Page 7 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

The next day, Claire sat propped against the pillows, clearer-headed now, no longer fever-dazed, and not nearly so weak as yesterday.

The same teenage girl who’d poke at the fire yesterday had come half an hour ago with another tray of food.

Only now did Claire really notice what she’d been too muddled to register before: the tray was a hammered metal platter, the “plate” nothing more than a thick slab of dry, hard bread that doubled as a dish, and the drink wasn’t beer as she knew it but something close to it— except that it was cloudy, yeasty, barely carbonated, and with a sour tang that reminded her more of bread dough gone rogue than anything she’d ever ordered at a bar.

Since she’d decided this place must be some sort of old hospital, maybe even a relic of the past that hadn’t seen an update in a century or more—so old that it had no machines or modern equipment, maybe not even electricity at all, not that she’d noticed—she didn’t question it too much.

But still, bread for a plate and some questionable homebrew beer for breakfast was a little strange.

And yet, she managed to eat, had scarfed down half the bread and cheese, and even a few sips of the beer before Ivy entered the room.

“Oh, Claire, your color is so much better,” she remarked.

Claire tried out a smile. She did feel better. Certainly the gray fog had lifted from her brain, leaving only those burning questions.

“I thought you might be ready for some fresh air,” Ivy said, flapping out what she’d carried in with her, what looked to be a plain gown, similar to the blue one Ivy wore, except that it was the dull color of river stones.

Another long sleeve, even plainer dress unfurled next to it in Ivy’s hands.

“Your clothes are being laundered,” Ivy explained.

“This will do until then. Just something simple to wear over the chemise.”

The chemise? Claire glanced down, assuming what she’d thought was a nightgown was supposed to be the chemise.

She flipped back the blankets and turned, putting her feet on the floor as Ivy approached, offering the garments.

Claire smoothed a corner of the fabric between her fingers, noting the coarse weave. “This is... different.” She glanced up at Ivy’s gown, then back at the plain gray dress. “Is this how everyone dresses around here?”

Ivy nodded, though there was a pained expression about her face, her usual brightness dulled a bit.

Claire stared, then gave a small, incredulous laugh. “Are you in, like, a cult or something?”

Ivy barked out a nervous laugh, the sound too sharp. “No, no. Nothing like that. But yeah, it’s a bit old-fashioned, I guess.” She busied herself with removing the tray rather than meeting Claire’s gaze.

With only a little more effort than rising would normally require, Claire eased to her feet. Ivy helped pull both gowns down over the chemise, tying the laces at her back before stepping in front of her and smiling at the result.

“Would you like to step outside? Get some fresh air?”

“I would, thanks.” She didn’t want to complain, but the air quality in the room left a lot to be desired.

It wasn’t foul exactly, just...heavy. The constant fire left a faint haze of smoke clinging to the air, and the stone walls seemed to breathe dampness, as though they held the chill of the earth itself.

It was a closeness she wasn’t used to, and the thought of stepping into open air felt like the only cure.

Ivy twirled around then, looking left then right before lumbering over to the fireplace where she bent, not without difficulty, and picked up Claire’s sneakers from where they’d been drying by the fire.

“No socks,” she said with a hint of apology. “They should be returned today with the rest of your clothes.”

“Thanks,” Claire said and sat back down to put on her shoes before Ivy pulled open the door and they left the room.

The corridor beyond was dim, the air cool, the stone underfoot unexpected—she’d have pictured tile floors even in this old place. Claire followed Ivy, a frown darkening her brow, guessing that she’d been placed in a rarely used, and somewhat drafty wing of the hospital.

But as they moved on, she realized this was...nothing like that, not a hospital at all. They turned a corner and descended a narrow set of stairs that opened into a vast chamber. The room was wide, the ceiling soaring so high that the beams disappeared into shadow.

People, dressed as oddly as Ivy and now Claire, too, moved about with quiet purpose, women with baskets, a boy hurrying past with a bucket, a man stacking firewood near the hearth.

Claire stopped short, unsettled. “Where...what is this place?” she asked Ivy, her voice low, fearful that she was going to be confused again, that things wouldn’t make sense today after all.

“This is Caeravorn, the home of the Kerrs,” Ivy answered casually, waving Claire along toward the door.

Claire followed obediently, supposing now that she’d been found or taken in by a family and was not in a hospital.

Outside, an enclosed courtyard opened wide, fenced by towering walls mottled with moss.

A massive gatehouse loomed to the left, its iron-bound doors shut, twin towers hulking above.

Several squat buildings lined one side, their roofs thatched and weathered.

The smell of hay and horse drifted on the air.

The yard itself was hard-packed earth scattered with straw, more realistic than any of the castle sites she and Jason had visited here in Scotland.

“This is...” She turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in.

“...picturesque. Really well done.” Her laugh came out thin, a little nervous.

“We only visited two castles, and honestly they were kind of disappointing. All the modern stuff ruined the vibe—smooth walkways, fire extinguishers and exit signs every twenty feet.” She glanced up at the figures up on the elevated walkways—was one of them wearing a helmet?

“But this—this feels authentic. Like, uncomfortably authentic,” she added, thinking of the chamber pot.

And then it dawned on her, “Oh, wait. This isn’t a tourist place,” she guessed, following Ivy through a man-size door in the side of the wall.

