’ve been told, Ivy had said. She turned to look at her, their skirts pressed flat against their legs, the fabric tugged and fluttering in the insistent wind.
“You don’t live here?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, um, no. I don’t.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Then...well, you’re American. I can see that much—or hear that much, since you have no accent.”
“I am,” Ivy agreed.
It seemed to Claire that she was holding something back, she was too hesitant in her answers.
“Do you know,” Claire asked next, slowly, drawing out the question, an idea forming in her head, “what happened to me? How I wound up here?”
The question seemed to strike Ivy like a blow, yet one that she’d expected. Her mouth pressed tight, her eyes flickered down and then back up, as though she couldn’t bear to hold Claire’s gaze. Color drained from her face, leaving a look of raw guilt, as if the truth she carried was too heavy to speak aloud.
A bit miffed by this change in Ivy, who seemed to have answers and might have shared them before now, Claire pressed, “Well, do you mind telling me what happened?”
“Yes, of course, but Claire, come away from the edge,” she said, a pleading note in her voice.
She stepped backward and Claire followed, and then Ivy took her hand and drew her beneath a wide-limbed tree, shading them both. “Claire,” she said, earnest, steady again. “There’s something I have to tell you. Something impossible.”
Claire swallowed hard. She wanted to laugh, to demand the punchline. But Ivy’s face wasn’t teasing. It was grave. And then Claire’s breath left her, wondering if she were about to tell her Jason was dead.
Instead, Ivy said, very matter-of-factly. “It’s the end of August. The year is thirteen hundred and five.”
For a heartbeat Claire thought she’d misheard. Then the words landed, heavy and absurd. She waited for more while Ivy stared at her with great expectation, as if she’d delivered the impossible news.
Claire blinked, then barked a short, harsh laugh, hardly amused. “Funny,” she said. “Very funny.”
Ivy shook her head. “I know it sounds—”
“Yes, impossible, you said that,” Claire snapped. Her voice was clipped, edged with panic. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? With everything about this place and the strange people in it?”
“Claire, I wish I was making it up but I’m not,” Ivy said, rushing to console. “I know exactly how it feels to hear that and believe—know in your heart—that it’s not possible.”
“Because it is not.” Claire’s brows knitted. Her throat felt tight. “Why would you say that?”
Ivy’s face twisted with regret. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” she said quickly. “I didn’t want you to find out like I did—unexpectedly, on the back of a horse. I passed out. I couldn’t handle it.”
Claire’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her gray eyes cut sharp as glass. “Seriously. Are you going to tell me how I got here? Do you even know?”
“Yes, I do. And I just did.”
