Through the Veil

by Kyra Whitton

  “Yeah. I told you should bring him ‘round, but you never did. I figured it wasn’t that serious or you scratched that itch and found it… lacking,” she purred mischievously before taking a long sip of diet orange soda.

  Hungry, Evie, bit into the fish and chewed automatically, but it lost some of its taste as she focused on what Sarah said. She couldn’t enjoy it knowing everything was incredibly, decidedly not right.

  “Evie,” Sarah murmured softly, leaning forward. Her forehead puckered as if she suddenly realized something about Evie was different than she remembered. “Why are you really here?”

  ****

  Evie pushed through one of the traditional blue doors and took the stairs up to her advising professor’s office. Most of the history faculty had their offices in an old—by American standards, anyway—building overlooking the North Sea. The little street on which the building was situated was the northernmost lane, a large stone wall separating the street from the shore. At one end, St Andrews Castle crumbled into the sea, at the other, the Old Course rolled off into the distance.

  The door stood slightly ajar, her office hours having begun fifteen minutes prior. Evie knocked quietly before poking her head in.

  Evie assumed Sylvia Bascomb-Murray was somewhere in her mid-forties. Her dark hair was strung through with bits of silver, and the straight-as-straw curtain hung down to her shoulders. Stylish reading glasses perched on her nose, and she moved them to the crown of her head as she studied the face of the guest at her door. A slow smile spread across her bright red lips and she leaned back in her desk chair.

  “Well, aren’t you looking well,” she crooned with warmth as she stood, her arms open.

  Evie had known the older woman would not be greeting her with the kind of reaction she had received from Sarah, but the embrace she received was just as welcoming.

  “I was unaware I should be expecting you back so soon,” she said as she turned back to her chair, motioning to the wooden one on the other side of the desk.

  Her office was cluttered, bookcases taking up any available space and filled to overflowing. Books lay on their backs, stacked six and seven high, teetering on the edges of the dark wood, one good dusting away from falling to the ground. It smelled faintly of must and old wood, dark from the dreary outside. The window offered little light even on the sunniest of days.

  “It was… unplanned.” Evie glanced at her watch; the afternoon was growing old and soon, the sun would be dipping from behind the heavy cloud cover to leave the streets dark. “With my extensive free time, until I am back full-time, that is,” she hastily added. “I was reading Women of Culloden, and I, um, I couldn’t help but wonder why you chose those women.”

  The professor raised her eyebrows. “You flew back from America just to ask me that? You have my email address. And my mobile number,” she reminded Evie dryly.

  “I was thinking I might like to do some research of my own in the field.”

  “In the field?”

  Evie’s palms went sweaty and she cleared her throat. Why did it feel like she was being grilled by the high school principal for skipping a class? “I have a particular interest in Elizabeth Carlisle.”

  “Mmm. There is precious little about her other than what her husband wrote. There are some accounts kept by the British Army and locals about the uprising of clan women she incited, but most are gossip at best. There aren’t even records of who her mother was or when her father inherited. We knew she had a brother, but only because of her husband’s writings. We know where the family holdings were but have no idea where she was even born.” She held up a hand and gave a slight shrug to her shoulders. “Usually there are baptism records, but there is nothing for her entire family. It’s as if they were born of nothing, just arriving on the scene for the uprising, and then disappeared just as fast by giving their lives to the cause.”

  Evie leaned forward, ignoring the twinge in her hip. “But why her? Flora MacDonald’s contribution speaks for itself. As does Anne’s. But Elizabeth Carlisle didn’t smuggle a prince to safety or lead a company of men. She… protested.”

  The professor’s lids fell heavy in thought as she contemplated her student’s question, her lips slightly pursed toward the fingers she held steepled in front of her face. “You ask an important question. Perhaps one I didn’t explore to its fullest potential. Her contribution was at the back of my mind, but I could never seem to make what she did fit into the historical context. She was… ahead of her time. This was a young woman who mobilized other women in a way the world didn’t see again for at least a hundred years. More.”

