Chapter Seven

He hadn’t really expected to find Tank. Though it unsettled him, Cole wasn’t weighed down by any gut-wrenching fear that his friend was in actual danger. Part of him wondered if the way Tank’s voice and his image had blurred and grown distant suggested that Tank hadn’t been zapped through time with Cole. More than believing Tank was here in the 14 th century with him, lost in the harsh winter terrain, Cole imagined that Tank had been left standing on that mountain in the twenty-first century, scratching his head and wondering where the hell Cole had gone.

Tank would have likely made it back to town safely, was Cole’s guess. Maybe he’d already alerted the authorities, flagged down a mountain recovery team to search for a missing hiker—Cole had seen the signs and pamphlets scattered around the hiking store about the recovery services for lost climbers. The thought of those resources being spent on him, only to end up in a futile search, made him feel guilty. How could they know he’d slipped through time itself, seven hundred years into the past?

Despite his determination to focus on the search, Cole found it almost impossible to ignore his proximity to Ailsa, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist. The steady rhythm of the horse’s movements brought him closer with each jolt and dip, and he became aware of details he hadn’t fully noticed before: the warmth of her back against his chest, the slender strength of her frame, and the way her hair, loose strands escaping her hood, brushed against him. He almost regretted putting his arm around her earlier. He should have taken his chances, should have kept as much distance between them as possible, even if it would have meant he did eventually fall off the horse

It was cold enough that his breath clouded in the air, but he hadn’t once been bothered by the temperature. And while she seemed entirely at ease, her focus sharp on the landscape ahead, Cole wondered if Ailsa was aware of his physical presence and touch in the same distracting way he was.

He respected her skill with the horse—there was an ease about her riding and managing the horse that seemed second nature to her, communicating effortlessly with the animal with only subtle shifts and nudges rather than sharp commands and physical strength. His own lack of experience felt almost laughable by comparison, but with everything else he was dealing with, that hardly seemed to matter.

Still, even as he told himself to concentrate on staying upright and in the saddle, to keep his eyes peeled for any sign of Tank or evidence that he’d come to the past, Cole couldn’t ignore Ailsa’s steady warmth against him, the faint, earthy scent of her hair, and most improbably, the simple, disarming realization that he trusted her.

After several hours of searching, they’d turned around and returned.

Torr Cinnteag came into view.

Cole had his first real, complete view of the castle, its walls and towers looming up from the landscape as a startling scene of rugged permanence. The stone walls were imposing, not the weathered ruins he’d visited back in the twenty-first century, but fully intact and alive with activity. From the torches lit at the gate to the guards pacing along the wall-walk, Torr Cinnteag was unmistakably a castle in its prime. The stone looked newer, sharper at the edges, and though covered in moss in places, it lacked that eroded look he had seen since coming to Scotland. A clang of metal resounded from behind the gates, followed by some order barked in another language, and the growing wind brought to Cole the scent of woodsmoke and pine, marking the fortress as fully in use, not some abandoned relic.

With each detail acknowledged, the reality of his situation struck deeper. This wasn’t a scene from a movie, with set pieces arranged to look authentic. Nor was it some elaborate historical dream. In all their search today across hills and woodlands, he hadn’t seen one sign of the modern world—not a paved road, not a single power line, not the faintest hum of machinery or any trace of the twenty-first century. No plane crossed the clear winter sky, and no artificial light shone anywhere.

Ahead, the massive wooden gates swung open and they rode through into the courtyard, where men and women dressed in wool and fur idled in conversation, while others were busy with chores. One man chopped wood just inside the gate. There was nothing here but the raw simplicity of medieval life, and Cole couldn’t ignore the jarring fact: this was another time, another world altogether, one where the only thing out of place was him.

The group halted in the courtyard just as a light snow began to fall straight down, and the men began to dismount. Cole, unsure whether he or Ailsa should go first, hesitated, and Ailsa answered his unspoken question by swinging down with practiced ease. He realized, a second too late, that he hadn’t been watching closely enough to learn anything useful about getting off a horse. It seemed simple enough... maybe just swing a leg over and slide down?

