There was no furniture, no Jock, and no signs of life beyond a crow that cawed loudly at her invasion. It flew out of the window into the night, leaving her waiting for her heart to return to her body from the three feet or so it had leaped toward the ceiling when the bird exploded into the air.
Suddenly she was crying. She wasn’t really sure why. She guessed it was because she knew it was over. There was no chance of seeing Jock again, or getting the chance to investigate some of those medieval recipes she had always wondered about. Why hadn’t she gone to the kitchen when she was back there?
Why did she care about seeing him again anyway?
Look at what he’d done to her last time she was there. He’d tied her to his bed against her wishes and been on the verge of beating her bloody. Would he have killed her?
The question didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. She staggered away from the empty bedroom. He was long dead. The entire clan was long dead.
All that was left was an abandoned castle and her memories. Already they were fading, his face blurring in and out of focus in her head no matter how hard she concentrated. She blamed her headache, it pulsed behind her eyes, making her nauseous. She needed fresh air.
She fought her way back down the stairs to the courtyard leaving the dead room behind. The laird was in his time and she was in hers. She was going to have to get used to the idea so she better start straight away.
He had been about to beat her. She couldn’t trust him. She should forget him, pretend it was all a figment of her imagination, pretend he meant nothing to her. Tell herself that often enough and it might even come true.
She was still crying when she got back to the gatehouse. She heard a noise from behind her and turned to find the custodian holding a lantern, squinting at her in the dark.
“Who’s there?” he asked, taking a step toward her. “You? What are you doing back?”
“Leaving,” she said, turning and heading for her car. There didn’t seem much point talking to him. Sure, she could ask why he had sent her up to an empty bedroom but if she told him what she’d seen up there, he’d either laugh or call the emergency services.
Where would she end up then? Locked up? Injected with all manner of things? Better to keep quiet until she got home.
Tabby.
The thought of her friend reassured her. She could at least talk to her. Tabby would believe her. Tabby would also help her get over Jock MacGregor.
She didn’t start driving until the tears had stopped. She sat behind the wheel, refusing to look at the twinkling lantern light over by the gatehouse. The custodian was watching her. Let him watch. She had nothing to say to him.
She got home a little after three in the morning according to the clock in the car. Parking up, she sat still for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She wanted to go inside and sleep, hope the headache would have faded by the time she woke up.
She almost made it to her bedroom before her feet turned and then she was in Tabby’s room, sitting on the end of her bed. “Tabby,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Daisy?” Tabby said, yawning loudly as she sat up. “I’ve been worried sick about you. What happened? What time is it?”
“Three.”
“A.M? I don’t think I’ve ever seen three in the morning.” She sat up and stretched. “Oh crumbs, look at you. I better put the kettle on.”
A few minutes later they were together under a blanket on the sofa, the radio on low. Tabby had a decaf tea, Daisy gripped her Lapsang Souchong tightly in her hand, not drinking it.
Tabby hadn’t asked her again. The silence was comforting. Having a friend who wasn’t going to laugh at her when she told her story was more comforting.
Finally, Daisy opened her mouth. It all came out in a vomit of words. She told her about going north, about the silver key finding its own way into the door, going with Jock to the party, coming back only for him to tie her to his bed.
“I wouldn’t mind a rugged highlander tying me to a bed sometime,” Tabby said at that point.
Daisy didn’t laugh. “Not with what he was about to do.” She told her about the scourge, how close it came to hitting her, then about using the key again, and finally being back in the now derelict castle, Jock’s bedroom long forgotten.
“He didn’t hit you though, did he?” Tabby asked when she was finally done. Her tea was cold. She put it down, ignoring it in favor of closing her eyes and lying back on the sofa, her head on her friend’s lap. “He could have done but he didn’t.”
“You think that’s what matters? I think I’ve traveled through time and you care most about domestic violence?”
“The point is there wasn’t any violence. He thought you were possessed. You can kind of see why, can’t you?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You turn up out of nowhere and vanish just as quickly. You wear weird clothes and talk about weird things. I’d have thought you were possessed too. Or a witch. Not that I mind witches. That’s not the point. Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry, I’m not being helpful, am I?”
