Time of a Highlander (Arch Through Time, #12)

by Baker, Katy

  Time of a Highlander

  Arch Through Time, Volume 12

  Katy Baker

  Published by Katy Baker, 2020.

  While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  TIME OF A HIGHLANDER

  First edition. April 2, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Katy Baker.

  Written by Katy Baker.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  What do you do when destiny comes knocking?

  Chapter 1

  Georgina Smyth wiped her hand across her brow. It came back covered in stone dust. Despite her overalls, the dust managed to get everywhere. After a day in the workshop she always looked twenty years older, with dust turning her auburn hair prematurely gray and settling in every line on her forehead.

  Still, she thought, as she leaned over the stone she was working on and began chipping away with her chisel and punch hammer, she wouldn’t have it any other way. Not for her some glitzy career in a swanky office. Not for her the nine-to-five, rush hour, targets, KPIs and all the other things associated with the high-profile careers her friends had chosen. She loved being a stonemason, even though it was a dying art and barely brought in enough money to live on.

  She glanced up to check the camera was still running, then focussed on the Celtic knot—one of her own design—that she was busy carving into the block of limestone that sat on her workbench. It was slow, painstaking work. One slip and all the effort of the last few days would be ruined. And not only that, she’d look an idiot in front of her subscribers and wouldn’t that be just the perfect way to put the last nail in the coffin of her business?

  She was at the trickiest part—chipping out the excess stone so that the leaves surrounding the design stood out from the block as though they were real leaves.

  Remember what Dad taught you, she told herself. Careful. Patient. Don’t rush. Don’t get distracted.

  Everything around her faded away. She no longer saw the workshop or the camera. She no longer even saw the piece of stone she was working. She saw only the chisel and the shape she was trying to coax out of the stone. Her mind went blank. Calmness filled her. This was one of the reasons she loved stone masonry so much. When she carved stone, all her problems seemed to melt away.

  Finally, she chipped away the last flake, and it was done. She straightened, wiped her brow before gently blowing away the dust from the carving. A satisfied grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. It had turned out exactly as she’d envisaged.

  Turning to the camera, she smiled. “And that is how you carve a Celtic knot. Remember, if you like what you see, subscribe to my channel or leave a comment.”

  Setting down her chisel and hammer, she pulled off her gloves, then turned off the camera and looked around the workshop. With the exception of her workbench, it was meticulously clean—as usual. Her father was a stickler for tidiness. The tools hung in neat racks on the walls, the workbenches and floor were swept clean.

  On the far side, several half-finished pieces—voissoirs mostly—sat on her father’s workbench. It was an order for a bridge restoration over in Harborough but there was nowhere near enough work coming in to keep them afloat. Once the Harborough contract was fulfilled, there would be no more money, nothing to stop the bank taking everything she and her father had worked for. Nowadays there were machines that could produce pieces in a fraction of the time she and her father could—and at a fraction of the price. They just couldn’t compete.

  Something will come up, she told herself, echoing the phrase her father had been using daily for the last year. Those machines can’t do the specialist work that we can. We just need a lucky break. That’s all.

  More like a miracle, the traitorous thought bloomed in her head. If you want to keep a roof over you and Dad’s heads.

  From behind her came the sound of someone clearing their throat. Startled, Georgina spun around with a yelp.

  An old woman stood in the doorway of the workshop, peering around with interest. She was tiny and wrapped in a thick coat so that she looked like a small, wooly bear. Her hair was pulled into an iron-gray bun pinned to the back of her head.

  “Can I help you?” Georgina asked.

  The woman’s eyes fixed on her. They were so dark they were almost black, and her face was a map of creases and wrinkles, seeming as delicate as tissue paper. For all that though, her eyes sparkled with intelligence and there was an air of vigor about her as she broke into a broad smile.

  “I should hope so, my dear. This is Smyth’s Stonemasonry isnae it?”

  A customer! A shot of excitement went through Georgina’s body. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a living, breathing customer turn up at the workshop! Most of their orders came via the internet.

  “You must want to see my father,” she said hastily. “I’ll just go and get him for you.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Nay, dear. That willnae be necessary. It’s ye I’ve come to see.”

  “Me?” she asked, noticing that the woman spoke with a broad Scottish accent.

  “Aye,” the woman said with a smile. “Ye are Georgina Smyth are ye not?”

  “Georgie,” she corrected. “Everyone calls me Georgie.”

  “Ah, Georgie it is then,” the old woman said with a smile that made her eyes sparkle like polished onyx. “I am most pleased to meet ye. My name is Irene. Irene MacAskill.” She held out her hand.

  Georgie wiped her dusty hands on her overalls and then hurried over and shook the woman’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you too. What is it you’re after? A specific piece? This is just the workshop, but we have a showroom out the front if you’d like to browse. We can make pretty much anything you want. Or is it restoration you’re after? We’re available for residential or commercial work—”

  “Nay, dear,” Irene said, cutting her off. “I’m not looking for a thing. I’m looking for a person, a very special person.” Her gaze sharpened as she watched Georgie. “And I think I’ve found her.”