“Do ye need help?” Ailsa kindly asked, unintentionally heightening his embarrassment.

“I do not,” he assured her, with more bravado than certainty. Trying to be subtle, he shifted his weight and managed to swing one leg over, but the horse shifted slightly, throwing him off balance. With a half-stumble, he landed, somehow managing to save himself from face-planting, so much less gracefully than intended. He straightened quickly and cleared his throat, brusquely brushing off his jacket. “No, no. I’m good. Just...getting my sea legs.”

Ailsa raised a quizzical brow at him, while a hint of amusement curved her gorgeous lips.

Sea legs? Seriously? I’m an idiot.

He glanced around, his gaze straying toward the small chapel, where the room was that he’d been given.

“I, uh, I guess I’ll call it a day,” he said awkwardly, considering the darkening winter sky.

Ailsa removed her hood, lowering it down to her shoulders. Absently, she pulled the length of her hair forward over her breast, one hand smoothing down the length of it while she used her other hand to point behind her at the castle.

“?Tis nearly time for supper,” she said, while snow landed and melted on her hair. “Mayhap ye’d rather enjoy yer meal in the hall than alone in the rectory?”

An invitation to dinner? He wasn’t about to turn that down. “Sure, I’m starving.” He realized right away how that sounded—like he hadn’t been well-fed. The truth was, the portions so far had been pretty light compared to what he was used to, but still, he felt like a bit of a jerk for implying anything lacking in their hospitality. He added quickly, “I mean, I’m always hungry,” with a smile, hoping to brush off more awkwardness.

Ailsa seemed to make nothing of his remark, returning his smile before turning and walking toward the castle, saying, “This way.”

Cole followed, not at all reluctant to spend more time with her, and not only because the room in which he’d been staying was pretty dreary and depressing, and he feared the evening would drag on relentlessly with only his own company.

The main door of the castle opened directly into a dim, cavernous space where flickering torchlight danced along thick stone walls, revealing their coarse texture and faint patches of aged mortar. The vaulted ceiling was impressively high, and crisscrossed with wooden beams, reminding him of Aunt Rosie’s church. He paused when something shifted and crunched beneath his feet. Glancing down, he saw that the stone floor was covered in what looked like straw and other dried plants, giving the grand room a very rustic, hayloft vibe. He guessed it might be used to add or hold warmth, and maybe to prevent slipperiness. This version of carpeting had a very earthy, kind of herbal scent, and he wondered if that served a purpose as well.

He continued forward but did not catch up with Ailsa, given pause by the sheer size and aesthetic of the room. Tall, narrow windows stood high on the interior wall, some of them covered with animal skins. Torches hung in regular intervals along the wall but still the huge room was dimly lit, the light shifting as did the flames. One windowless wall was covered in a hodge-podge of tapestries, flags, and weapons, adding color and what he supposed was meant to signify the Sinclair lineage and might. Being that the only heating source was a central hearth, a massive structure of stacked, rounded stones, he wondered if the animal hides and tapestries also lent a hand at insulating the room.

Rows of long wooden tables stretched across the hall, scarred by heavy use over many years, and lined with sturdy benches. The grand scale and arrangement of the tables reminded Cole of a college cafeteria, albeit far more solemn and charged with centuries of history, but the overall atmosphere of the nearly vacant room left him with an impression of both grandeur and simplicity.

A handful of maids moved through the space, one of whom he recognized as the same woman who had offered him bread and—strangely enough—beer first thing this morning. She gave him a brief glance as she passed, busying herself with setting the tables. The air smelled faintly of roasting meat and smoky firewood, with the underlying scent of something plant-like, perhaps from the straw and whatnot scattered on the floor.

