Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

T he next week passed slowly. Amelia was more mindful, now, of the significant adjustment she was making, and in the interests of avoiding any more late-night bouts of hysteria, she was taking things slowly and focusing on taking care of herself. And that meant getting back to training. She was a little worried about drawing strange looks from the locals, but given that that was bound to happen anyway, she figured she might as well be doing the one thing that had always been good for her mental health.

Of course, clothing presented a difficulty. She’d had vague intentions of getting hold of some more practical clothing, assuming she couldn’t just rely on the one pair of leggings she’d brought with her from the future… but the more time she spent here, the more she realized that women simply didn’t seem to bother with trousers most days. The most easily available clothing were the gathered skirts that everyone seemed to wear, and though it seemed ludicrously impractical, Amelia couldn’t help but reason that the women who did the bulk of the work around here — the servants and maids who kept the Keep running — seemed perfectly happy in their clothing. Surely if the skirts were so impractical, they’d have found an alternative solution. And she had to admit, there was something about having half of her body completely covered that made her feel an odd sense of relief. She’d spent far too much of her short life feeling acutely aware of the way men’s eyes roamed across her legs and lower body, appreciating her in a way that had nothing to do with her athletic ability.

All that aside, it still took some adjustment, training in skirts. She took to rising as early as she could to make use of the courtyard before all the guardsmen came out to run their regular drills — the sound of clattering wooden swords always set her teeth on edge, and besides, she didn’t like the feeling of their curious eyes on her, even if they were generally polite enough not to bother her. She’d run drills for the first part of the morning, and as the castle began to warm up, she’d take herself out for a long run. The first few days, she stuck close to the castle, wary of getting lost in the fog again and winding up even further in the past— a fear that made Delilah laugh when she shared it later, over breakfast. But it wasn’t long before she was venturing a little further afield, exploring the area around the Keep, and even running down the road toward where the local village lay… though Delilah’s warning about suspicions of witchcraft rang clearly in her head, and she made sure to turn back well before any curious villagers might spot her.

It felt good to be training again, even if she was finding it more of a challenge than she’d expected to work around the skirts. Part of her was tempted to just rip them off and train in her leggings until they fell apart, but that wasn’t exactly practical, was it? She had to keep in mind what the purpose of her training was right now — and as much as it hurt her to think about it, it wasn’t exactly likely that many competitive fights lay in her future. What she needed was to be able to defend herself — and that meant being ready to fight in the clothing she’d be wearing most of the time.

And so she continued to train in skirts, trying to focus on the positives rather than the negatives. True, the thick fabric tangled around her legs and presented a tripping hazard if she didn’t pay close attention… but the upside was that they obscured her stance and should make it harder for an opponent to figure out what her next move was. She began to work out the quickest ways of pulling the fabric out of the way to deliver a kick at full force, or to feint and dodge. Irritating as the project was, it felt good to have a project to focus on, at least. Maybe she’d master the art of medieval martial arts and share her findings with other women. From what she’d heard, the women around here were tough enough to take care of themselves — but a few tips from an expert couldn’t hurt, right?

As the days passed, another pleasant surprise made itself known in the form of one Hamish MacClaran. She’d been convinced he’d want nothing more to do with her after her embarrassing display the night he’d arrived, but to her surprise he continued to seek out her company. Their conversations didn’t get anywhere near as heavy as they had that night, which was a relief — but she found he was easy company, pleasant to talk to, not to mention easy on the eyes. That made sense, she reminded herself. He was a professional diplomat — he’d had a lifetime of practice at being a pleasant conversational partner.

What surprised her was how interested he was in her training. After a few mornings of training, she decided to add an evening session to her days, knowing that she’d sleep better if she was exhausted from a sweaty training session — and it was during one of these evening sessions that she realized Hamish was watching her curiously from the steps of the Keep. The sun had set long ago, and the courtyard was dark, lit only by the glow of torchlight from the men atop the wall and the windows of the Keep itself. Hamish wasn’t much more than a silhouette against the open doors behind him, but she recognized his shape immediately.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he said apologetically as she approached, taking a draft from a borrowed waterskin as she did. “It’s fascinating work. I’ve not seen it’s like before.”

“That’s not surprising,” she said, catching her breath and hoping she didn’t look as sweaty and disheveled as she felt. “You won’t find most of these styles around here for a few hundred years I’d guess.”