  Irene crossed to the workbench and lightly trailed her fingers along the swirls and ridges of the Celtic knot Georgie had just finished carving. There was something mesmerizing about how she did it, as though her fingers drifted in step to some dance only she could see.

  “Remarkable,” she muttered, almost under her breath. “How did ye know how to create this?”

  “I...um...I don’t know. I just saw the shape in my mind and made it.” She shrugged. “It’s not that hard. Any stonemason could do it.”

  Irene shook her head. “Nay, my dear. They couldnae. Like I said, ye are a very special individual. I havenae met a Builder in all my long years. I had thought that bloodline had died out.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Georgie asked, puzzled. “I’m not a builder. I’m a stonemason, although some people get the two confused.”

  Irene did not reply. Instead she stared at Georgie in silence, and under that scrutiny she suddenly felt naked, as though Irene could see right down in
to her soul. Suddenly uneasy, she took a step back.

  “Who are you?”

  Irene clasped her hands and cocked her head, regarding Georgie solemnly. “I’m a friend. Try to remember that in the days ahead. Sometimes ye may feel it isnae the case.”

  Georgie snorted. “A friend? We’ve never met before!”

  “We havenae,” Irene agreed. “But that doesnae mean I dinna know ye. I know ye very well, my dear. I’ve been waiting for ye for a long time.”

  Georgie’s unease deepened. Something about this woman unsettled her. Like she said, they’d never met before and yet...and yet... Georgie felt like she knew her. But that made no sense at all.

  She spread her hands. “Look. It’s been a long day. All I want is to get tidied up and knock off for the day. You say you’re not looking for a stonemason? Then if there’s nothing I can help you with—”

  “I didnae say there’s naught ye can help me with. There is. That’s why I’m here.”

  Georgie schooled her patience. “Okay. What is it I can help you with?”

  “Now that’s more like it! A sensible question! You can help me restore the balance, that’s what.”

  “Restore the balance? Is that the name of a building? I thought you said you didn’t need any restoration work?”

  Irene burst out laughing, and Georgie crossed her arms in annoyance. What was happening here? She couldn’t make head nor tale of what this woman was talking about, and now she was getting laughed at!

  “Okay. Whatever,” she said. “I’m shutting up shop now. If you’ll excuse me—”

  She made shooing gestures, trying to get the woman to leave, but Irene didn’t move. Her mirth subsided, and she wiped a tear from her eye.

  “Oh, my dear. It is a long time since I’ve laughed like that. Ye have my thanks for brightening an old woman’s day. Now, I must apologize. I havenae explained myself very well. The balance isnae a building or aught tangible that can be seen or touched. It is the bedrock of the universe, the thing that keeps the equilibrium. Without it, everything would descend into chaos.”

  Georgie blinked. “Er...right. What exactly does that have to do with me?”

  Irene stepped in front of Georgie, moving more quickly than someone of her advanced years had a right to. She was so small she had to crane her head back to meet Georgie’s gaze, but despite her diminutive size, she seemed to dominate the room. It took all of Georgie’s willpower not to take a step back.

  “Everything, my dear,” Irene said quietly. “It has everything to do with ye.”

  The workshop had gone very quiet. There was no sound other than the hiss of Georgie’s breathing. She and Irene could have been the only people in the world. A stillness came over Georgie, a strange sense of things coming into alignment, of events slotting into place. Irene’s gaze held her, and Georgie found she couldn’t look away. She was sure she saw stars spinning in that gaze, eons of time and memory, and a fate that reached out towards her...

  “I think you should leave,” Georgie said, stepping back, flustered and a little afraid. “It’s getting late and I really need to lock up.”

  She stepped past Irene towards the door, but Irene’s hand shot out as quick as a striking snake, her fingers closing around Georgie’s wrist. Her grip was like steel.

  “A choice is coming yer way, my dear,” Irene said, her voice deep and vibrant. “One that will rip everything ye know from under ye. It will be difficult. It will be painful. But if ye have the courage to make the right choice, it will bring ye the thing ye have been searching for yer whole life.”

  Georgie stared at her, wide-eyed. “What do you mean? What have I been looking for?”

  Irene smiled softly, a hint of sadness in her expression. “A place to fit in. Somewhere to belong. Have ye not always felt as though ye were born into the wrong place and time?”

  Georgie said nothing. The woman was obviously crazy. As cracked as that tile she’d accidentally knocked off the workbench yesterday. Searching for a place to fit in? What nonsense! She was just fine, thank you very much!

  And yet, despite her protests, she found Irene’s words stirring up unwelcome feelings. Georgie’s mother had died when she was a baby, and she and her father had spent years traveling around as he chased whatever work he could find. As a result, Georgie’s life had always had a transitory feel, as if nothing in it was ever permanent.