Ailsa paused beside him, her eyes briefly following his as he took in the hall. “I’ll just be a moment to change,” she said. At his nod, she walked away, lifting the hem of her long cloak and her gown, possibly with a two-fold intent, to neither allow her clothes to drag in the straw and possibly get dirty, nor to disturb the floor covering itself.

With her departure, Cole suddenly became more aware of his surroundings and felt more conspicuously out of place. He shifted from foot to foot, and shoved his hands in his front pockets, trying to appear casual as he observed the room. Gradually, people began to trickle in: soldiers came in first, their boots echoing crisply across the stones near the doorway before being hushed by the scattering of straw, a strange but oddly practical rug beneath their feet. Then came others, bundled against the cold in worn but sturdy clothing, looking for all the world like the medieval peasants he’d only ever seen depicted in historical paintings and movies. Cole found himself watching with an odd sense of awe, seeing people from another world he couldn’t quite believe were real.

The awe he felt quickly morphed into another sense, one that nearly put him at ease, the ordinariness of their expressions. As the hall filled, he watched people wearing the same familiar emotions he’d see on any street corner in the 21st century. Some entered laughing together, others looking relieved to be indoors, brushing snow off their shoulders and stamping their feet to shake the cold. One boy, no older than four or five, tugged at his mother’s skirts, his small voice rising insistently for her attention as she juggled two younger children, trying her best to quiet him while casting an apologetic glance at the woman at her side. A wiry, middle-aged man entered, wearing the weary look of one who’d been working hard all day, his walk sluggish, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy, yet relieved to be somewhere warm and familiar. A few people glanced curiously at Cole, giving him sidelong looks as they entered, one woman nudging a friend and pointing him out. Others looked away quickly, trying not to stare, but unable to resist another look at the stranger in their midst. More children came, darting inside, racing ahead of their parents or bumping into others before casting glances that suggested they expected a reprimand.

Watching silently, Cole mused that despite the differences in clothes, lifestyle, and setting, human nature appeared unchanged by the vast gulf of centuries between them.

Ailsa appeared then, returning through a different door than which she’d left minutes ago. Her long cloak was gone, and her hair was no longer loose, but had been quickly braided and knotted at the back of her head, highlighting the shape of her jaw and neck.

Cole’s breath caught a bit as he took in her full appearance, unhidden by the heavy cloak. Ailsa wore a simple but elegant gown that fell in soft, natural folds to the floor, the dark wool fabric colored like rust really bringing out the blue of her eyes. Her sleeves were long and close-fitting, extending almost to her knuckles, but slit at the forearm to reveal a pale layer beneath, which matched the linen at her collar and cuffs, with a sewn-on design of leaves and flowers.

A wide belt cinched around her waist, adorned with a tone-on-tone embroidery that was detailed intricately enough to suggest it had been done by someone with great skill. It drew attention to the natural curves of her figure, and the way the gown skimmed down her body seemed designed to flow with each movement. She looked regal, but not in a way that felt forced or overdone—more like she belonged naturally in this setting, radiating a quiet elegance that set her above anyone else in the room. She looked both every bit the medieval woman and somehow timeless—like she could be just as captivating at a modern dinner party as she was in this ancient hall.

He told himself not to stare, and yet he couldn’t not look as Ailsa approached. Without the barrier of her loose hair or hood, her face was infinitely more striking. Her jawline was delicate but defined, her cheekbones high and smooth, adding a natural grace to her expression that seemed perfectly suited to the ancient stone around them. There was a touch of color on her cheeks that he recognized as a blush, and despite her clear confidence earlier today and here in her own world, Cole had a feeling that she was just as aware of him as he was of her.

Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, she looked almost self-conscious, though she quickly masked it, her lips lifting in the faintest, polite smile. His heartbeat sped up, and his return smile felt as natural as it did unexpected. His pulse thrummed, surprised by how easily her presence calmed him and captivated him. He wasn’t sure if she noticed, but it definitely felt as if he’d known her for longer than only a few hours or days.

