After Rae Campbell is murdered by her abductor, she wakes in a world that exists parallel to ours- one which diverged in 1761, when a band of Scottish Highlanders joined with the Skin-Walking Kituwah tribe to oust the British from Appalachia.
Rae b...
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Unable to trust myself, I avoid Calum like the plague.
I find things to do to keep myself occupied in the company of those who already know our secret. Tessa takes me into the kitchen with her children and shows us all how to make scones from scratch. We make many- some savory with cheese and chives, others sweet with fresh-picked blackberries that stain the children's fingertips purple.
They are served at an afternoon family tea, where Calum and I are seated at opposite ends of the table, a barrier of human bodies strung between us. The men gesticulate wildly as they talk about tomorrow's upcoming ball game- because even in Dhaoine-Tir, men are obsessed with a piece of pig flesh sewn into a circle- and the women excitedly chatter about tonight's bonfire. I try and fail to ignore the rush of warmth that floods through my veins every time Calum's gaze rests on me.
Lady Alys then takes me on a walk through her extensive gardens- largely dormant, now that it is early November- but still offering expansive, stunning views of the Tanasi River and Chattanooga below. She shows me how everything within the garden walls were planted for both beauty and function, and gives me as many tips as she can in her broken English for how to cultivate the overgrown garden of weeds that awaits me in Calum's ancestral castle.
Many times, as we walk, I feel the uncomfortable prickle of an unwelcome gaze. It makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end and my flesh pebble, but every time I turn my head to find its source, I see nothing.
I retreat to my room, away from the prying eyes I feel but can't find, and Maise keeps my hands and mind occupied by trying to teach me embroidery. The threads get knotted and tangled and my stitches are clumsy and I absolutely despise it. Ness takes great pleasure from my frustration, and even Maise can't quite hold back her amused smiles.
Dusk falls over the mountain, painting the tree line below us in velvety purples and deep navy, kissed with the gold of the sunset upon their canopies. I dress in thick leggings, deerskin boots, a heavy woolen tunic and my tartan scarf to keep out the chill, and, as the deep of the night descends to kiss the earth, Maise, Ness and I head out into the darkness.
We walk through the pitch black down a gravel path sparsely lit with burning torches, and as we do, we begin to encounter other small clusters of people heading in the same direction. It is too dark to make out their features, but their voices are full of excitement. As we make our way further down the mountain, more and more people enter the trail, and from their conversations, it sounds like some of them travelled from a few towns away to make the occasion.
As we draw closer to the mountain's base, the slow, measured beat of drums begins to fill the air. Around us, people begin to pick up their step, hurrying forwards, the air charged with their anticipation. The sound of women's voices singing in minor key floats along the chilly breeze, and the drums grow ever-louder. I stumble and catch myself against Ness' shoulder as the ground abruptly slopes downwards, and she clicks her tongue at my clumsiness.