  But she didn’t need a strange old woman telling her that.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Georgie snapped, lifting her chin and forcing herself to meet the woman’s penetrating stare. “You must have got the wrong person.”

  “Oh, I dinna think so,” Irene replied. “Sometimes the balance is thrown off kilter and we are born many miles and many years away from the place we should have been—and from the people who are meant to fill our lives. But it is never too late to change the path ye are walking and find the correct road once more—if ye have the courage to change direction. What will ye do, Georgie Smyth? Do ye have that courage? When yer choice comes, will ye take it? Will ye have the strength to walk a new path? Or will ye continue on this one, never really finding the place where ye belong?”

  Georgie opened her mouth for an irritated retort, but the words died on her lips. Her thoughts fluttered like leaves in a breeze. Who was this old woman? And why did her words send Georgie’s thoughts spinning?

  Irene smiled, reached up and gently patted Georgie’s cheek. “Think about it, my dear.”

  She released Georgie’s hand, then turned and walked out of the workshop. Georgie stared after her, too unsettled to move. Then the fog cleared. She shook her head and ran after Irene, bursting into the little courtyard outside the workshop.

  “Irene, wait!” she called. “You can’t just say things like that and walk off! What did you mean—”

  The words trailed off as she realized there was no sign of Irene. She turned in a circle, searching for the old woman, but she wasn’t in the courtyard. Georgie ran to the gate and scanned the street both ways. It was empty.

  What the—?

  Georgie blew out a breath, then wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. What had just happened? Had she imagined the whole thing? But Irene had been way too real for that. She could still feel the impression of the old woman’s fingers around her wrist.

  I don’t have time for this, she thought, grinding her teeth in annoyance. Crazy old women and stupid ramblings are the last thing I need!

  Determined to push the incident from her mind, she returned to the workshop and began clearing up. When this was done, she picked up the camera and made her way into the office in the tiny house she shared with her father on the far side of the courtyard from the workshop.

  Seating herself in the battered swivel chair, she turned on the computer, logged in, and plugged in the camera. Through the wall she could hear her dad on the phone to someone in the other room but couldn’t make out the words.

  She waited impatiently as the old computer loaded, then uploaded her latest video to her channel, scanning to see if she had any new subscribers or comments. She didn’t. Georgie sighed. Maybe her father was right. Maybe this really was a waste of time. Georgie’s channel had less than a hundred subscribers so there clearly wasn’t much demand for videos on stonemasonry, but Georgie was getting desperate. They’d exhausted just about every other marketing possibility they could think of, and nothing had worked.

  She leaned back in the swivel chair and closed her eyes. She was tired. Her limbs felt heavy and she wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot bath and then lounge in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. But that would have to wait. She still needed to do the accounts.

  With a sigh, she opened the spreadsheet, pulled over the box of receipts her dad kept by the computer, and began.

  The door suddenly burst open and her father came hurrying in. He was a big man, muscular still, despite being past his middle years, a testament to a lifetime as a stonemason. But lately
there was a certain dullness in his eyes, and his step had lost that enthusiastic bounce it had once had. Although he always put on a brave face, he knew they were in trouble.

  But right now he was grinning like a kid. His eyes glinted, and his eyebrows were trying to climb up his forehead.

  “You’re never going to believe this!” He clutched a piece of paper as though it was a winning lottery ticket. “You’ll never believe who I’ve just got off the phone to!”

  Georgie frowned. “Hmm. Let me see. The curators of the Colosseum? They’re so impressed with our work they want to hire us for a full restoration job? Or maybe it was someone from Westminster Abbey? They’re giving the whole nave a face-lift and have offered us a ten-year contract?”

  Her sarcasm didn’t dampen his spirits. “Not quite, but still exciting. I’ve just had a conversation with a very nice lady from Scotland. And guess what? She wants to hire us! Or, more accurately, she wants to hire you. Saw some of those videos you’ve been posting online and has offered you a contract! I always said that channel of yours was a good idea.”

  Georgie raised an eyebrow. “No you didn’t. You always said only weirdos would watch it. Wait a minute. A contract? In Scotland?”

  His grin widened. “Good to know there’s nothing wrong with your hearing. She’s restoring an old building and has struggled to find decent stonemasons—ones who can do the intricate work she needs. When she saw your video, she knew she wanted you. This could be it, Georgie! Your big break. If you do well on this contract who knows what it might lead to? I know you’ve always wanted to work on historic buildings, well this is your chance! Scotland is full of them!”

  Georgie took a deep breath. This was all a little overwhelming. “Who is this woman? Her name wasn’t Irene MacAskill, was it?”

  “Irene who? No, why?”

  Georgie shook her head. “Never mind.” It must just be a coincidence that she’d met a Scottish woman and was now being offered a job in Scotland. “Who is this woman then? And how do you know she’s genuine? It might be a prank or something.” After the day she’d had, that would be the icing on the cake.