Through the Veil

by Kyra Whitton

  “If you hear whispering of the names Evie or Calum—”

  “I know,” she murmured. “Will you be at the cabin?”

  He shook his head. “If she isn’t here, there’s one other place she would go. If she’s not there, I’ll send word of where you can find me.”

  “May Debrenua grant you speed.”

  “Thank you, Delyth.”

  She nodded and Alec slipped back into the night. Delyth turned back to the campfire, her gaze on the four crows watching from a tree branch at the edge of the clearing.

  ****

  Stone circles dotted the landscapes of the Otherworld. Some were less powerful than others, though no physical characteristics told of their strength. Alec always used the whisperings of the winds within their diameter to determine how best to use them.

  Alec squinted at the symbols on a small piece of paper. The closest stone circle to the Ellyll’s camp was a few kilometers away, in the middle of a farmer’s field. With each trip across the veil, he marked the location of the stone circle on a crude map he drew on the back of a title page he tore from a poetry book. He kept it rolled up in his pack, always within reach when he needed it for unexpected trips. It was usually tucked up against a raggedy leather-bound notebook used to record each jump. In the beginning, he allowed his own timeline to get so jumbled; he was seen by his professor and fellow students two places at once. Delyth was the one to suggest he keep notes for himself. Or, rather, she threatened to beat him over the head with his own shoe if he didn’t get his act together.

  He rolled up the map and shoved it between the journal and the other artifacts he could ever need this side of the veil or the other. Each little knickknack connected with a time and place, ensuring he returned to the correct year and location. They were especially important when the stones lacked a powerful connection to the mortal world. Finding himself on the wrong continent only happened once, and he never wanted to repeat the experience.

  The journey across the gently rolling fields was lit only by moonlight and stars. The farmers of these valleys had long plied their trade, this ground a part of their bones. They tilled and tended their crops and the pasture beasts with a loving hand, the bountifulness of the land all they needed. These were not rich people, but they were also not people in need of monies. There was no poverty in the lands of the gods.

  Around him, the night creatures played, the sprites giggling in the grasses, their laughs like the chatter of chipmunks, the pixies flitting in the air, their songs the hum of their wings. They glittered prettily, buzzing through the air like brightly colored fireflies, their magic whipping behind them like condensation trails left by aircraft. Pixies were always most plentiful in the valleys of the warm-lands and kept away those who were unfamiliar with their kind. They avoided those passing through Hafgan’s and Arawn’s kingdoms and he rarely saw them up in the mountains near his cottage. Seeing some flit around Evie one evening at the cottage was a rarity, he had lived through many battles of the ford before he had seen his first pixie.

  The white standing stones rested on the crest of a hill, their smooth surfaces surrounded by a sea of waving wheat. As he approached, he swung his pack forward. He dug out a small signet ring and the ornament he used when last he had been in the Otherworld. This particular circle had a stronger bond with where he wished to go, but he wasn’t taking any chances. As he swung the pack back over his shoulder, he walked into the circle and listened to the tales it whispered.

  And then he thought of the one he once lost. Of her home.

  And of Evie.

  Chapter Twenty

  The bed was entirely too cold and empty when she woke up.

  She hurriedly dressed in whatever clothes she could find, many of her ripped up and faded jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts were still stuffed into the drawers of the built-in dresser. She pulled out a sweater that had belonged to one of Sarah’s one-night stands. Evie had confiscated it when the offender never came back around, wearing the gray cable knit on wash days.

  Her outfit made her look every inch the poor student, the jeans low-slung and tight but the shirt and sweater over-sized. But it was warm enough once she pulled on the boots and jacket. As long as she wasn’t stranded anywhere. For more than five minutes. Worrying about her utter lack of acceptable winter clothes kept her from focusing too much of her energy on the trip to come.

  Evie left before the sky lightened. The clouds had already moved in, heavy and dark, and she knew there would be no sun that day. She hoped to make it to the shores of Loch Tay and back to St Andrews before the winter weather rolled in. The winds had picked up though there was always a breeze coming off the water. Otherwise, it was quiet but for the faint whine of the seagulls; they never seemed to sleep, and she had always found their presence of some comfort.

  Nervous, she slipped into the driver’s seat of Sarah’s little car, hands shaking. To get out of town, she had to drive the same route that had killed Calum. Despite the fact that she questioned his entire existence, the pain and guilt and loss barreled back to her. Yet, the face she couldn’t get out of her mind wasn’t his. And the loss she felt was a different kind.

  The narrow roads, the opposite direction of traffic, the manual transmission, it was all a little daunting. But she managed to spend the few minutes it took the engine to heat up to talk herself into pulling into the street. And then turn to head toward the stop sign across from Chattan Hall. Pulse beating wildly, she eased the car out onto the road that would take her to the Leuchars roundabout where her whole world had gone topsy-turvy.

  As she had lain awake the night before, mentally planning the trip ahead, her thoughts would slip away, going back to a little cottage in the forest. Instead, she would try to dash those visions away with thoughts of Calum. Alec had betrayed any right to her brain space by not telling her Calum could be just across the mountain. It didn’t matter if it was true or not. The act of not telling her was the real crime. But the anger was really only a case of strong annoyance. Alec, after all, made her feel alive, again. And he challenged her in a way Calum never had.

