Page 35 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

When she’d eaten as much as she was able, Ivy took the tray from her lap, laying it on the bedside table, forcing the stubby candle and the murky potion that had helped bring down her fever further back on the table.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Claire asked then.

Ivy froze. “Right. About that.” She cleared her throat. “This place... doesn’t exactly have indoor plumbing.” Heat crawled up her neck as she reached beneath the bed and tugged out a chamber pot. “Here. I’ll step out while you—uh—use it. I’ll just be in the hall.”

The woman stared at the pot, lips parting, disbelief plain. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” Ivy muttered, already halfway to the door. “But you’ll get used to it. Sort of.” Probably not. Ivy hadn’t yet.

She slipped out and leaned against the corridor wall, giving the woman her privacy. Moments later she heard the scrape of the pot being shifted, and then what sounded like the woman getting back in bed.

When Ivy returned, the woman looked wrung out again, her head tilted back against the pillows.

“Okay. Claire. I think that might be enough for one day, right?” Her lips curved hopefully.

Another hour had past, darkness had fallen outside.

“I suggest you finish that,” she said, pointing to the surely noxious concoction in the cup on the table.

“so that your fever doesn’t return. And then get some rest. I’ll poke my head in, and I’m right next door,” she added, pointing to the wall to Claire’s left “if you need anything. Don’t be afraid to shout if you need me.

” She smiled again, her brows lifting. “I bet when you wake tomorrow, you’ll feel better, and even stronger. ”

For a fleeting moment, Claire looked uneasy, prompting Ivy to offer, “Or I can stay. If that would make you—”

Claire caught herself. “No, no. Thank you. I’m fine. I can’t believe I’m still so tired—I’m sure I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Everything will be better tomorrow,” Ivy predicted. “We’ll start to make sense of everything.”

***

The next day, Ivy didn’t rush. She waited until Claire was sitting up again, the tray emptied, some color returning to her cheeks. No more of the fevered glaze remained in the woman’s sharp gray eyes, though a certain guardedness remained.

“I thought you might be ready for some fresh air,” Ivy said lightly. She presented the gown she’d bugged Evir to produce, plain and serviceable, the color of river stone. “Your clothes are being laundered. This will do until then. Just something simple to wear over the chemise.”

Claire turned until she was sitting on the side of the bed and accepted the gown, her brows drawing together as she smoothed a corner of the fabric between her fingers.

“This is... different.” She glanced up at Ivy, her gray eyes lifting up the gown she wore.

“Is this how everyone dresses around here?”

Ivy nodded.

“Are you in, like, a cult or something?”

Ivy barked out a nervous laugh, never having suspected that Claire’s mind would have traveled in that direction. “No, no. Nothing like that.” She turned awkwardly, busying herself with moving the tray from the bed to the table. “But yeah, it’s a bit old-fashioned, I guess.”

With some effort, Claire eased to her feet. Ivy helped her pull the gown over her head, tying the laces at her back with quick, sure hands, then guided her toward the door.

They walked slowly, Ivy steadying her when needed, out of the chamber and down the corridor that spilled them into the great hall.

The air was cooler here, so much stone around them, shadows tucked into the high, cavernous beams overhead.

A pair of maids swept past with baskets of laundry, their skirts swishing about their ankles, the soft slap of leather soles fading quickly toward the stair.

Beyond the hall the heavy door groaned on its hinges, and they stepped out into the open air.

The bailey stretched wide before them, enclosed on all sides by a thick curtain wall, its gray stone mottled with moss and age.

Ivy tried to see it through Claire’s eyes—the sheer scale of it, the raw, rough permanence that spoke of centuries rather than years, that spoke of an ancient past and not the present as Claire believed in.

The gatehouse loomed to the left, squat and solid, its twin towers framing the heavy oak doors bound with iron.

No guards lingered there now, no soldiers clustered with pikes in hand; the yard was hushed, emptied with the armies gone.

A restless breeze rustled through, scattering leaves and straw across the packed earth.

Outbuildings lined one side of the yard, their thatched roofs low and weathered—storehouses, the granary, a lean-to where tools lay stacked.

To the far end stood the smithy, its wide-mouthed forge cold at the moment.

Beside it, the stables crouched long and low, the smell of hay and horse strong even without the bustle of grooms and horses.

It was not grand, not the fairy-tale castle Claire might have imagined if someone had mentioned a medieval castle in real time, but it was formidable, lived-in, heavy with history.

Claire’s head turned, her steps halting as she took in the scene. “This is very...picturesque. We’re in a castle then?” she deduced. “A historical site?”

“You are at a castle, but no, this isn’t merely a historical site—and it’s not a reenactment, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ivy answered, recalling where her brain had gone in those first hours.

“It’s more of a...working castle.” She led her further, out through a side door and onto a narrow path that wound toward the cliffs.

The Firth of Lorn spread wide and glittering, the air smelled faintly of brine and resin, and gulls careened overhead against the bright sky.

Below, men worked with nets along the shore, their shouts drifting up on the salt wind.

Claire stopped altogether, her brow furrowed as she glanced down, studying the men there, and then all around. “A working castle? Lost in the past?”

Ivy drew a long breath. “It’s real—for the actual time period.

Every bit of it.” She waved Claire away from the edge.

“Come this way. I’ll explain.” She guided her beneath the spreading canopy of a sycamore tree, its trunk gnarled from centuries of wind, its crown arching wide enough to dapple the ground in shifting light.

