Forget this castle. Forget Donag.
I had dreamed of travel. Never again. I’m done.
Shutting down my brain, I begin to backtrack, orienting myself by the loch on my left. Which means the road should be?—
Theroad.Where is it?
There’s a barn where the road should be.
Tears burn my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I am seriously, seriously lost.
I keep moving, one foot in front of the other, forcing my breath to steady. Minutes pass, maybe more, before I lift my head, scanning the landscape, searching for something, anything, familiar.
Then—there.
The inn, distant, blurred by drizzle. Relief floods me so entirely, my knees nearly buckle.
But something is off. I squint through the rain. The shape of the building is right, but everything else is different. The colors, the windows, the entirefeelof it.
The parking lot is empty. No cars. Instead, a few shaggy ponies are tied up, grazing. A laugh slips out—half panic, halfare you kidding me?This has to be part of the Games. A historical reenactment.
It has to be.
A few men are gathered outside the paddock. Thank God. They can point me in the right direction. This has gotten so surreal, it’ll be good to hear another voice besides the one in my head.
I head toward them. “Sorry to bother you, but I think I’m lost.”
As I get closer, a sickly stench hits me. Sweat, damp wool, sour breath. Their clothes are strange. Not just old-fashioned, they’re filthy. Rough-spun tunics, mud-streaked breeches. One of them carries a long rifle across his back.
Not a modern gun. Something old. Something that belongs in a museum.
A shiver crawls up my spine. I push forward. I need help.
I force a polite smile. “Are you part of the Games?”
The man with the rifle narrows his eyes and says something—a thick, garbled string of words I don’t understand.
Not an accent. Gaelic. But fuzzier. Slurrier than what Janet taught me.
For a beat, no one speaks. The air stretches tight.
Then—laughter.
My smile falters. “I…” I try again. “Do you speak English?”
Another man, shorter and stockier, steps forward. His expression sharpens. He shouts something.
I flinch. The words are meaningless, but the aggressive tone isn’t. They’re glaring at me like I’m something foreign. Strange.
Something that doesn’t belong.
The rifle man’s gaze sweeps down my body, lingering on my bare feet. My wet, clinging dress. He smirks, mutters something low and taunting.
A chill locks my bones in place.
Run.
But my legs won’t move.
