Page 32 of Time of the Druid (Stones of Scotland #7)
Chapter 32
M atthew kept his distance, but he still knew where Norah was at all times. Not quite on purpose—it just seemed that his feet always led him in her direction, although his head told him to stay out of sight. Whatever had happened, he could feel the change in Norah.
She wouldn’t turn on you like that , he told himself, trying to find that faith deep in his heart. But he saw the fear on her face, and he couldn’t blame her. Besides, what could he offer her?
He saw her leave the crannog, then return a while later, white and wide-eyed. There was no way of knowing for sure what had happened, of course, but he could guess. His father’s fingerprints were all over this.
God, Norah. How had it come to this? They had been so close.
He watched her watching him from across the crannog, her gaze flitting away the instant their eyes almost met. Once, they would have shared a smile, a nod, some flicker of connection—but now, she recoiled like she'd touched a flame. He saw her retreat from meals, her form slipping between shadows and doorways like smoke. Every movement was careful, deliberate, too precise to be innocent. Her footsteps were soft but swift, her hands always occupied, her eyes never still. The air between them felt charged, brittle with unsaid things. Even across a crowded roundhouse or from the edge of the stillroom doorway, Matthew could feel it—like the static in the air before a lightning strike. Norah was planning something.
But there was no time to grieve the loss of what had almost been. Matthew could not slow down—he had his own plans to lay in place. Whatever Norah did wouldn’t matter, in the long run. Matthew would not let her stop him, not when he’d come so far.
So close. Soon, Father .
He’d thought himself close before, when he and the Roman-era druids had led the broken, injured Lucanus Edmondson to a house deep in the forest, and locked him in there.
He’s unlikely to survive more than a few months , the druids had told him, their faces grave as they sat around a smoky fire beneath the ancient canopy of oaks. One druid had stirred a simmering pot, the scent of pine and crushed bark thick in the air. They hadn’t met his eyes.
After all, Lucanus had once been their friend. Their brother.
Matthew had looked through the tiny barred window of the stone hut and seen what was left of his father—a hollowed shell of a man, skin grey and eyes sunken, bound in gentle wards that softened the pain but didn’t quite mask the rage still flickering in those eyes.
Make him comfortable , Matthew had said, turning away, unwilling to see more. His throat had closed, and the words had come out hoarse. He didn’t want to be there, to witness the final end of the man he’d once begged to love him.
He should have stayed. Should have seen it through. Because when he next heard from the druids, the message came not with peace, but with panic:
Lucanus has escaped. Be on your guard.
And that was when Matthew knew. He could never beat his father by playing the same game. Lucanus had centuries of more experience. He had cunning, guile, and ruthlessness that Matthew could never hope to match—not to mention a survivor’s instincts. No, Matthew would have to change the game entirely. The foundations had already been laid. Now it was time to act.
He practiced his spells on the little beach where he’d trained with Norah and Jack. The memories of his time with Norah still stung, but he resolutely pushed them back. Nothing mattered but his goal. Edmondson could not be allowed to destroy another life. No more innocent victims.
He’d learned a lot from the druids, and these spells were not the basic magic he’d experimented with as a boy. They were complex yet surprisingly simple, requiring only a few hand movements and the appropriate clarity of thought. He had practiced every motion over and over again until they were as smooth as water and almost effortless. All he needed now was to reach the stones, and time could be restored. Time travel should never have happened. The druids were arrogant fools, dabbling in magic far too big for them, and the consequences rippled across millennia.
By the time he’d run through all the spells again, the last orange light of day had bled from the sky, leaving the beach cloaked in blue shadow. A chill crept in with the dusk, the breeze off the lake sharp and damp, curling around him like a warning. Still, Matthew had more to do. He crouched among the sand and pebbles, his fingers numbed by cold as he stacked flat stones into a tight circle for a fire-pit. From his satchel, he pulled the final remnants of his letters and papers—parchment frayed from age, edges curled from damp, ink smudged where fingertips had gripped too tight. Missives from desperate allies, scribbled coordinates, maps etched in haste—all of it gathered across years and decades by those who’d risked everything.
He struck his fingers together, and sparks hissed from his skin, flaring briefly before catching on the kindling. The flames rose slowly, flickering pale gold, then blue in the wind. The paper curled, blackened, collapsed. He watched the fire with hollow eyes, the scent of scorched parchment sharp in his nose, and the heat biting at his face. So many sacrifices, so many names. Ash now.
It hurt to let go—but it was necessary. There could be no record of this. No trace for anyone to find, no clues for Lucanus to follow. The fire crackled and popped, and Matthew drew his cloak tighter, even though the blaze licked hot at his knees. He would not be coming back. Not to this beach. Not to the crannog. Whatever came next, it would be final.
He didn’t head back toward the causeway until full night had fallen, the stars twinkling brightly above. Their reflections danced in the water, although Matthew felt there was something mournful about their movements. Even the stars knew what was coming.
Matthew had hoped to slip into the roundhouse once everyone else was asleep. He heard a few voices drifting from the stillroom—Norah, no doubt, planning her poisons—but the crannog was otherwise quiet.
“Matthew.”
He froze, looking around. Not many people managed to sneak up on him.
Jack appeared from the shadows, his face long and serious. Matthew took an involuntary step backward, not sure what was happening. He’d almost forgotten about Jack, even though, by now, he should know that was never a good idea.
“What is it?” he asked the older man.
“I need to talk to you,” Jack said, urgency in his voice. “It’s about Norah.”
Matthew shook his head. Oh, no. He did not want to hear about Norah. Better to leave it all as a vague suspicion, a soft kind of sadness. He did not need Jack to tell him about the approaching betrayal.
“I have to go,” he said.
Turning around, he rushed back toward the causeway and prayed that Jack didn’t follow. Better to spend the night in the woods, cold and damp, than to hear aloud the words he feared most: that the woman he loved intended to murder him.