  She knew she wasn’t the easiest person to live with; she held onto grudges for a long time, perhaps longer than any mortal person should. And she knew she was a little sarcastic, hardheaded, skeptical. She always had been. The loss of Calum had perhaps exacerbated some of her worst qualities. And Alec had risen to meet her head on. He never backed down. Never turned away from her. He never talked down to her or promised her fairytales.

  It didn’t matter. He was remaining on her shit list whether he liked it or not.

  Even if she missed him.

  Even if a fresh hole was ripped through her heart when she walked away from him.

  But he had lied and he had hurt her. And she didn’t need to hurt any more than she already did.

  Focusing on him made it easier to direct the car west. But the distraction only lasted so long.

  To the north of the road, the water sparkled faintly in the early gray light. It wasn’t darkness, but it wasn’t morning, either. The water lapped at the shores, at the edges of the tall grasses, at the borders of the farms. Her heart thudded as she approached the traffic circle and she turned the radio off despite the already low volume and inaudible thrum.

  Breathe. In. Out. Watch the cars. You can do this. You can do this, breathe. Breathe…

  And then she was through the circle and heading west. To Loch Tay. Toward Glen Lyon and Elizabeth Menzie Carlisle.

  ****

  Castle Lawers had no real business calling itself a castle, at least in Evie’s opinion. The seat of the Tay Meyner Chieftain was little more than a squat rectangle overlooking the loch’s waters. Built of unassuming gray stone, the structure was devoid of turrets or towers unless one got very creative and called its four stories a tower. Every inch of it was crumbling, as were most of the outbuildings, the stables, laundry, kitchens, and a barracks. Over time, they had become little more than half-walls and bird perches. All but
the visitor’s center, which marked the castle as one of the Historic Scotland sites.

  The visitor’s center was set inside a stone structure likely rebuilt over a pre-existing foundation to appear ancient itself. Some of the stones appeared old and weathered into softness, The top half was lighter in color, less grimy, and still had fresh, sharp edges. The foundation wasn’t much smaller than that of the main building and Evie wondered if it had been the stables at one time.

  The only other car in the graveled parking area was an old sport utility vehicle and she pulled up near it, scattering a cluster of crows pecking at the pebbles and rubbish left behind. She cut off the engine only after she gathered her purse, an unused notebook, and a handful of black ink pens.

  Outside, the winds stung like ice, the scent of the coming snows heavy on the sharp gusts. She pushed through the brightly painted blue door and inside, the air was warm, the temperature bordering on hot. An unassuming wooden desk stood in the far corner, a cash register that should have been replaced a decade before perched on its scuffed surface. A few touristy items were displayed around a postcard dolly.

  But the rest of the space was set up like a small museum. The light was terrible despite the building’s upgrade, and the displays were shabby. She intended to comb through everything there. But first she had to speak to the matronly woman she surprised when she walked through the door.

  “Good morning.” The woman bobbed her head in greeting, not a strand of silver-peppered hair moving from the severe bun perched atop her head. Skin flawless and unadorned of makeup, she could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. Her clothes were plain, a cable knit jumper over a pencil skirt too dull and misshapen to be anything but part of a uniform.

  “Good morning,” Evie murmured as she warily stepped toward the desk. “I was hoping you could tell me about the Menzie-Carlisle collection. I’m a post-graduate at—”

  “If you’re here tae see the castle, you’ll be wanting tae be quite quick. Weather won’t be getting any better.”

  “It doesn’t appear there is much to see,” Evie joked dryly.

  Not even a lift of an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I would love to see the castle,” she muttered and dug for her National Trust of Scotland card, which allowed her to see the castle without any additional fees.

  The woman looked it over, but averted her eyes away, as if she was bored, once she was done perusing the expiration date. From under the desk she withdrew a crude map of the property, and pointed to the different rectangles representing buildings, offering a brief overview of the significance of each.

  “And we hope you will enjoy the rich history found in our castle museum.” She pointed the pen toward the small exhibits behind Evie.

  “Thanks,” Evie muttered as she picked up the map.

  There was surprisingly less than she had originally anticipated. One case displayed some rusted tools, nails, and some other artifacts excavated from the foundation of the current museum building. Originally a workshop of some sort, it had contained findings that were far older than the foundation itself, some of the artifacts dating back to the Picts.

  The castle itself was originally built in the eleventh century but the records of who had inhabited it were lost. Mention of a brief occupation by British forces during the English occupation of the thirteenth century had been uncovered at the closest monastery. But otherwise, the castle was thought to have been unoccupied until 1745.

  Evie frowned. That couldn’t possibly be right. The castle, the Meyner chieftain, had only come to the area the same year as the second Jacobite rebellion?

  She turned back to the woman. “Was there another castle?”

  The woman looked at her like she had two heads. “This says the Meyners didn’t occupy the castle until 1745. Where were they before that?”

  The woman just pointed to a plaque on the other side of the display.

