An understanding smile bursts onto her face. “I’ll wager you’re off to the games.”
I follow her gaze. ANNUAL STRATHBRIDE HIGHLAND GATHERING. The headline clicks, and I remember the TV commercials, promising dancing, feasting, caber tossing. It feels like a lifetime ago. But here, that was only yesterday.
Barely any time has passed.
Terror shreds through my chest like a physical thing. If time maps that differently, how soon will I run out?
The woman is chattering, jokingly fluffing her hair. “They say Ewan McGregor may show, and I’m dreaming he’ll?—”
“Who?” My eyes snap to her, the nameMacGregoraspike of adrenaline.
But she only laughs. “The actor. Have you been living under a rock?”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Something like that.” I feel so disconnected. This is not where I belong. “I need…I need to go.”
First, I’ll go to the graveyard. Maybe there’s a way to find that cottage again, and Callum will open the door like the first time, safe and sound, as though none of this had ever happened.
Except when I left, he wasn’t safe. He wasn’t sound.
I blurt, “Is there a bus?” But now she’s eyeing me with vague alarm, so I quickly add, “I got separated from my family. They’re near the inn. That Merry Widow one, by Loch Lomond.”
Her expression relaxes. “That’s nae so verra far. Postman will give you a lift.” She nods to the door. “You can wait for him on the bench out there. Should be by within the hour.”
I bolt outside, and shield my eyes. It’s sunny. How can it be sunny? It feels so wrong. More proof this isn’t my Scotland. That I don’t belong here, or now.
Posters litter the outside of the building. Faded hiking maps with highlighted trails. Ads for boat tours. Endless brochures with promises ofWhisky Tastings Nightly…The Real MacBeth Experience…The Original Nessie Encounter.
With a large wooden sign atop them all: WELCOME TO LOCH LONG.
I traveled through time but landed in the same place.
I stumble onto the gravel drive to look at the road beyond. Vehicles speed by with a clamor and stench that disturbs me. A goofy, European-sounding horn pulls me from my thoughts. A van is idling beside me. It’s big and boxy, driven by a middle-aged man whose cheeks match the flame-red paint job.
“Need a ride?” he asks.
“Are you the postman?”
He wordlessly hitches a thumb toward the back of the vehicle, where tall, yellow letters proclaim, ROYAL MAIL.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Can I have a ride?”
He’s looking at me like I’m unhinged. And, who knows, maybe I am. For once in my life, that’s the least of my worries.
“I’m waiting, amn’t I?”
I clamber in, and as he shifts into gear, I catch him cutting quick glances at me. At my ragged clothes. My matted hair and filthy nails.
“Where’re you headed?” His voice is a mix of compassion and suspicion. I’m sure he assumes I’m either dangerous or deranged.
And really, I couldn’t care less. It’s so freeing, this feeling. I’ve spent the past nineteen years obsessed with people’s impressions of me. How I act. How my mother’s actions reflect on me. But no more.
“The castle.” Really, the graveyard is my goal. But the postman already thinks I’m a loon, and I do have some pride.
“Which castle?” The large steering wheel spins in his hands as he turns onto the main road.
“The Campbell castle. By Loch Lomond.”
“You mean the old ruins?” He cuts me a longer look this time, and I wish he’d just keep his eyes on the road. This van feels incredibly, perilously fast considering I’ve been traveling by foot for months now.