  “But in France—”

  “Instigated by men.”

  “Couldn’t we say the same about Elizabeth?”

  “Perhaps. But she—none of them—intended to march. Not then, not ever. They were alone in their march; no men stood at their sides. She mobilized an all-female force, and quickly. Nor was it to the tune of being the exception, but that the fight belonged to all of them.”

  “So why include her?”

  “Why not include her?” The older woman’s eyebrows puckered together. “Someone else posed that question to me when I was first beginning my research. I had traveled to Culloden’s historical center to speak with one of the curators, and she was the one who suggested I include her.”

  “Would she still be there? This curator?”

  Evie was already making mental notes on the map of Scotland. She would start at the Carlisle estate in Lanarkshire, make her way to the Meyner family seat at Loch Tay—if it even still existed—and then to the North to the moor if she still had questions. After that… well, she had no idea. Perhaps she would figure out exactly how she could use the Otherworld to her advantage.

  “It’s possible. This was a few years ago, however, and she was not a young woman then.”

  Evie uncapped her pen and reached for the paper she had folded up and shoved into her bag. “Do you remember her name?”

  “I believe it’s in my notes.”

  She turned away from Evie to click through the documents on her computer. The only noise was the gentle tap of new rain on the old window panes, the gentle tick of the analog clock on the wall, and the occasional click as the professor dug through the files. The minutes stretched uncomfortably.

  “Ah, here it is. Mary Baird.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Evie spent the duration of the evening poring over the peer-reviewed journal databases for any information about the other Alexander Carlisle and his bride, Elizabeth Meyner. He was a source of very little academic inquiry, his name appearing more in passing than in any sort of subject matter. She found herself feeling almost a bit sorry for the youngest son of the duke; great detail was put into the study of his father, and yet his life was relegated to two or three lines in any given text. Even his wife received a few more passing nods, though the only primary sources of her life were the journals of her husband. Evie half-wondered if he had made her up, some sort of mid-eighteenth century pre-internet trolling.

  The journals were a part of the university’s rare books collection. She requested access to them, knowing the appointment would include hours down in the dark basement rooms, her hands covered in white cloth gloves, likely learning nothing she didn’t already know.

  The great hulking palace that had once been the family seat of the Carlisles was torn down in the early twentieth century, so she wouldn’t be visiting it for any additional digging. One of the crown jewels of Europe, and all that was left were the sprawling parklands. She sat scowling at the screen as she realized the first act of her plan was shot to hell.

  “Are you going to growl at that thing all day?” Sarah lounged on the sofa, her socked feet rocking to the beat of the music playing from her phone.

  “No. Yes.” Evie tapped her fingers on the mouse pad. “Can I borrow your car?”

  “Are you going to drive it into the side of a lorry?”

  Evie rolled her eyes toward her frie
nd and pursed her lips. “The thought did cross my mind,” she mused wryly. “But no, I need to take a trip to Loch Tay and I like my consciousness, thank you very much.”

  “Why would you go all the way out there?” Sarah wrinkled her nose as her lips pulled back into a disgusted grimace.

  She had made her preference for the city life very well known during their time living together. While Evie was ready to give up her creature comforts for short bursts of time, Sarah wouldn’t even consider visiting the country. “What for?” she had muttered once when Evie had invited her to see Dunnottar Castle near Aberdeen. “I can see pictures on the web any time.”

  “I don’t know,” Evie grumbled. “Chasing ghosts.”

  “Ooh, well, in that case, you are more than welcome to it. It desperately needs petrol, though, so don’t get any ideas about not filling it up.”

  The car was more for show than anything else, Evie suspected. It was used biweekly for clubbing in Dundee, but little else.

  Evie rolled her eyes. “Want to come with me?”

  “To Tay? Not on your life.”