Ailsa’s smile softened, and she gestured to the end of the hall where a long, solid table stood raised on a low platform. “Come and sit with me, Cole. A valiant search for yer friend deserves a proper seat.”

Cole felt a mix of gratitude and apprehension, even as he wasn’t sure his effort in the search could be construed as valiant. A spot at the head table seemed a little too formal, but the thought of sitting with Ailsa, close enough to watch the flicker of firelight across her face, compelled him to accept her invitation. As they reached the main table, however, the high-pitched voice of another echoed across the hall.

“Och, so the stranger sits at the head table now?” chirped that other woman often seen with Ailsa, her tone dripping with what seemed like playful yet pointed disapproval. She passed in front of the table, casting a dubious look Cole’s way and then fixing her gaze on Ailsa, one eyebrow lifted in unmistakable challenge.

“Pay Anwen nae mind,” Ailsa said, indicating the chair that Cole should occupy.

He made to sit but recalled his manners and shifted a bit, pulling out the chair in which Ailsa would sit.

“ Merci ,” Ailsa murmured as she sat.

“You speak French as well?” Cole questioned, having not even a smattering of a second language in his repertoire.

“ Un petit peu ,” she replied before returning to English. “Father Gilbert speaks many languages, and he's been teaching me—French, English, Latin—since I was a bairn. In the last few years, our laird decided that it would be useful for his soldiers to know some English—just enough for those who might find themselves face to face with Englishmen in the war. Most have a rudimentary knowledge while others,”—she shrugged, smiling faintly— “well, not everyone takes to languages as easily as others.”

Cole watched as Dersey, along with two other soldiers, took their seats at the opposite end of the head table. The rest of the chairs, including one richly adorned chair next to Ailsa—presumably her brother’s—remained unoccupied. Dersey made no effort to hide his disapproval, sending Cole pointed glares down the length of the table. Supposing that Ailsa likely outranked him and understanding that if she wished for his company at the head table, there wasn’t much Dersey could say about it, Cole let the man’s obvious contempt roll off him.

Ailsa nodded to a woman standing at the end of the table, maybe only waiting on Ailsa’s cue. The server immediately stepped forward, filling Ailsa's goblet with wine before moving on to the other guests at the table. Soon after, as people took their seats, the room bustled again, this time with a bevy of servers moving around, between tables, laying out platters of food.

Cole glanced down and then along the table, curious about the lack of utensils.

Unsure of the protocol and not wanting to misstep—still many sets of eyes were trained on him—he leaned toward Ailsa, inquiring, “Do they bring out the silverware?”

“Silverware?” She questioned, her brows knitting.

“Um, forks, knives, spoons,” he clarified.

She cast her gaze to his hip between them, her brow remaining drawn. “Ye lost yer eating knife?”

Pretty sure she wasn’t talking about his multitool, which did have a small spork and a selection of different knives, he shrugged and murmured, “I guess so.”

She caught the eye of one young kid carrying bread, giving him a simple but direct nod, requesting an additional loaf be brought to their table along with an extra knife—but oddly, not a fork or spoon. However, no words were wasted, and the kid scurried off without a hint of hesitation.

He contemplated the way Ailsa managed the servants and couldn’t help but liken her to a princess—maybe that wasn’t the right word, but as some rich person directing their servants. She was kind, polite, didn’t seem overly bossy, but it was evident she’d been born to the higher class, the ones who gave orders rather than received them.

Ailsa faced Cole again. “Would ye prefer a trencher or a plate?”

“I have no idea what the difference is,” he admitted, “so I’ll have what you’re having.”

In front of Ailsa looked to be the heel of a loaf of bread, flattened and wide, and he guessed that was a trencher, to be used as a plate.

A moment later, Ailsa summoned the next server to happen by, a young girl this time. She said something in her own language, ending it with a nod and smile, at which the girl nodded in agreement and scampered quickly away.

