Page 22 of Darach

He opened the book, which contained page after page of delicately-tinted, finely detailed paintings. Some depicted animals dressed like people; others showed fantastic scenes with young bairns at play. Some smaller sketches had been clipped to some of the pages, and some other glossy images that had to be what Emery had called photographs. One showed Charlotte standing in front of a window filled with books.

“That one, Chieftain.” The sage tapped the photograph. “’Tisnae painted nor drawn, and yet ’tis like a tiny window through which we see the lady in her time. Reckon you ’tis some form of magic?”

“The future holds many wonders that we cannae ken,” Darach told him as he closed the sketchbook and tucked it back in the bag. “Dinnae fear such things. They’re harmless, I promise you.”

“We’re no’ afraid,” another sage said. “We wish to ken more of Mistress Walsh and her bag of wonders.” He leaned close and whispered, “Please ask her speak with us, Chieftain. We’ve so many questions.”

He chuckled and shouldered the bag. “Aye, so you do.”

* * *

Charlotte walked with Emery through the kitchen gardens, admiring the bounty of vegetables, fruits and herbs being grown by the clan’s vassals. The abundance provided a rich spectrum of deep greens, reds and yellows; in this time everything seemed to grow much bigger and brighter than in the future. If she stayed she might be able to make her own paints from the local botanicals.

I’m staying.

As the sun warmed her shoulders and she breathed in the pure, cool air she still found herself watching for any sudden movement around them. She knew the monster in her own future remained at a very safe distance––the Moss Park Butcher wouldn’t even be born for another seven hundred years––and yet she couldn’t shake the sense that someone was still watching her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Emery said. “Which are currently made of silver, by the way, and worth about five hundred bucks each in our time.”

The laird’s wife had been unrelentingly friendly, and seemed sincere about wanting to help her adjust to life at Dun Lasair. She was probably also lonely, and happy to have someone to talk to who understood everything she said. That thought made Charlotte wonder how Emery had grown so at home in such a primitive era, surrounded by people who had no idea what her life had been like in the twenty-first century.

“How long did it take you to get used to all this?” she asked.

Emery smiled. “All this as in living in the Middle Ages, or being dragged through time to save the clan when you don’t have a clue how to do that?”

The way the petite scientist put things made Charlotte wish she could laugh, but the killer had taken that from her, too. “Ah, both.”

“I assimilated pretty fast, but I studied this time period for years before the Fire sword grabbed me,” the other woman admitted. “Medieval Scottish highlanders were also integral to my thesis, so I was plenty prepped for them and their way of life. You’re still not a hundred percent sure this is happening, right? Don’t worry about that. I was the same way for the first week or so.”

Charlotte stopped in front of a bed of vibrant crimson flowers. “I illustrate fairytales, so magic isn’t entirely unfamiliar. It always seemed a bit like religion to me. Unfortunately I’m not a believer––or, at least, I wasn’t.”

“Starting to acquire some faith, huh?” Emery wrinkled her nose. “I struggled most with embracing what is completely outside all science and logic, but actually living through this experience has a way of convincing your skeptical side. You’ll definitely get what I mean as you experience more Middle Ages perks, like the joy of the privy.”

“I discovered that perk this morning.” She stopped and stooped down to watch a fat bumblebee alight on a broad red petal. “Why do you think the sword chose me? Other than very general skills I don’t have any practical or useful knowledge. I doubt I can save the clan by painting something. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It won’t, and then suddenly out of the blue it will,” Emery told her. “You came here because you can do something no one else can––that’s according to the clan’s Fire Sword legend, anyway. When it’s time for you to do your thing, you’ll see what it is. For me, I had to use my forensic knowledge to prove a suicide was actually a murder. There’s just one thing I need to warn you about when it’s wish time. Don’t ask to go to a time in the future that is earlier than when you left.”

“I don’t want to go back at all.” She frowned. “Why do you think I would?”

“You might be tempted to try and warn yourself, or prevent your friend from being murdered.” The laird’s wife sighed. “Being anywhere near an earlier version of yourself would create a temporal paradox. Theoretically it’s not possible, but with Fae magic nothing makes scientific sense. It’s the kind of thing that could tear reality apart.”

“Just like in the movies, I suppose.” Charlotte nodded. “What started all this time-traveling, anyway?”

Emery told her briefly about the long-standing rivalry between the MacRoss and a hostile neighboring clan called the Carack, and how a killer had manipulated both lairds into nearly going to war. Emery credited everything to the forensic evidence she had uncovered, but Charlotte got the sense that there was a lot more to the story than she was telling her. She also knew she wouldn’t get her to be more candid by accusing the other woman of withholding information.

“Your area of expertise is art,” the laird’s wife said, “so it’s logical that however you can save the clan would be related to that skill set and knowledge.”

“I keep thinking of that book I illustrated.” She straightened and glanced back at the stronghold. “I painted the Fire sword and a character who looked just like Darach, and that can’t be a coincidence. Some fairytales like Snow White and Bluebeard are based on real people, and some actual events.”

“You said a historian wrote the book, right? Maybe she based some of it on what’s happening now or in the near future. You’re also the only person in this time who has read the book.” Emery snapped her fingers. “There’s one way to check. Do you remember the story well enough to write it down?”

“I believe so. I’ll need pen and ink and paper, or the medieval equivalent.” Charlotte heard footsteps approaching and turned around to see Darach with her messenger bag on his shoulder. “Or maybe not. Chieftain, that’s mine. Where did you find it?”

“Some sage lads spied the bag hanging from a tree by the spring, my lady.” He stopped and handed it to her. “I’m sorry to say they first looked through your belongings, but they promised me they didnae take anything.”

“That’s all right.” She hugged the bag against her chest. “Emery, is there someplace with a desk or a table where I can work?”

“Sure. The clan’s map room is nice and quiet, and there’s plenty of light.” The laird’s wife regarded Darach. “I promised Luthias I’d ride down to the village with him right after I gave Charlotte the gardens tour. Would you take her there and set her up with whatever she needs for her work?”