I spin, scanning the landscape, desperate for landmarks that make sense. I thought I was on the right trail, but now I don’t know.
I edge closer, rubbing my arms against the sudden chill. There’s something eerily familiar about this place. I map the shape of the structure in my mind. The square frame. The rounded turret.
And the graveyard.
I go rigid. I know this graveyard. I saw it yesterday.
But…that’s impossible.
Yesterday, there had been nothing but crumbling stone and overgrown graves.
Now, the castle is standing.
Whole. Vibrant.
I inhale sharply, forcing logic back into my mind. There are castles everywhere in Scotland. Ruins. Rebuilt ones. This is a different one.
A different graveyard.
I march toward the tombstones, scanning for proof. There’s a stone marker—just like before.
The Burrying Place.
But this one is newer, the carving still sharp and clean. Yesterday’s was caked in centuries of mud and moss.
I step past the iron railing. The graves are familiar. Or maybe they just seem familiar. Because old Scottish tombstones all look the same, right?
I crouch to read the dates. 1593. 1607. 1588. The sameera. But these stones aren’t weathered beyond recognition. Someone tends them. Keeps them clean.
I glance back at the castle. A thin wisp of smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of peat.
Someone lives there. Maybe Campbells who know my mother. Maybe they can direct me.
Or maybe I don’t trust anyone anymore.
I distract myself by reading more gravestones, focusing on the repetition of names and phrases.Here lyeth buried…Departed this lyfe.
Then—
Here lyes Cora
Dere wife, Dere mother
Departed this lyfe 19 February 1619
Her infant rests by her Side
Could there be two like that? Cora isn’t such an unusual name. But the infant thing. That’s so specific. The coincidence feels impossible.
Stop.
I shake my head. This is trauma. Exhaustion. My brain is misfiring. Because this is a different place. It has to be.
Donag growls in my head.
1622.
I grit my teeth, turn around.