“Mildred will bring another trencher,” Ailsa informed him. “?Tis customary for us to share a trencher, and in some circumstances, that I should feed ye,” she said—straight-faced despite Cole’s widening eyes. “But my brother considers the practice unseemly and does nae allow it.”

Cole thought he might agree with her brother on this point. That sounded very awkward, certainly in the mixed and watchful company of the dining room. A few covert glances out into the hall showed that the skinny gaze of the woman, Anwen, was steady on him.

The extra trencher arrived. Cole tapped his fingers on it, sorry to find that it was rock hard. He’d assumed that whatever the dish with the meat and gravy was, it would be perfect for soaking into a soft, warm bread plate, something to mop up the rich sauce at the end of the meal. This thing, though, dry and solid, might have better served as a doorstop than anything meant to accompany food. He gave it another disappointed poke, wondering how anyone could manage to eat such a thing without chipping a tooth.

Ailsa was watching, he realized, meeting her puzzled gaze.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I thought it would be...different.”

A ghost of a smile curved her pretty lips before she picked up her own knife and began cutting into a roasted bird—chicken?—delicate but sure-handed.

The food itself was a mystery to Cole. He could only guess at each dish’s identity based on appearance: meat stews, hard bread, cheeses, and vegetables he couldn’t name crowded the table, none of it anything like what he was used to. His stomach rumbled, but he hesitated, unsure how to approach it. Everything seemed to be served in large cuts, and the arrangement was completely foreign to him.

"What’s this?" he asked, pointing to a small dish directly in front of them, something yellowish-orange and lumpy.

“Turnips, cooked in butter and honey,” she said simply, though her tone suggested she was more amused by his confusion than anything else.

"Turnips," he repeated. "I’ve only ever seen turnips at Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Rosie’s table.” And he’d never liked them, considering them too bitter.

He took his cue from Ailsa and everyone else dining in front of him, all of whom used only their knives and their hands to eat, and did the same. And he found that he was pleasantly surprised by the food. The meat was tender and savory, the cheeses not what he was used to but very tasty, creamier, and the turnips were hardly bitter at all. The bread was dense and kind of dry, but it had great flavor.

Still, the entire setting was surreal. As soon as he began to feel satisfied for the food hitting his stomach, he peppered Ailsa with questions, reminding her he knew nothing about the year 1302.

“So who pays for all of this? The food, the staff...this whole...operation?” He gestured vaguely at the hall, trying to make sense of it all. “Seems like an awful lot for just one place.”

Ailsa paused as she sliced another piece of meat, considering his question carefully. “It’s all part of the laird’s responsibility," she said after a moment. “Tavis manages the lands and the people here, he and Torr Cinnteag’s steward and bailiff. All these resources come from the land, the animals, and what we grow or trade." She continued, explaining how the complex web of feudal obligations worked—the people worked the land, paying part of their earnings in kind or in coin, and the laird, in turn, provided protection and resources in exchange.

Cole nodded, though his confusion hadn’t entirely dissipated. "And the... people? Are you all related? All Sinclairs?"

“The Sinclairs, of course, are a large family,” she replied, “but the ties are nae just of kinship. We have many allies, and some have become like family over the years. Some people live here by choice, some by obligation, but we all share the same cause—keeping the land safe and prosperous.”

It was curious, how she didn’t always or exactly meet his gaze even when she faced him and spoke directly to him.

Still, Cole liked leaning close to her, liked the scent of her, appreciated how perfect her skin was, no filter needed. He really liked her voice, which was neither throaty nor too high-pitched, was delicate but not too soft, just perfect for her. Her lashes sometimes fluttered when their gazes met, a subtle sign of hesitation, or maybe something else. There was something in the way her posture subtly shifted whenever he was near, a slight tension in her shoulders that spoke volumes. She wasn’t exactly avoiding him, but she certainly wasn’t as at ease with him as she appeared to be with everyone else. More than once, sitting so close, sharing the meal, their hands had brushed against each other’s, brief and accidental. Ailsa had yanked hers back much quicker than Cole had.

