by Kyra Whitton
“What did she mean about ‘dead or alive?’”
“The Otherworld… it has a varied history.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “And here I thought it existed on a plane that was outside of the laws of time and space.” She wiggled her fingers near her face.
He let out a harried sigh. “What do you know of the ancient mythologies?”
“Nothing. Remember? Not really my specialty. Maybe the bare bones?”
They crossed the street and slowly strolled along the brick path outlining the square.
“The Kingdom or Annwn dwells in the center of the Otherworld, ruled by Arawn, King of the Harvests and Snows. Across the great Ford, a shallow river splits down the center of the Solstice Kingdoms, separating Annwn from the spring and summer lands. Those who pass from living to death must walk through the summer kingdom, fight at the ford for their summer ruler, cross over to the autumn kingdom, and die for Arawn to be reborn. The battles happen twice a year at the equinoxes. Hafgan’s Army takes the spring battle, Arawn’s the autumn.”
Silence settled between them as Evie tried to wrap her head around what he told her. Her heart beat faster with every step of her feet, echoing in her ears as a knot formed in her throat.
“What you’re saying is the Otherworld is the afterlife?”
She knew the answer, but she needed him to tell her. No, she wanted him to deny it.
Alec stopped and reached out a hand, halting her, as well. He gripped her arm just below her shoulder, his thumb rubbing softly over the red sweater. Worry glinted in his eyes, in the slight inward pull of his brows, but the rest of his face was a mask, his lips pressed into a straight line. She knew she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.
“No.” He gave his head a slow shake, and she held her breath. “No, but the afterlife… It is nestled within the Otherworld.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. But she did. She understood all too well.
He swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “When the gods of the old world were no longer needed… As the Romans and the Christians wrested the old Kingdoms from the Celts and the Picts, the Cornish and Welsh peoples, the old gods retreated. They gathered the true believers, the other peoples, and they left this world to the humans who had given up on them. They settled their remaining followers in the land of their births, in the Otherworld where they have always dwelled.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was a member of her court. For many seasons.”
“And you knew where we were. How far?” Her shock wore of and festered into anger.
His frown deepened and he withdrew his hand. She didn’t want it there, anyway. The crack of betrayal left a wound on her heart, enough to see it shatter.
“How far?” she repeated.
“Time doesn’t work the same way there—”
“How. Far.”
“Hafgan’s kingdom lies on the other side of the mountain range from my cottage. “
Her heart broke before he even finished, a strange feeling, like falling from a great height. The anger, the hurt of it rose in her throat, threatening to sob out. He had known the dead were there, just over those mountains, not far from the cottage, just a breath away. Calum was there, just within reach. If only she had known.
“And you’ve been there? You knew. All this time, you knew.” He had betrayed her. He knew she and Calum could be reunited and he had said nothing.
“Evie, it’s not that simple.”
She took two steps back, putting space between them so that he couldn’t reach out, so that he couldn’t touch her.
Her eyes welled up and she cursed herself. She didn’t want him to see her tears, only her fury.
“It is that simple, Alec.” Her voice remained even until she said his name, and then it cracked, high and reedy. “It is that easy. He was right there.” Her voice wasn’t hers, pitching between a too high cry and a whisper.
“Evelyn…”
He reached out, but she backed away, her feet shuffling against the concrete. She caught a glimpse of the pain on his face before he swept it away, steeling himself. But the anguished look in his eyes mirrored her own.
“I need some time,” she said with surprising calm. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, the cold air stinging her dry throat. “I’ll-I’ll see you at lunch.” She turned on her heel and went back the way they had come, back toward the shop.
“Evie,” he called desperately behind her.
But she didn’t turn. And he didn’t follow.
****
Flora watched as her guests departed and let out a shaky breath. Owen’s hand was instantly at the small of her back, just under her shawl, his thumb brushing back and forth against the silk of her blouse. The heat of him was comforting even through the fabric.
The time they had together here on this side of the veil had been brief, and he remembered their time in the Otherworld as if it were no more than a dream. Pieces were missing. Different events melted into one another, not making much sense at all. She was able to connect them, tell him where one thing stopped and the next began, but to him, it ran together like oil in water, swirling and mixing without logic.
When he walked back into her life, he remembered enough to come looking for her, but not much else. He knew her the moment he saw her, yet with a skepticism she couldn’t hold against him. But their connection was still strong, and here he was, weeks later, still at her side. Those days were numbered, however, and he would be going back to his unit; his convalescent leave was almost up.
With desperation, she soaked up each moment with him, hoping he didn’t notice. She was just coming to terms with the fact that her entire life wasn’t a dream, that she really had spent an extended period of time in another time and place, one where the rules of her world didn’t apply. She was still gaining her footing after her short, doomed marriage, and the invisible thread connecting her to Owen was almost the only thing making any sense. The thought of having him leave, if only a few hours away, made her feel unbalanced.
