On the horizon, she could see huge mountains with caps of snow even now in early May, and the train wound along its tracks, bringing her closer to them. It was overwhelming as they passed through the valleys, the gorse bushes and moss-covered rocks of the mountains mixed with wild heather like a painting more than something in real life.
The tracks twisted halfway up the mountain, and Camellia witnessed a deep loch, stretching out, not as grand as Loch Morag or Loch Lomond but filled with just as much mystery. On the banks, she watched as the deer ventured from the forests, their coats shining in the afternoon sunlight.
Camellia loved Edinburgh, but this, here, was Scotland. This, here, was home.
* * *
She checked into her Bed and Breakfast on the shores of Loch Morag and wanted nothing more than to rest, but there was no time for it. Instead, she placed her things in her room, took a quick bite to eat, and headed out again to the banks of the loch.
The ruins of Forrester Castle decorated the scene on the horizon, a short journey away from where Camellia walked, surrounded by a forest that seemed to rise out of the loch itself. She imagined it must have been an imposing building once, and she wondered what kind of people must have lived there. A great Laird, no doubt, and his Lady perhaps, so many centuries ago.
Perhaps I will visit the museum later and learn about them. Once I’ve succeeded in my mission.
She continued to walk toward it, heading toward the forest. She seemed to remember a cave right where the water met the trees, and it had been there that her mother showed her the cherries so long ago, curling on the outside of it.
Sure enough, there it was—a cave surrounded by vines. She hurried to it, kneeling on the ground and searching through the grass and the vines, peering around everywhere. In her urgency, she tore a few leaves off other plants, but she couldn’t worry about that now.
There was nothing.
“This can’t be right,” Camellia muttered to herself. She stood up, expanding her search, looking desperately around to see if she’d missed something.
Could she have come all this way and the cherries were no longer here? Could all of this had been for nothing?
No. I can’t accept that. I won’t accept it.
Camellia moved closer to the cave, peering inside of it in case there was a plant inside or something like it, then paused. There was something there…something scratched into the wall. Was that writing?
It isn’t in English, or even any Gaelic I know. They’re more like…runes.
She knew that she had to focus on her search, but the writing called to her. It almost seemed like she could hear singing echoing through the cave, beckoning her to come closer. Entranced, Camellia raised her hand, gently tracing the runes with one finger. The whispering grew louder, more eager, until she was finished.
Suddenly, a loud roaring in her ears almost deafened her. Her vision blurred as the world began to spin, and the very ground shook beneath her feet. She tried to cry out, but her scream was voiceless, and no air was reaching her lungs.
Help. Help!
Her head pounded, her stomach roiled, and the world spun and spun around her, faster, sharper, completely overwhelming her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and it wasn’t long before she felt herself falling.
Falling.
Falling.
And then blackness.
3
Braonan did not know what to make of the sight before him. A woman lay at his feet, fallen from the entrance of Morag Cave. Her auburn hair lay fanned around her head like a halo, her freckled skin pale, but the strangest thing about her was her clothing.
“What is she wearing?” Lachlan asked. Braonan’s man-at-arms and best friend was peering down from his horse at the woman, surprise blatant on his face.
It was a casual dress if the materials were anything to judge by, but the skirt was flared out and there were no sleeves to speak of. The colors were abnormally bright and arranged in strange patterns all down the cloth, which was cinched at the waist with a black belt of some sort. Her shoes were even odder; they were purple like a royal’s, with blocky heels, and made of a strange material that might have been leather.
“Ye’d better nae let Myra see,” Lachlan continued with a laugh. “She’ll be runnin’ about in this kind of oddness before we ken it.”
One of the other two men out of the four total chuckled at the image of their Laird’s younger sister in such outlandish clothing, but Braonan’s focus was only on the woman. She did not look injured, but he was worried that she might have hurt her head. Who was she? How had she ended up on his land without anyone seeing her, and what had happened to bring her here?
He slid down from his horse and crouched down beside her. She didn’t stir. He reached out a hand, brushing a few errant strands of hair from her face, and was surprised when she groaned. He reeled back, and the lass’ eyes fluttered open. They were wide and brown as the soil surrounding them, just as brimming with life.
The woman sat up, her hand rubbing the back of her head and confusion evident in her features as she took in the sights around her. “The Castle—” she whispered. “How—?”