He thought she might be interested in him. He guessed she wasn’t terribly young, but her poise and confidence—how she commanded people and managed tasks—suggested she was capable, even tough. Yet right now and often during the search today, there was a certain shyness that softened her. It made him wonder if maybe she hadn’t had much experience with dating. Perhaps that was why she seemed so visibly nervous when he was close—her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, her cheeks occasionally flushing red here and there. It was a peculiar thing, to be both attracted to someone and yet so uncertain in their presence. It all seemed... well, medieval—so different from the boldness he was used to, where women didn’t shy away but took the lead. Where he was from, women were more forthright, they’d ask a guy out, even initiate a kiss and more. Because of his role in the Buffalo Bandits and even that silly calendar, he’d experienced his share of being pursued, mostly without any attempt at subtlety.

On the other hand, Ailsa seemed very at ease in her role as—what? Lady of? Mistress of?—the castle.

He said as much to Ailsa. “You are very comfortable here, with this life.”

That hadn’t come out right; it sounded as if he were judging her, maybe wondering how she could be.

Quickly, he added, “I mean, you seem happy here, a perfect fit inside a castle.”

Still, she must have considered his remarks strange. She tilted her head at him, her smile more confused than placating.

“My mam, when she lived, was a model of grace and responsibility,” she said. “She was warm and loving, indeed, but never failed to remind me of my place in the world—my duty to my kin. She’d say, ‘Ailsa, you are nae just a Sinclair by name, ye must prove it in every choice you make.’”

“What does that mean?” Cole asked. “What, specifically, is your duty?”

“I must never forget the importance of alliances in our world, or that the Sinclair’s survival depends on the strength of our connections. In other words, I must marry well to preserve our family.”

“You mean...like an arranged marriage?” He wasn’t sure how he knew the term, but he did.

“Aye.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“We, all of us here, have roles to fulfill. Mine is nae any kinder nae any meaner, than any other.”

Cole’s instinct was to challenge that, but he did not. This was another time, another world entirely from his own, where personal freedoms were something many never knew. In his world, people made their own choices, set their own futures. But here, where he was beginning to understand that loyalty to family and clan was everything, Ailsa's acceptance of her brother's decision made a painful kind of sense. She had no choice, not really. What he supposed was her meek acceptance wasn’t weakness, but the only path she had ever known.

“But if you had your choice?” He approached in a different manner. “What would you do?”

“I would never leave Torr Cinnteag, that much I ken.”

“Not even to travel? To see all the rest of the world?”

“I have nae traveled, surely nae as broadly or as far as you have,” she said, grinning a bit, which advised she spoke cheekily of years and not miles, “but I canna believe there is any place so beautiful as the Highlands, nor so warm and familiar as Torr Cinnteag.”

“It’s certainly different than from where I’m from.”

“And what is that like?”

He hesitated, wondering how much he should or wanted to reveal to Ailsa, having some reliable suspicion that she still didn’t believe he was from another time. However, he enjoyed her conversation, and she’d been very open with him. He figured he had nothing to lose.

“Well, for starters,” he said, lowering his voice after a cautious glance around to be sure no one was listening, “there have been a lot of advancements in basically, every area of life. So there’s modern roads, big highways, and we have vehicles that drive on them—vehicles being cars, automobiles, that are...I guess I would describe it as a mechanicalized horse, if you will. But it moves even faster than the swiftest horse, so that what takes hours here, to get from one point to another, takes us only a fraction of that time. But okay, let’s see, what do I like about where I live? Buffalo has...I’m not sure, maybe a quarter million people. Erie County as a whole has probably a million people, give or take.”

Ailsa’s eyes widened. “A million people,” she mused in whispered awe. “How do they survive? Who feeds them? Where do they live?”