  After Lady Elizabeth’s capture and subsequent hanging, the castle was looted and sacked. All records of the small Meyner clan were lost but for the few personal journals of her husband, Lord Alexander Carlisle of Lanarkshire. Lord Alexander was either unaware of his wife’s family’s history or he did not feel it important enough to record. Most of the Meyner clan died at Culloden, and the remaining members, mostly women and children, disappeared, many likely fleeing to the Americas as indentured servants.

  Evie flipped open her notebook and jotted down a few notes, then turned to the northern wall. The whole of it was a display about Elizabeth Meyner, though Evie guessed the entire site was dedicated to her, minor player in the rebellion though she was.

  A slightly enlarged version of the miniature found in Sylvia Bascomb-Murray’s book was displayed next to the wall of text. It was all information Evie knew, almost a synopsis of the historian’s first Chapter about the young Scottish woman. The next column was about her marriage; how she had fallen in love with the son of the great Duke of Carlisle. That her fervor for the Scottish people was so great that she turned him from the country and king he had once served.

  She moved down the wall to where two portraits hung. She looked down at the captions first, which said they had been found in the cellar under some oil cloth in the early nineteenth century and kept in the home of the local vicar.

  She glanced up and swore softly as she looked right into Alec’s likeness.

  But it was the portrait next to his that caught her breath in her throat and threatened to choke her.

  Because she was staring into her old face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Evie shivered as she quietly walked across the gravel path toward the entrance of the castle. She wasn’t entirely sure how she had managed to steer herself out of the little visitors’ center and toward the stone structure a few hundred yards away, but she welcomed the cold whipping through her hair and through the fibers of her clothing. She was just as cold on the inside as she was on the outside.

  There was no logical reason why her portrait would be next to Alec’s. She and Alec must travel back in time. They could do that, right? It was the closest thing to a logical explanation she could find. But she couldn’t explain away the fact that the portrait showed her as she had looked before the accident. The way her chin had been a little longer and had jutted forward just a bit. How her face was slightly lopsided to the right. Her nose a little fuller, especially at the tip. Those fixes were ever so slight, but changed how she saw herself entirely.

  It was just the artist’s rendering. It had to be. She didn’t look that much differently than before. It was coincidence. Sheer coincidence.

  She huffed out a breath. Snow hung in the air, the scent of it sharp and stinging.

  There would be little for her in the castle ruin, but she owed it to Elizabeth—to herself—to see it, anyway.

  She stepped through what had once held a large door and looked up.

  It truly was a ruin. The roof was gone, ripped away by wind and rain and rot. Part of a second floor, constructed of stone, was visible in a far corner, but the uneven, square stairs had crumbled as well, and whole chunks of them were missing. The first intact step was well over her head.

  The castle was as empty and cold as it appeared; no one lingered. Not even ghosts.

  “Evelyn.”

  She whirled, her breath catching as her heart sprinted.

  Alec stood in the doorway wearing the same clothes she’d left him in. The first shadow of stubble grew on his chin and his cheeks. His eyes looked tired, but relief slackened his features, the worry smoothing from his forehead and the line between his eyebrows. Part of her wanted to run to him, to fling herself into his arms and his warmth, but she hung back, afraid she would betray herself.

  “I don’t understand what is happening.”

  Her voice cracked a little. She tried to control it, to stamp down on the huge lump in her throat threatening to choke her. It burned, bringing tears to her eyes, and she fought to keep from spilling over. She failed.

  He
took two steps toward her, but it was enough to bring him close without physically touching her.

  She just looked at him. “Tell me everything.”

  ****

  They sat in the car, the heat turned up to high, a gale force wind of tropical warmth blasting their faces.

  “I joined the King’s Army when I was barely old enough to shave. My eldest brother bought my commission, which, if I am to be perfectly honest, was far more generous that I ever would have expected from him. He was twenty-two years my senior and had little to do with me up until that point. Honestly, I think he wanted to save himself having to pay me an allowance commensurate to our brothers’. I was born seven months after my father’s death, so there was no mention of me in his last will. I would have been… expensive. So John ensured I would have a way to support myself. It was a good option for a younger son. I liked it.

  “And then my older brother, William, died. He had been sent to oversee the estate in Lanarkshire after a particularly embarrassing scandal involving a woman far outside the family’s social circle. The duke didn’t want to pretend he welcomed the lowborn wife of his younger brother to his great many parties—I was barely allowed in the door and I was his brother—and so they were packed off to the great North.

  “Our heritage was Scottish, and the title came from a Scottish king, not an English one. But keeping the Scottish estate was more of a symbol than anything else. The family had made London and a hall in the south inherited through my great-grandmother the primary residences, so Carlisle House was the perfect place to leave a spare heir who made a mockery of ‘all we hold dear.’ Anyway, when William died, John—my eldest brother—offered me the position. I had just made the disastrous decision to offer marriage to the second daughter of a wealthy earl. Her father laughed in my face, she right along with him. All of society knew of my folly and John was furious I had been so bold without even consulting him first. But he needed someone to run Carlisle, and he couldn’t be bothered. He hated Scotland. I would have free run of the house, given a monthly stipend, and I would take my own scandal away with me. So I accepted. I sold my commission and took up residence.