Page 28 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

He glanced up, squinting against the sun. “Aye, lass?” His gaze shifted down from her face, the brief surprise shown likely due to her new outfit.

“I was wondering...would it be all right if I walked down to the village?”

He nodded almost immediately, giving his attention again to the horse and its shoe. “So long as ye keep to the road and mind yerself,” he said, “there’ll be nae harm in it. The folk ken us well enough.”

“Thanks.”

“Dinna go beyond the village, lass!” Ewan called after her.

Ivy waved her hand over her head as she skipped away, acknowledging his advice.

The path wound down from the gate toward the loch, where cottages and barns huddled close to one another.

Thatched roofs sloped low against the wind, peat smoke curling from their chimneys.

Some houses appeared to have been built half-buried in the ground, the overhang of their roofs being not more than four feet off the ground.

Ivy slowed, taking it all in. A pair of men appeared to be mending the fence that enclosed one house’s back yard.

A group of young girls, stooping, gathered bundles of sticks.

A short posse of young, wild-haired children raced and stumbled about, chasing a wayward chicken.

A dog barked and darted at Ivy’s skirts, sniffing almost frantically before racing away again.

No one stopped her, but more than one villager looked up, their eyes following her with quiet curiosity.

Once more, she felt as if this couldn’t be real, but that she’d simply stepped straight onto a working movie set, about to film from a medieval script. Still, there was nothing picturesque about it—the walls were rough, the barns weathered, the people hardened—but it was alive.

Sadly, she realized that without knowing anyone, and having no one to visit and being unable to speak the language of these people, there wasn’t much to see or do. Thus, her desire to immerse herself, so to speak, at Caeravorn, all but deflated inside her.

Still, she meandered about a bit, realizing after a while that she wasn’t simply taking in the village.

Every deep voice that carried from a doorway or every rumble of wheels along the track pulled her head around, her heart leaping as if she expected to find Alaric.

She caught herself scanning the open field beyond the village for his silhouette and straining to catch the sound of hoofbeats, anticipating his return.

What is wrong with me? ” she thought, pressing a hand to the small of her back. The answer came swiftly, automatically. That smile he’d shown last night had really fascinated her.

Her other hand drifted unconsciously to her belly, curving firm and round beneath the brown gown as the baby shifted. It wasn’t a kick, just a slight adjustment inside the womb.

Just a little more than a month now, Ivy realized.

The thought suddenly turned her mouth dry, Alaric’s stunning smile forgotten.

She still agonized sometimes, thinking of what was coming—of the pain, the blood, the risk. True, coming to Caeravorn had relieved much of her worry, but truth was, she was still terrified about giving birth in the fourteenth century.

That thought gave rise to another: she should know the midwife. She should find her before the time came, not stumble into her arms in a panic.

So Ivy began asking, haltingly, of those she passed—a woman stooped over her wash, a man hefting a sack of grain, even a barefoot boy chasing a goat.

“Midwife?” she asked, gesturing awkwardly toward her belly.

“Do you know...midwife? Where she is?” Each of them blinked at her, some smiling faintly, others shaking their heads, but none offered words she could grasp.

Gaelic again, quick and lilting, spilling too fast for her to catch.

She thanked them anyway and turned back toward the keep.

Inside the gate, the bailey was quieter than half an hour ago. Ewan was nowhere to be seen, but she did spot Mathar just exiting the stables. Ivy hesitated, then squared her shoulders and crossed to him. “Mathar?”

He looked up, body freezing as if bracing himself.

“I was looking for the midwife, trying to ask around for her without success,” she said. “Do you know where I can find her?”

His expression suggested at worst, only that he wondered why she was asking him . But then he exhaled heavily through his nose. “Aye. Come on, then. I’ll take ye.”

She fell in beside him as he didn’t hesitate, but made for the gate, his long strides forcing her to quicken her steps.

They walked in silence at first, but she stole glances at his weathered face and searched for something to say.