“Everything is different now,” he paused, wincing, reluctant to use the phrase that came to mind but unable to conceive of an alternative, “er... in the future. People build their own homes. They work at jobs outside of their home. They earn regular wages. By the way, we live in a democracy—we don’t have a king.”

Once again, her eyes widened. She opened her mouth but apparently couldn’t imagine the next question to ask.

Cole grinned. “We have a president, voted on by the people. Oh boy,” he said, grinning, shaking his head. “Ailsa, this could turn out to be an entire history course on the birth of a nation and the American government. Probably best saved for another time.”

She nodded, even as she seemed to struggle with what little he’d divulged so far. “Very well. Then back to your home. Yer life. Tell me about it. What about yer family?” She paused, lifting her fingers to her lips, an expression of sorrow dampening her features. “Oh...yer family must be so worried about ye.”

“Aside from my aunt—Aunt Rosie, I think I mentioned her already—I don’t have any other close family. My mother passed when I was in second grade.” He shrugged. “My father died of lung cancer about ten years ago.”

“Ye lament the loss of yer mother more than yer father,” she guessed.

Stunned by her astuteness, wondering how she’d arrived at her guess, Cole questioned it.

And now Ailsa shrugged. “Yer voice changed, seemed graver when ye mentioned yer mother’s passing.”

That did not surprise him, so much as the fact that she noticed it. “My mother was...she was great, smart and funny, and all about family. My father, on the other hand, was...not any of those things.” But he didn’t want to get into that, drudging up all the unkind history of his relationship with his father. “All right, so I live in my own house. I drive to work in a car. I—”

“What is yer work? Ye are a craftsman?”

“A craftsman?”

“Ye are nae a knight, told me nae to call ye sir . Ye dinna ride and carry nae sword, so ye are nae a common soldier. Ye are nae of the clergy, I dinna believe. But ye are more... refined than a framer. Ye might be a craftsman.”

“Actually, I’m a fireman,” he said.

“A fireman?”

“Yep. In...well, in my time, we have fire...I guess you might call them fire brigades?” He ventured, but her expression hinted that was not the case. “A fireman’s job is to respond to a variety of emergencies, including fires, medical matters, hazardous material issues, and road traffic incidents.We also get calls for search and rescue for people trapped or injured. It’s not just putting out fires, though that's a big part of it—we do a lot of first aid, saving lives, and community education, with the goal of preventing disasters before they happen.”

She listened carefully, but he couldn’t read her polite expression, didn’t know whether she comprehended anything he’d said. So then, he didn’t think he should bother getting into his other job, with the Bandits. How would he ever explain the purpose of that, let alone the specifics of professional sports?

Catching a glare from Anwen while he consumed more of the food covering his trencher, he thought to ask Ailsa, “So, is Anwen your...sister?”

Ailsa showed surprise at his guess.

“Anwen is my maid.”

“Oh. Shit, really?” At Ailsa’s show of greater surprise, he explained. “I only mean, she’s kind of bossy with you, kind of like an older sister might be.”

“She was my nurse first and then my tutor, essentially, meaning she spent all my young life fostering me, plenty of time to ascend to her commanding role.”

Cole considered her, measuring her tone and inflection, coming to a decision. “You love her, but she annoys you. You resent that she still treats you like a child, even though you are clearly an adult.”

“Ye are nae far off in yer assessment. She is guid-hearted, but she laments the loss of control she has over me.” She leaned in toward him, whispering even lower, “She runs with every tale—every imagined indiscretion or wrong—to my brother, and I swear sometimes I just want to....to pinch her. Hard.”

Cole chuckled at this, having expected that she would threaten something a little more dangerous, maybe a slap or a dismissal. Pinch her? Not punch her?

Being from seven hundred years in the future, unsure how long he might stay, and fully aware that this could in no way be considered a date—despite the private conversation they'd enjoyed throughout the meal—Cole was sure of only one thing: if this had been a first date, he’d definitely be wanting a second.