  “There’s supposed to be some snow. I’ll buy lunch?”

  Sarah snorted. “I fully intend to be hung over all weekend. Especially if there is snow.”

  “You’re the worst.”

  “Why don’t you just wait a week? Go later.”

  “Because the money in my Bank of Scotland account is already dwindling.”

  “And you can’t ask Mummy and Daddy for an advance?”

  Evie faked a dramatic eye-roll. “They don’t exactly know I’m here.”

  Sarah shot up, her wild curls bouncing around her like a dark cloud. “Where do they think you are?”

  “Asleep in my bed?” Evie muttered to herself, but then said more clearly, “Visiting my sister?”

  “And your sister won’t let that slip?” She made a face that told Evie Sarah thought she wasn’t terribly bright.

  Evie shrugged. “I’ll deal with it later.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes and flopped back onto the pillows. “Wanna hit up the pub tonight?”

  Evie shook her head and suppressed a yawn. “I’m surprised I made it this late.”

  She shot a glance at the clock on the computer screen. It was just past six. Dark outside for hours, already, the winter nights were long on the shores of Scotland. And the last time she slept had been for a few hours on the plane, cramped up in a window seat near the lavatories, her head resting on her curled arms atop the tray table. Just the thought of it had her rubbing her eyes, which were dry and burning ever so slightly.

  “Could you make sure I am up when you get up?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said, the frown entering her tone of voice.

  Evie waved goodnight to Sarah and yawned, her bare feet slapping on the wood as she slunk into her room. It was much the same as she had left it, minus many of her personal items. The bed was unmade, her sheets and quilt folded neatly on the foot of the mattress; courtesy of Laena, probably.

  Rather than making the bed, she kicked off her jeans, pulled her bra off through one sleeve, and threw open the quilt, wrapping it around herself as she fell onto the bed. She didn’t even bother hunting down a pillow, the absence of one only entering her mind moments before she had drifted off to sleep.

  ****

  She dreamed of golden fields. Of tall grasses skimming her hips, waving like the sea, autumn winds flirting with the heads as they bowed and danced. A heavy sun hung low in a clear sky, casting shadow and flaxen light across the vastness of the lands. Twenty yards ahead was the man in the hood; he moved with the fluid grace and ease of a stag. Between them was a soft female figure, her hair like fire in the sunlight, a riot of curls falling wild over her shoulders.

  Sweat dripped down Evie’s back, a trickle worming its way from somewhere between her shoulder blades all the way down to the waistband of her breeches. She itched to wipe it away, to splash the dirt and sweat and grime from her flesh. To soothe away the ache of her feet.

  But the breeze felt lovely, cooling the glistening tracks framing her sun-kissed face, running over her jaw, dipping into the collar of her tunic.

  She ran a gloved hand over the swaying grasses, her fingertips scattering tufts of fuzz into the air. She looked down at her hand, at the leather vambrace crisscrossing her wrists and forearm, noting the intricate details there. Three twisting circles, a triangle between them.

  And when she glanced back up, the woman between her and their leader had vanished, and instead, there was another there. At first she thought Alec had joined them, but his silhouette was all wrong. He was tall, but with the shape of a gymnast, not Alec’s lithe swimmer’s body. His arms were left bare, toned with muscle, well-sculpted, shoulders straight. A tattoo ran down his biceps, under the leather jerkin covering his back. The blue ink stood in sharp contrast to his sun-kissed skin. He turned, as if to make sure she was there, a mischievous smile splitting his bronzed face, and black hair flopping across his brow.

  Calum.

  ****

  Evie shuddered awake, dragging in air as if she had stopped breathing, filling her lungs.

  She hadn’t dreamed of Calum since before Evan showed up at her parents’ with a bottle of mustard. And then, they were nothing more than snippets, usually the memory of him at St. Rule’s tower, looking up at her, the sun shining in his face.

