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“Nah,” she says. “Well, in fantasy I suppose. In reality, though? We’re archaeologist, if that’s taught me anything, life in olden times was anything but golden. It was hard work, no entertainment, and an early death for most.”
“Right,” I nod, but the cold in my guts is chilling because I know firsthand how right she is.
Life was hard back then. Death was imminent for everyone, a constant companion that you could meet turning a corner. Yet, they were alive. I was alive. Engaged, the world full of color and magic. Real magic.
Magic that, supposedly, I have will decide to save or not. When all I really care about is saving one clan, one man, but I have a ‘destiny’. Or I’m crazy.
My trip through time has taken on an unreal, dreamlike aspect. I’ve had doubts if it was real or not. Maybe I hit my head. Maybe someone slipped something into my food or drink, and I had a delayed reaction to it.
We make small talk while finishing our coffee than walk back to the dorms. She’s in a different hall than I am so we stand on the commons and visit a little longer while the sun finishes setting. Surreptitiously I keep checking the skies, hoping to see a large black bird, but to no avail. We share a last parting hug, then I return to my room. At least now I have at least a glimmer of hope.
A raven is looking and if I’m sure of anything, I’m sure of this. It’s looking for me.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m obstinately trying to study for a test and it’s almost midnight when a sound penetrates my concentration. Bleary eyed and exhausted I look away from the computer screen and around for the source. The sound pulls at my attention without being too intrusive.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
What the hell?
I stand up and turn a slow circle. My dorm room is too tiny to take more than an instant to survey it all. I move to the wall by my desk. The same wall that the neighboring student pounds on to shut up my random outbursts. I press my ear to the wall and listen.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
No, it’s not the neighboring students. Frowning, I stand up straight and close my eyes to listen. It comes again so I move, one step at a time, until I close in with the sound.
The window.
I pull the thick curtain aside and soft silver moonlight streams in. A dark patch on the windowsill holds my attention. I unlock the window then fight to get it to open. It only comes up three or four inches. I hold it in place with my left hand and reach through with my right, grabbing the dark object. I pull it in and when I let the window go, it slams back into place barely missing my fingers.
I hold the object up, and the moonlight glistens along its delicate edge. A black feather. I hold it by the quill, turning it over and letting the light refract off. A raven caws in my mind. This is it. The sign I’ve been looking for.
All I experienced was real. Duncan, Alesoun, even hateful old Agnes MacGregor. It was real and I’m being called back.
I’m going to get back there.
I lean over the bed and look out the window. The black shape of a bird crosses over the moon and my heart soars with it. When I look down at the yard, I see a dark figure staring up at my window. My heart leaps into a gallop. I gasp and jerk back, dropping the curtain.
“No way,” I mutter.
Shifting around until I’m squeezed between the bed and the wall, I peek out the window again. The figure is still down there, and its head shifts towards the side I’m peeking out.
“Son of a—”
I slide on my slippers and run out of my dorm room. I take the stairs down two at a time. When I reach the second landing, my foot slips and I slam into the wall. I get an arm up in time to protect my head but there’s going to be fresh bruises tomorrow.
The security guard at his desk barely looks up from his phone as I pass. I slam into the door at a dead run but don’t hit the release bar firmly and bounce off it with a yelp.
“You have to—”
“I know,” I shout, cutting him off and slowing down enough to open the door successfully.
The ‘yard’ is a large concrete patio surrounded by strategically placed benches on its edges. A sculpture sits in the middle of the space, modernistic and interpretive in design. I’ve always looked at it as a wave caught in mid-motion. The half-moon illuminates the sculpture and casts shadows across the open court that flutter as clouds pass over the moon.
Dugald stands perfectly tucked into one of those shadows. I stop directly in front of him.
“Did he live?” I ask, heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears.