She sighed and slipped around the glass counter, opening up an old apothecary cabinet she picked up at an antique market shortly before opening the shop Scarred dark and rough edges meant it was desperately in need of refinishing, and she had every intention of restoring it, but the flaws and rough edges spoke to her.
Upon returning from Annwn, she cleared away the novelty items she originally stored in the cubbies and drawers, packing them instead with her growing collection of herbs. Most she ordered or bought through a local herb shop run by a practicing hedge witch, one who asked no questions, though she saw the suspicion in the older woman’s eyes.
Flora removed a swath of linen, laid it over the counter and then placed a simple mortar and pestle over it. She withdrew a few of the herbs, sprinkling them into the bowl before fervently mashing them.
Owen stood across the counter, leaning his elbows on the glass.
“Spelling?” he joked.
In the Otherworld, they labeled her a witch, a term she originally took great offense to, but soon learned it was a great honor. Whenever she took to plying the trade she took up in Arawn’s court, Owen teased her.
She shot him a pointed look. “I have a headache.”
“I thought you hated her.”
“I do. I did.” Her movements stopped and her shoulders sank. “I didn’t really hate her. Not really. She hated me, I think.” She let out a sigh. “But did you see her, Owen? She looked so young and lost. The woman I knew was… hard. Very sure of herself. She was a force waiting to break free. The girl who was just in my shop? Frightened and confused.”
“You’ve said I was different, as well.”
“You were. But only a little.”
She went back to her herbs and scooped them into a little silver ball. The shadow of Owen she met on this side of the veil was charming and full of energy. He joked, was playful, he danced. The Owen of the Otherworld was serious, dedic
ated. He was loyal to a fault, driven, purposeful in everything he did. This Owen—the real Owen was both. He was all of those things and more.
“I need water,” she muttered and skirted the counter for the back room where she kept an electric kettle.
Flora stalked back in a few moments later with a steaming mug. She set it down and dunked the little silver ball into the water. He said nothing, just regarded her.
“What?” she demanded.
“There is something you aren’t saying.”
She pursed her lips. “I thought it was done. I did what I needed to do. I got you out and things went right again. But… what if it was only the beginning?”
The bell on the door jangled and Mrs. Dunkirk, her favorite customer, shuffled in.
Flora smiled brightly and moved to greet her, pushing away the fear curling inside.
****
Evie didn’t have anywhere else to go, and she knew she needed answers, even if her questions had changed. She walked back toward the shop only to turn and pace down the block, her nerves on edge, not sure what to do or what to say.
Alec consumed all of the space in her head. His smile, his touch, his taste, his lies. Lie upon lie, over and over and over. He had listened to her talk about Calum, and he had done nothing. She told him how her life lay in pieces, destroyed, and he strung her along, let her feel safe, let her care…
Alec was selfish. He made her feel things for him. How dare he?
She knew she promised Flora that she would see her at lunch, let her get through her work day, but it couldn’t wait. She needed answers immediately, and so back to Flora’s shop she went. By the time she stood in front of the large windows, Thistle and Rose etched in a gold arch across them, her leg ached painfully, but the shake plaguing her hand calmed.
The little bells jangled as she entered through the shop door, happy and light. Flora looked up in welcome from where she stood, chatting with an elderly woman in a pillbox hat dotted with flowers and a purple wool coat. The old woman’s knee-high stocking sagged down one leg, revealing mottled skin over her orthopedic shoes. Flora’s smile faltered and a crease appeared between her brows but Evie waved her off and went to mill through the goods she hadn’t taken the time to see when she arrived the first time.
The Thistle and Rose was cozy and reminded her of some of the small shops near the Old Course in St Andrews. Dark, lots of wood, and the smell of wool. She picked her way around the shelves and racks as Flora and the woman chatted quietly. Many of the pantry items she recognized, some she had kept stocked in her kitchen cabinets once upon a time.
She fingered a heavy, cable knit sweater when Flora approached, stopping just on the other side of the stand.
“How does it work?” Evie asked.
“I don’t really know. I only passed through the veil the once. I remember sitting down to read, and I looked up and something was out of place. I can’t remember what it was. I went to move it, and then I was waking up in a summer forest.”
Evie dropped the arm of the sweater. “For me it was a silver apple.” The corner of her mouth quirked at the memory of Alec unfolding it from a brown Army towel. She quickly pushed it away with a shake of her head. “Okay, never mind.” Evie rubbed her temples, hoping the movement would release some of the tension building. “New question. What do you know about Lord Carlisle?”
“Only what was in the journal. He was desperate to get away and back to… someone. But the entries stopped when he figured out how to use the focus points.”
“Focus points?”
“The stone circles. Standing stones.”
Evie nodded, picturing the stone circle on the little island in the loch. “And what do you know of the dead?”
Flora’s eyes grew round and she drew a sharp breath. “Eve, I don’t think—”
“Please.”
