I dug through her pockets. “Where is it?” I frantically looked in her other pocket. Also empty. I dug through the bag around my waist, no vessel there either. There was only an old grocery list: diapers, wipes, chocolate, pasta; a wadded up baby wipe that had been used on Archie’s hands; and an empty candy wrapper. I had taken out everything important and put it in the diaper bag. Did I have a vessel though? I thought I had, maybe I had given mine to Beaty along with the bag?
It had all happened so fast.
But there had been one here. It was how we got here. It had to... I pushed her shoulder to look under her body. A bloodstain in the snow, but nothing else. I wanted to bury her, I needed to get her out of the clearing, but it was also so freaking cold, terribly bone-chilling cold. Fuck. What if...?
Isla’s face flashed in my mind. Why wasn’t I with her? Why the fuck was I here? My front was wet. My breasts were leaking milk and they were so sore. My whole body felt tight and shivering and my breasts were hot. I felt them, damn it. They were hard, and sore.
I had to do something.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out what — I just knew if this was the clearing, then Balloch was northwest. I trudged through the snow, in some places knee-deep, as fast as I could go. I needed to go fast, but I was exhausted and in pain and so cold. I was wearing fucking sneakers! Why didn’t I ever wear snow boots? I should wear them everywhere, even in Florida, just in case. I should learn. I should be better.
Desperate, feeling the stinging scratches on my face, I made it to the edge of the woods, and could see the wide white snowy field and the stable, though it was much smaller. Oh no.
The castle wasn’t there. Instead there was a wooden fortress with timber walls, a short tower of stone standing in the middle of it. There was a gate, in the same place as Balloch. Within the walls I could see snow-covered roofs. The whole walled in area was so much smaller.
This was long before I came with Hayley and Quentin and —
Oh my god, I was in the past past past.
I was so far back I would never get home.
No vessel.
No Magnus.
Who even knew where I was?
The wind picked up, howling, spinning snow. The cold hurt my brain, like an icepick through my temple. The snow flurry made it hard to see. I could just die here, right here now, but also — it hurt.
The fortress was unrecognizable except for the small fence on the east side. It was familiar, as if a garden was enclosed there. I figured the kitchen door would be through that garden, and so I flung myself toward it, lurching through the knee-deep snow, the wind biting at my skin. I aimed for that kitchen, so I could beg the women there for help.
I made it to the door which was of course locked tight, and weakly banged on it. “Help me, please, help me!”
I banged again and fell on it sliding down to the muddy ground. “Please! Help me,” I begged. “Please.” It opened and I fell through to the ground with a flurry of snow following me. Exclamations of surprise from the women inside, they dragged me into the room.
Women rushed around, speaking all at once. They moved me toward the fire. One woman rubbed my hands. Because of my ring they knew I was married, but I couldn’t understand enough of the words they were using. But the way they were talking soothed me, another woman wrapped me in a blanket, and I cried — I sobbed for the warmth and for being saved and for how I was alive. A woman helped get my wet tartan unwrapped and she noticed the long drips of milk down my front into my skirt. She said something very like, “Och ye hae lost yer bairn?”
And I sobbed even harder, like my heart would break to pieces. Because yes — lost. Totally lost.
They left me alone, sobbing on a stool by the fire, shivering in fear, sadness, cold. Then a bowl of oatmeal was thrust into my hands and I ate and cried, wiping my nose on my wool blanket. I had to be the most piteous, desolate, lump of a near-dead being. They thought they had saved me, I knew that I was long dead, centuries dead.
I stared into the crackling fire and went blank.
Twenty-nine - Kaitlyn
A woman’s voice I didn’t understand spoke while hovering around me. She washed my face and my neck and my hands of dirt and grime and blood.
I allowed the cleaning with the bare minimum of cooperation, because of deep, overwhelming grief. The woman looked in my ears and had me open my mouth to see my teeth.
My focus was off. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, and my brain was a fog of confusion. They poked and prodded me and then got me up from the stool, and led me from the kitchen. The walls were mud and timber, the roofs thatched. Rooms were built right beside each other, leading from one interior to another. Floors were uneven dirt, and some door frames were so low I had to duck. It was freezing, cold, drafty, and there weren’t the luxurious artifacts of the Earl’s days, like carpets, and tapestries on the walls.
I was led through room after room, until we got to what must have been the nursery.
There were five children near the hearth gathering the only heat, hitting and fussing and carrying on, making a loud racket. A baby wailed in a cradle.
An older woman approached and met with the woman who had washed me. I didn’t understand, and couldn’t concentrate. My chin trembled. I was made to understand that the older woman was Mary. But all the other things were impossible to discern.
A tear slid down my cheek.
Mary gestured for me to open my blanket and show my breasts. I shook my head. Mary spoke sharply to me and then to the other lady and it seemed like they were questioning my intellect, so I tried harder to focus and understand. I gathered they were asking about my milk.
I honestly thought they were being kind. Like I thought they were trying to help me figure out what to do.
So I hand-expressed, from a breast that was big and hot and swollen, a stream of milk into my cupped hand. Mary nodded and sent the kitchen lady away.
I was led to a wooden armchair.
A wailing baby was picked up from a cradle and forced into my arms. Mary scolded me, yanked at my shirt, and then stood over me glowering while hands shaking, biting my lips, I got the little baby to nurse. And it felt so fucking good to nurse, like maybe I wouldn’t actually explode.
Mary appraised me, watching me, judging me. I looked away. Then suddenly her hand shot out, gripped my fingers, twisted my wrist, and she wrenched my wedding ring off my finger. “No please, that’s my wedding ring. Please.” She shoved it into her pocket and stalked away.
So I cried in relief and horror and sadness and staring down at the stranger in my arms where Isla was supposed to be.
Mary was irritated. She glared and seemed to find my tears offensive. I looked down at this baby, latched onto me, saving me by nursing, and I didn’t know if I was saving him too. I cried and cried. I shifted the ravenously hungry baby to the other side and stroked my fingers down his soft cheek and fed him.
Finally calm washed over me, hormone release and all. I leaned my head back and felt at peace as the baby slowly stopped nursing and began sleep-suckling, drawing me toward sleep too. My heartbeat slowed, my breathing calmed, my sobs quieted. I wiped my face with my arm as the baby lolled away from my breast fully fast asleep.
Mary rushed over and yanked the baby from my arms, placed him into a cradle, patted him perfunctorily on the back, and then rushed at me, screeching and yelling. Fucking scolding me.