“Claire,” she began when they faced each other in the shade, “there’s something I have to tell you. Something impossible.”

Claire swallowed hard, her eyes flicking between the sea, the keep walls behind them, and Ivy’s face. “What?”

Ivy drew in a deep breath and then exhaled. “It’s the end of August,” Ivy said gently. “The year is thirteen hundred and five.”

A silence followed, stretching long and thin, though there was nothing silent about Claire’s face.

First came a sharp blink, her brows knitting as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

Then her mouth opened slightly, only to press shut again, the muscle in her jaw twitching.

Her eyes flicked away, darting toward the stone wall, then back to Ivy, gray irises widening with disbelief before narrowing, sharp with suspicion.

For a heartbeat, Ivy thought she might laugh—her lips even curved that way—but instead the sound that escaped was closer to a scoff, brittle with rising panic.

“I know it’s sounds—” Ivy started.

“That isn’t possible,” Claire finally said. Not angry—just bone-weary certainty.

“I know,” Ivy consoled. “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 insisted. “What are you—why would you say that?” Her face pinched, disappointment shadowing her features, as if the small trust she’d begun to place in Ivy had been carelessly broken.

“I’m sorry,” Ivy moaned. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” she rushed out. “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.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, sharp with challenge. “You’re suggesting I traveled through time.”

“Yes. Just as I did.”

“Obviously, that’s not possible.”

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

“So you’ve been trapped... here? In another century for three weeks?”

“Yes.”

Anger finally surfaced, roughening her voice. “Okay, no. This isn’t funny. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but—”

“I’m not making it up—oh, how I wish it weren’t true either.” Ivy lifted her hands, voice careful. “I was hoping to break it gently—”

“Stop.” The woman’s eyes shone, not just with disbelief but betrayal. “It’s ridiculous. Where is my phone? I had it with me 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 assured her. She shrugged helplessly, so very sorry for the distress she’d caused. Her tone was a mix of contrition and pity when she said, “And, you simply can’t use a twenty-first century phone in the fourteenth century.”

“Stop,” Claire pleaded, agitated.

Ivy’s shoulders sagged. She nodded slowly. “I know how it sounds. I know it’s—”

Claire lurched back a step, palms lifting as though to ward her off. “Enough.” The word cut sharp, her voice turned brittle and acidic. “Thanks, but I think I’ve heard plenty.”

She stumbled as she pivoted, muttering a curse, then gathered up the hem of the borrowed gown. Without another glance at Ivy, she fled, the fabric snapping around her legs as she half-ran, half-stumbled across the yard.

Ivy sighed, knowing she would have to try again, either later today or tomorrow.

***

Claire didn’t speak to her for two days. Ivy’s heart broke a little with the silence, but she understood. If their positions were reversed, she wasn’t sure she’d be speaking either.

Still, she made certain Claire was well looked after.

For herself, Ivy might never have been bold enough to insert herself into the running of a medieval household; left to her own devices, she would have lingered on the edges, trying not to offend, forever second-guessing what was expected or permitted of her.

But it turned out she found it far easier to step forward on behalf of someone else.

For Claire’s sake, she crossed thresholds she would have never even tiptoed past. She went down into the kitchens, introduced herself to the women bustling there—a few she already knew or recognized—and after the first few nervous times, found them welcoming enough.

She asked that meals continue to be carried up, lighter fare at first, so Claire wouldn’t be forced to venture outside her room before she was ready.

She also took precautions. It felt uncomfortably like imprisoning Claire at Caeravorn, but Ivy remembered Alaric’s strict instructions before he left.

The countryside was not safe. So she sought out Kendrick and Ewan, asking them to keep a discreet eye out.

If Claire wandered too near the gates, they were to—gently—steer her back.

And if things grew heated, they were to summon Ivy at once.

And while she waited for Claire to come to terms with her present reality—as much as she was able—most of Ivy’s waking thoughts were miles away—marching with Alaric and his men.

She saw him in every still moment: a shadow across her mind as she worried over Claire, as she ate, as she lay sleepless in bed.

Again and again she returned to that kiss.

It had startled her, shaken her, undone her in ways she hadn’t thought possible.

She’d never experienced anything so consuming—not with David, not with anyone.

His mouth had taken hers with raw certainty, fierce and tender all at once, and she’d felt herself unravel under the weight of it.

It had been less like being kissed and more like being claimed.

It had felt as if all the scattered pieces of her had suddenly fallen into place.

Nothing before had ever felt half as right.

And yet, he was out there now—somewhere—sword in hand, risking everything for Scotland’s freedom.

For hours, her imagination tormented her with grim possibilities: an arrow finding its mark, a blade slipping past his guard, the sound of his voice silenced forever. Fear churned in her stomach until she could hardly eat.

But she forced herself to hold onto something else—hope.

To imagine a future, however uncertain. Maybe she hadn’t come here by accident.

Maybe there was a reason she’d been thrown into this century, into this man’s path.

Maybe Alaric MacKinlay was meant to be part of her story. .. and she part of his.

She wouldn’t waste that chance, if so.

No—she would not be the woman who merely hoped. If Alaric came back— when he came back!—she would tell him. Not with hesitant looks, not with half-swallowed words, but with something plain and sure. She didn’t yet know how, or what words could possibly carry all that pressed inside her chest.

She’d have to think of something that was much less embarrassingly sophomoric than, Do you want to be my boyfriend? , which was all that she could presently imagine, and which sounded ridiculous in a stone castle in fourteenth-century Scotland, but which did manage briefly to make her smile.