“Like these Kerrs actually still live and work here—it’s a working castle and not a historical site?

” And these people eschew every modern convenience?

“You are at a castle,” Ivy said, using both hands to shove the door closed behind them, “but no, this isn’t merely a historical site—and it’s not a reenactment, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ivy said gently. “It’s more of a... well, as you said, a working castle.”

Ivy continued to walk along a narrow path that flanked the castle wall and opened suddenly to a cliffside view.

A body of water stretched out below, a broad sweep of silver-blue water broken by the dark shapes of scattered islands.

Sunlight struck the surface in shifting patterns, glinting where the wind raised whitecaps.

Claire’s breath caught. She had always loved the sea, and was momentarily spellbound.

The cliff beneath her feet dropped steeply, the slope jagged with dark stone and patches of wiry grass.

At its base, the water pressed and surged restlessly, tugged by invisible currents, swirling into froth where it met slick rocks.

For a moment, all her questions slipped away. She only wanted to breathe it in—the sharp taste of salt on the air, the sweep of sky and water that made her feel small and yet so vividly alive.

Beside her, Ivy shaded her eyes, gazing out toward the horizon. “This is the Firth of Lorn, I’ve been told. There’s a path further along,” she added vaguely, nodding to the left. “Takes you down to a beach.”

It took Claire a moment to catch the unexpected part— I’ve been told , Ivy had said. She turned to look at her, their skirts pressed flat against their legs, the fabric tugged and fluttering in the insistent wind.

“You don’t live here?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, um, no. I don’t.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Then...well, you’re American. I can see that much—or hear that much, since you have no accent.”

“I am,” Ivy agreed.

It seemed to Claire that she was holding something back, she was too hesitant in her answers.

“Do you know,” Claire asked next, slowly, drawing out the question, an idea forming in her head, “what happened to me? How I wound up here?”

The question seemed to strike Ivy like a blow, yet one that she’d expected.

Her mouth pressed tight, her eyes flickered down and then back up, as though she couldn’t bear to hold Claire’s gaze.

Color drained from her face, leaving a look of raw guilt, as if the truth she carried was too heavy to speak aloud.

A bit miffed by this change in Ivy, who seemed to have answers and might have shared them before now, Claire pressed, “Well, do you mind telling me what happened?”

“Yes, of course, but Claire, come away from the edge,” she said, a pleading note in her voice.

She stepped backward and Claire followed, and then Ivy took her hand and drew her beneath a wide-limbed tree, shading them both. “Claire,” she said, earnest, steady again. “There’s something I have to tell you. Something impossible.”

Claire swallowed hard. She wanted to laugh, to demand the punchline. But Ivy’s face wasn’t teasing. It was grave. And then Claire’s breath left her, wondering if she were about to tell her Jason was dead.

Instead, Ivy said, very matter-of-factly. “It’s the end of August. The year is thirteen hundred and five.”

For a heartbeat Claire thought she’d misheard. Then the words landed, heavy and absurd. She waited for more while Ivy stared at her with great expectation, as if she’d delivered the impossible news.

Claire blinked, then barked a short, harsh laugh, hardly amused. “Funny,” she said. “Very funny.”

Ivy shook her head. “I know it sounds—”

“Yes, impossible, you said that,” Claire snapped. Her voice was clipped, edged with panic. “Jesus, what is wrong with you? With everything about this place and the strange people in it?”

“Claire, I wish I was making it up but I’m not,” Ivy said, rushing to console. “I know exactly how it feels to hear that and believe—know in your heart—that it’s not possible.”

“Because it is not.” Claire’s brows knitted. Her throat felt tight. “Why would you say that?”

Ivy’s face twisted with regret. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” she said quickly. “I didn’t want you to find out like I did—unexpectedly, on the back of a horse. I passed out. I couldn’t handle it.”

Claire’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her gray eyes cut sharp as glass. “Seriously. Are you going to tell me how I got here? Do you even know?”

“Yes, I do. And I just did.”

The laugh that broke from Claire was bitter. “Obviously, that’s not possible.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so either—until three weeks ago.”

Her stomach dropped, fury rushing to fill the void. “Okay, no. This isn’t funny. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but—”

“I’m not making it up,” Ivy pleaded. “Oh, how I wish it weren’t true either.”

“Stop.” Claire’s voice cracked like a whip. Her hands trembled. “It’s ridiculous. Where is my phone? I had it when I was separated from my husband. I want it. I need to—”

“Claire, first I swear to you, you had no phone on you,” Ivy said quickly, her tone soft but unyielding. “And you simply can’t use a twenty-first century phone in the fourteenth century.”

Claire’s breath hitched, a raw sound tearing from her chest. “Stop,” she begged, voice frayed.

Ivy’s shoulders slumped. “I know how it sounds. I know it’s—”

“Enough.” Claire lurched back, every muscle taut. Anger sparked, hot and sharp. “Thanks, but I think I’ve heard plenty.”

She spun, stumbling on the uneven ground, gathering the hem of the stupid gown in both hands.

Fury and disbelief tangled until she could hardly see.

She half-ran, half-stumbled back across the yard, the borrowed fabric snapping around her legs, leaving Ivy—apparently a freak! —in the shade of the tree.