Callum bows and backs away.
And in that moment—more than the castle, the horses, the swords, the stench—Callum’s silent obedience makes this real.
I am in a place, in a time, impossibly far from my own.
Chapter
Twelve
Callum limps silently beside me. He just took a beating.
For me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper hoarsely. “So, so sorry.”
“Dinnae fash yourself,” he says flatly.
That’s it. That’s his only reply.
“I really am so sorry…”
I don’t know how else to apologize. How do you thank someone for taking a beating for you?
There must be something more to say, but I’m barely keeping it together. My life has been torn so far beyond control or reason, that I have to grit my teeth with each step just to keep from unraveling.
As we walk, I scour the surroundings, desperate to consume every detail, to make sense of it. But my mind refuses to accept what I already know: not just where I am, but when.
“How is this possible?” I mutter. “People don’t just getsucked into the past. If they did, we’d know it. Everyone would know. Right?” I scrub a tear from my cheek. “I mean, people would be going back and forth all the time. That kind of thing would be impossible to keep secret. Which means”—my breath catches—“maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I’m actually asleep in my bed, dreaming this. Or I’m in a coma. Maybe I never even left New York.”
A woman appears on the path ahead, leading a scraggly pony. Instead of a saddle, two baskets are slung over the animal’s sides. One is filled with kindling. The other holds a snotty, filthy, screaming toddler. He’s gnawing on something that looks disturbingly like a strip of rawhide.
I watch him and suddenly give into the truth. I doubt my brain could’ve conjuredthat.
I limp to catch up with Callum, my bare feet stinging with every step. “This is real, isn’t it? This is really happening.” I shade my eyes and scan the horizon. It seems so obvious now. There’s not a car or plane in sight.
But it’s more than that.
There’s an essential silence here, broken only by natural sounds. The rustling of trees. Sporadic birdsong. The fading cries of that kid. And the shuffle of Callum’s weathered leather boots.
I stop short.
“Here I am. I’m here. 1622. How did this happen?” I cast a wild look at Callum. “Is it me? This happened when I walked through your door. What if I walk through another door and end up with Vikings? Or dinosaurs?”
A mad giggle bursts from me, and this time, I can’t stop it. My shoulders shake as laughter turns into a sob and back again.
“Hush, hush.” He gives my shoulder an awkward pat, clearly unsure what to do or how to touch me, which only makes me feel more alone.
“Please, lass. Dinnae fash yourself so. ’Tisn’t only you. Others have traveled the low road. And you’ll not be swept away by accident. ’Twas on account of Donag’s summoning curse.”
The low road.
I think of my mother. Of her song.
The realization shifts something inside me, casting her in an entirely new light.
Who is Janet, really?
“The low road,” I repeat. “My mother had a song about it. She called itthe road the ghosties travel.” My throat clenches as I confirm, “But I’m not a ghost?”