“They know they are dead, Evie. They know and they… they don’t regret it.” She gave her a sad look then reached out and took one of Evie’s hands in both of hers. “You were there, Evie. In both courts. All knew you. If whoever you are looking for was there… everyone knew who I was and that you went with me.”
Evie knew what she was saying. If Calum had wanted to be found, if he had wanted to be with her, he would have had every opportunity. She finally owned the feeling that gripped her chest and tightened around her like a vice.
Guilt.
She replayed every moment she spent with Alec, the two of them in the cottage, sharing their lives with one another on that fourteen-hour car ride from Kansas. She thought about the words she knew hung between them, how she had stifled him from saying them because she knew when he did, she would say them back. She’d been planning her life with him, could see him at the dinner table across from her father, see him offering a hug to her mother. She had envisioned herself in his house, helping him cook dinners then sitting across from him at his drop leaf table. And she had wanted it. Craved it.
But Calum could still be out there.
He could still be out there and he came first. Even though the future she envisioned with him had flickered to nothing more than a wish made long ago. A fading dream.
But he could still be out there.
And she had allowed herself to move on.
She had allowed herself to feel again.
She’d promised to be his future once, and then she moved on without him. If he were out there… she owed him that promise. Didn’t she?
But what of herself? What did she owe to herself? She couldn’t help the question as it bubbled up. If she were to go back there, back to that place, she needed to know why she was wanted there, first. How did she fit into all of this? And what did Alec know he wasn’t telling her? She had a feeling the answers to Alec lay in that journal.
She bit her lip and pleaded with Flora. “The journal?”
“It’s yours,” Flora murmured. She collected it from the shelf behind the counter and gave it to Evie.
“Thank you. For everything. And… I’m sorry for however I treated you before… you know?” She gave a watery sniff. “Could I ask one more favor?”
Flora offered a slight tip of her chin.
“Give me a head start?”
****
Alec waited outside the pub, watching the minutes tick by on his watch. He had allowed Evie her space as his own conscience warred with itself. Had he not told her enough? In protecting her, had he pushed her away?
As the minute hand descended lower and lower across the clock face, he knew it was the latter. When neither she nor Flora arrived, he made his way back through the cold, desperately hoping they were waiting for him at the Thistle and Rose, instead.
When he entered the shop, Flora was still there. Alone but for a paperback spread open across the glass countertop of her display case.
“What are you doing here?” He looked around the shop, his frown increasing. “Did Evie come back here?”
She straightened and inserted a bookmark between the splayed pages. “She did. Right after you both left. She wanted to borrow the journal and asked if we could all meet here…” Flora turned and looked at the mantel clock ticking behind her on a shelf. “…About fifteen minutes ago.” She shrugged. “I assumed you were running late.”
His heart slammed into his ribs and then leapt into his throat. Had they been found?
“I haven’t seen her,” he said, panic rising.
He checked his watch, again; how long had it been? Two hours? No, almost three. He pushed out of the shop and scanned the square, as if he would see her or Mora or Iain.
But the world passed by him just as it always had.
Chapter Sixteen
Fife, Scotland
The gray landscape puttered by, cold and unmoving. Evie rested her forehead against the glass of the taxi’s back passenger side window, purse tucked under her arm, and fingers rubbing absently over the soft leather of the journal.
She read it through. Twice. And then a third time to make mental
notes. There wasn’t much there; the accounts were short, just for him, not meant to ever be read by an audience. But there was enough there. She knew she held a personal account belonging to the husband of Elizabeth Menzie Carlisle, one of those women of Culloden Sylvia Bascomb-Murray wrote about.
Two things were certain when she left that small, suburban town in Georgia: She was relatively clueless about the Otherworld. She had a guess as to how she would get there, but no real knowledge. And once she was there, she would be lost and alone. She knew nothing of the geography, the history, the people, the animal species. All she knew was that to arrive, she had to go willingly. Or be dead. Without a game plan, without a basic knowledge of the terrain, of the people, or the culture, it would be suicide or worse.
Two: Elizabeth Meyner and Anne Macintosh were of great importance. She was sure Flora MacDonald’s name was no coincidence either, and she would find out why. Fortunately, she knew someone who was an expert.
Because she was finally home in Scotland.
She thought she would… feel more. But everything seemed as empty as the fields lying between the final stretch of road leading out to St Andrews. Scotland had lost some of its magic. Perhaps it was because Calum was gone and he had taken some of it with him. Or perhaps it was because Alec had lied, and everything she thought was good in the world wasn’t.
Perhaps it was because she was not the same Evelyn Blair she once was. Before.
Maybe it was stupid to go back. The path had seemed so clear up until the moment she stood in the airport, passport in one hand and father’s credit card in the other. Alec had insisted she leave no traceable evidence of her time-travel, but a distinct memory of her father disputing a charge days after Christmas—a day yet to happen, now—was enough to set her conscience at ease. Nothing ever came of it but a lot of head scratching. Then again, maybe it wasn’t stupid at all. Maybe it was just brilliant enough to keep them all off her trail.