Hamish looked curious, patiently waiting for her to continue, but she bit her lip. Suddenly, she wished she knew a little more about the history of the martial arts forms she’d been studying since she was a child — or at the very least, that she’d focused on one enough to be able to specify where it was from. “Not that I could tell you much about who actually created them, the best I could say is they are from Asian countries mixed with some Brazilian moves,” she added, grimacing.

“You could say you’d invented them yourself and we’d be none the wiser,” Hamish pointed out, sounding amused. “It’s not as though we could — Google.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his careful pronunciation of the word. Earlier that day, she’d tried to explain the Internet to Hamish — the way it had made everyone think they were an expert on anything they could type into a search bar. Much of it had gone over his head, she suspected, but he’d been fascinated by the prospect.

“You’re right, of course. I should start a school. Get famous in the sixteenth century. That’d give historians something to think about, wouldn’t it? Medieval martial arts in Scotland.” Her smile faded a little as an unexpected implication of the joke surfaced. “I’m really never going back home, am I?”

Hamish reached out to touch her arm, gently, and it was almost enough to make her cry again. She took a deep breath instead, bounced her weight from foot to foot to ground herself in her body again, and waited for the feeling to recede.

“I can’t imagine,” Hamish said softly. “Being so far from home. But I hope it’s some comfort, at least, to know you’re safe and welcome here.”

“It is,” she said, meaning it. “Truly, it is. I couldn’t be more grateful to the Laird and to everyone for being so kind to me. I just… I miss my best friend, that’s all. She’s never going to know what happened to me.”

“She might,” Hamish pointed out with a soft smile. “If you make the history books, maybe she’ll read about you someday.”

It was a strangely comforting thought. Carmen always had been more interested in the theory and history of fighting than Amelia had. For Amelia, it was all about the here and now, the fight at hand — Carmen was the one who’d always seen the bigger picture, taking an interest in the history and development of the art form. If anyone was going to find some little entry in a history book about martial arts in medieval Scotland, it was going to be Carmen. Maybe she could get a message to her that way — tell her that she was okay, and that she loved her and missed her.

To her surprise, the next morning at breakfast, Delilah raised the very subject of letters as well as something else surprising. She wasn’t the first of the travelers to have felt sad about leaving friends and loved ones behind in the future with no way of knowing what had happened to them. There was a kind of ongoing letter-writing project among them, a plan to build a kind of time capsule with messages that would hopefully survive long enough to reach the future. There was some debate, of course, about just how much information could be shared. They didn’t want to risk some kind of time-travel cataclysm taking place, though a few of the women felt that this was overly cautious and indicated too much science fiction.

“Still, we’re pretty sure with as many of us that are here, and with the things we’ve been building, well, we’re pushing boundaries as it is,” Delilah said with a shrug.

“Building?” Amelia asked.

Delilah leaned in and whispered, “You know your phone?”

Amelia nodded and felt sad that the battery was almost gone. “What about it? It’s useless here.”

“Yes and no, we’ve got a way to charge it some, so at least you can still view your pictures and things that are on the phone itself. Fiona and some of the others have created a battery that works to boost your phone battery life. It might not last forever, but at least you’ll have the pictures and maybe a game?” Delilah said with a smile.

“Is that…” Amelia blinked. She’d never considered that the women would be so enterprising.

“Well, it’s a secret that only a few know, we don’t share it with anyone but between us and our husbands.” Delilah cautioned her. “We’d definitely be dealing with accusations of witchcraft if it were to be found out and we’ve made a pact to eventually destroy it before the last of us dies, but that will be years down the road.” She shrugged again. “But back to the time capsule. It might be nice to start working on a letter for your friends and family to put in it.”

“I don’t have any family,” she said automatically, feeling the habitual twisting of her stomach at the thought of her father. “Carmen’s really the only person I’d want to send a letter to.”

“That’s fine; oh, that reminds me,” Delilah said, wrinkling her nose a little. “I hate to be the bearer of gross news, but … a letter arrived for you this morning.”

“For me?” Amelia was thrown. “Who would write to me? Everyone I know here lives — here.”

“It came from Weatherby Manor, along with Lord Weatherby’s response to a letter from Laird Donal and Hamish.”

Amelia’s skin prickled with revulsion as she looked down at the envelope and recognized the name written on the back in flowery, almost unintelligibly ornate script. Even his signature was annoying.

Lord Taffington, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten their brief encounter.