“Have you been here often?” she asked at last.

“Aye, more than only a time or two.” His answer was short, but not unfriendly.

“It’s...different than I expected,” she said, waving a hand toward the cottages and barns. “Although I guess that’s not specifically true, since I don’t know what I expected.”

That earned her a brief, sideways glance and a “Hmm” but nothing else.

Oh, well. She tried.

When they reached the lower lane, Mathar slowed, catching the arm of an old man passing with a bundle of firewood. The two exchanged quick words in Gaelic, before the man pointed with his chin toward a small house set back from the track, its roof sagging slightly under the weight of thatch.

Mathar gave a short nod and led Ivy on. She clutched her gown, lifting the hem clear of a muddy spot as they crossed to the house.

A woman answered the knock, middle-aged, with sharp eyes that scanned Ivy’s face with suspicion before her gaze softened when it fell to Ivy’s belly.

Mathar addressed her in Gaelic.

She replied to Mathar in the same unknown language and then said to Ivy, “A bairn soon, aye?”

Relief bloomed in Ivy’s chest, and she nodded quickly. “Yes—yes, soon.”

Then nothing, only them nodding at each other, until Mathar—with the sound of eyes rolling in his tone, if there were such a thing—said to the woman, “I gather she wanted to meet ye, as she’ll be abiding her for a while, until the bairn is born.”

The woman smiled with greater understanding than and stepped aside, waving Ivy inside.

Mathar lingered at the threshold, shoulders easing as if some burden had lifted. He cleared his throat. “Ye’ll manage back on yer own?”

Ivy turned toward him, touched by the rough courtesy behind the question. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Mathar.”

He dipped his chin, already stepping back. “Aye then.” And with that, he strode away without a backward glance.

Inside, the house smelled of smoke and herbs, as dozens of bundles of dried plants hung from the underside of the thatch.

Ivy took note of the blackened walls, where pieces of mortar seemed to have fallen away here and there.

Animal pelts covered different spots on the dirt floor and a collection of wooden pots hung directly over the fire in the center of the cottage.

The midwife moved with brisk purpose, drawing Ivy toward the hearth where a stool waited.

“Sit, aye?” invited the woman.

Ivy obeyed, lowering herself gingerly onto what seemed a very low and very questionable stool. “You’re the midwife?”

The woman nodded and then shuffled off. She was heavyset and walked with a noticeably uneven gait, as if her hips or knees bothered her. “Aye. I help bring the bairns.” When she faced Ivy again, she held a larger, more sturdy chair in her meaty hands. She placed that next to Ivy’s and sat down.

Relief welled in Ivy again. “Good. I—honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing.

I’ve read books, but...” She laughed nervously, gesturing helplessly at herself.

“That’s not the same thing. And this will be my first time giving birth.

” First time ever, either in this century or the one I wish I were still in.

The midwife gave her a long, steady look, then smiled. “We’ll do it together. Ye are strong. Bairn strong.” She patted Ivy’s hand, then mimed breathing, slow and even. “Calm is most important.”

Something in the woman’s certainty soothed her frayed nerves. Ivy nodded, repeating the motion of the breath, almost like a student eager to please.

They spoke a little longer, the midwife eventually introducing herself as Ruth. Actually, Ivy had been compelled to ask the woman to repeat her name several times, since she kept hearing Rut .

Ruth managed to convey that she’d delivered forty-eight babies, and then pointed to several plants hanging overhead, naming a few Ivy recognized—“mint,” “sage”—before slipping into Gaelic, possibly unconsciously.

Ivy didn’t stop her or ask what she was saying then, she simply nodded, understanding just enough, that the woman had knowledge, confidence, and, most important of all, kindness.

When at last Ivy stepped back onto the lane, she felt much better. She was still hopelessly adrift in time, still terrified of what lay ahead, but now she knew there was someone here, in this century, who could guide her through the ordeal. As much as anything could, it put her at ease.