  He had looked so happy, as if the joy he felt would consume him. As if he would never be happier. As if she had given him the greatest gift in the world.

  She snuggled back down into the quilt and wondered if he would still feel that way now. After knowing how easily she had given herself to someone else.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alec approached the caravan circle on silent feet, keeping to the darkness just beyond the campfire’s light. He leaned against one of the brightly-colored wagons and waited. The notes played by the lone fiddler were haunting, low, the song of returning to a homeland where you no longer belonged. He had heard it many a time, a guest at just such a bonfire.

  Few knew the Ellyll were the unseen eyes and ears of the Otherworld. They were the silent, the few. The forgotten. They existed on the fringes, wanderers, their caravans dotting the landscape between.

  They were of the ancient race, the one there before time, before the gods created and entered the Earth realm. As their deities slipped across the veil, to the wilds unknown, it had been that ancient race of Ellyl who joined them. They who lived among the humans, worshipping their gods and plying their magic in a world only just born. When the gods retreated, the Ellyll, now a race that looked nothing like the humans and, yet, nothing like their ancient homeland ancestors, followed, but to find a much-changed Otherworld.

  Their home was nothing more than a distant memory, their magic diluted by Earth and the humans with whom they had mingled. The faeries they had once resembled were strange and no longer welcomed them into their towns and cities. They belonged not with the faeries, nor with the humans, and so they wandered, keeping to themselves, stoking the fires of fear and distrust. Many called them elves for their pointed ears and their slender builds, their lack of magic. It was a reminder that even with their immortality in the Otherworld, they were no more magical than the horses pulling their wagons.

  “Your hair is much changed, pet. I almost did not recognize you.”

  She was a slight thing, like her people, with silvery hair and moon-white skin. She was dressed in a simple green tunic over a calf-length brown skirt that showed off the intricately stitched stockings under the laces of her gilles. He gazed down his nose at her, not straightening his stance, his eyes sharpening at the jab.

  “And you are just as you’ve always been.”

  She lifted a shoulder, not looking at him but at her people gathered together around the fiddler. “It’s been some time since last you joined us.”

  “Has it?”

  They both knew he referenced the fact that time stood still here. Events played out,
one falling after another, but otherwise, they dwelled in a place where time stood still. Nothing changed in the Otherworld.

  But in terms of events, many had passed since he saw her last. It was with these people he had finally come to terms with the fact that his life would never be as he imagined it. He had come back to the Otherworld and been lost, without direction. In those days, he and Delyth had become friends of sorts, and it was she who had first instructed him in the ways of the healers. With her he found he enjoyed the mending of bones, the stitching of flesh. He far preferred it to the hunt. To killing. He owed her for much of the peace he eventually found.

  “What brings you to us?” she murmured.

  He had known those soft lips, once. When he was broken and thought he would never be able to piece himself back together. She had helped with that, too.

  A lump formed in his throat. “I found her,” he whispered, his voice threatening to break. “And I think she has slipped back here. Have you, do you know anything?”

  She raised her nearly-invisible eyebrows and turned to him for the first time. “You ask me to track down your dead once more?”

  He repressed a shudder at the thought. “No, no. She would have passed through the veil alive. She is looking for someone in one of the solstice courts.”

  “You wouldn’t need to be asking your questions here if a mortal were sniffing around the kings. Especially the way things are.”

  He narrowed his eyes in a question he didn’t need to ask.

  “An emissary of Arianrhod, a witch of the Archives, tricked Arawn out of his general. She dragged him from the battlefields before the great battle of the Ford and disappeared with him, likely back to the Archives. His fury rings through every corner of the kingdom.”

  The Archives were Arianrhod’s domain, where she had retreated with her magic-wielders when the gods abandoned his world. But Alec knew Arawn’s general wasn’t cloistered in the Archives to the North, and by the amused look in her eye and curve of her lip, he had a feeling Delyth knew it as well.