Oliver closed his eyes briefly, then faced his doom. “Why not?”
“Because she began to remember things from her future all on her own.”
Oliver was torn between looking for a corner to use for the appropriate tear-filled activity and throwing his arms around Zachary and bawling all overhim.
“Do you think so?” he asked.
Zachary only shrugged helplessly. “I haven’t grilled her over it at Christmas, so I can’t tell you specifics, but it’s what I’ve heard. And I guess in the end maybe it wouldn’t have mattered what she remembered or forgot. They’re disgustingly happy together and I have to watch that up close when they’re over here visiting.” He shuddered. “It’s really gross.”
“So says the man who looks like he’s been clobbered by a cricket batt every time his wife walks into the room.”
Zachary laughed a little. “I’m still in a state of shock that she agreed to marry me, so that’s probably true.”
Oliver walked on, shaking his head at his companion’s good fortune, then mulled for a bit the things he’d heard.
The first was, a successful rescue was possible. He had his own reason for believing that given that he’d managed to save Mairead at least from that initial bit of foul play in front of her home. That success was absolutely repeatable with the right plan.
The second thing that encouraged him was the idea that Mairead could have someone—possibly even him—write down her memories. Any delay in trying another trip to the past made him anxious, but the tradeoff could be worth it if she were willing.
But the third item of note…
He looked at Zachary. “So, what you’re saying,” he began slowly, “is that she remembered her own future.”
“The one she lived as a ghost?” Zachary asked, then he nodded. “As improbable as that sounds, yes.”
“Not improbable,” Oliver said. “Completely daft.”
“’There are more things in heaven and earth,’” Zachary said with a smile.
“Said by an utter madman,” Oliver said promptly.
“Or the only one who was sane in a cast of characters caught up in a different sort of murderous madness.”
Oliver blew out his breath. “Tell me again why I agreed to talk to you?”
Zachary smiled. “You’re welcome.” He nodded back toward the hall. “Let’s go back in through the kitchen. I know where Patrick keeps all his best snacks.”
Oliver thought it wise not to pass up that opportunity, so he fetched his sword then followed Zachary around the back of the castle, forcing himself to set aside concerns and warning bells and everything else that was clamoring for his attention.
That was difficult given the sense of urgency he couldn’t quite explain, one not unlike what he’d felt when he’d watched Mairead walk through the faery ring to a keep being inflamed by a madman. He would have preferred to have given her time to write down her memories, but he feared there was no time for it.
Perhaps they could simply make new ones to replace the others.
As for the business at hand, at least he wouldn’t make the mistake of his first attempt, that of relying only on his ability to adapt himself to the exigency of the moment on a moment’s notice. He now knew what to expect, he had a fair idea of the number of men he would face, and he had the advantage of having tried at least one method that hadn’t worked.
He would go and he would do it that afternoon.
And this time, he wouldn’t fail.
Three hours later, he walked through the twenty-first century forest near Moraig’s house and suspected ceasing to live by everyone else’s rules might not be extreme enough to do what he needed to do.
He’d made it back to the right time, avoided being seen by the men milling about the lower part of the meadow, and hidden himself in an advantageous locale where he watched two incarnations of himself—the original and his first retry—go about their business on their way to complete failure. He’d promised himself a proper assessment of the collective disaster later—perhaps with Zachary Smith, Patrick MacLeod, and a large bottle of something very strong all in the same place—then gone about trying to fix what he’d already made such a great hash of twice before.
He dismissed his unconscious self falling into Moraig’s because just watching that was painful. It was even more shocking to watch his body simply disappear—presumably into the future—but he filed that away as something not to think about without that same bottle of something strong in his hand.
He’d waited until his second self had flung a rock at one of Mairead’s cousins he wasn’t able to name but did recognize, watched that man fall, then listened to the rest of the bloody bastards shriek that Mairead wasn’t just a witch, she was a demon who could fell men around her with nothing more than her presence.
He’d known at that moment that there was no hope of rescuing her and that trying would very likely result in his own death which would most assuredly make impossible any further attempts. He had slipped back into the darkness of the forest and come back to the future, too heartsick to even dredge up a few curses with which to keep himself company.
