Page 6 of Time of the Druid (Stones of Scotland #7)
Chapter 6
"T his is going to be even harder than we realised before we got here," Jack said as Norah sorted through the meagre bundle of herbs she still had. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the guesthouse, the small pile of dried leaves and crumbled roots spread out in front of her like some kind of pathetic offering.
Damn it, why hadn’t she grabbed her bag before the time machine ripped her away? She could have done with a better range of materials—not to mention a few of the fancy, colourless and odourless potions that she kept tucked away for emergencies. She’d packed them. She had them. But now they were who knew where in the timeline.
"Yes, I’m aware of that," she snapped, not looking up. He’d done nothing but complain and moan that their target was Matthew Edmondson. As if Norah didn’t already know how much that complicated things! She certainly hadn’t counted on her target recognising her in return. Or being someone she knew and liked, although that didn’t bear thinking about.
For the purposes of this mission, Matthew Edmondson was the enemy of Norah’s employer. She couldn’t think of him as the strange, wild boy she’d known all those years ago. She couldn’t even think of him as the handsome, blue-eyed man he’d grown up to be.
Actually, when Norah paused to think about it, Matthew had grown up a bit too fast. That had already been the case before he disappeared, when he seemed to be aging faster than was natural. Now, he looked the same age as Norah, even though he’d definitely been over a decade younger. It was all the time travel, perhaps—timelines not quite matching up. Or something else. Something more unsettling.
Not that Norah had time to worry about that. None of it mattered. Whatever had happened between the Professor and his son was none of her business. She had a job to do, and it was time to get on with it.
She stood up, brushing her hands clean. "I’m going to visit the kitchen building while they’re preparing the midday meal," she told Jack. "Try to stay out of trouble."
"Remember the rules," he warned her.
Norah just rolled her eyes as she strolled out of the little guesthouse, tucking her herb bundle back into the folds of her skirt.
The kitchen was easy enough to find after their tour the previous day. That young druid might have been stiff and sanctimonious, but at least he’d pointed out a few useful landmarks. Norah pushed open the low wooden door and peered inside, blinking as the smoke stung her eyes.
She’d seen plenty of other medieval and prehistoric kitchens, so this big, smoky room wasn’t too unfamiliar. A wide hole in the ceiling let out some of the smoke—and probably let in a lot of rain—but the room was still dim, especially in the corners where shadows clung stubbornly. Women moved quietly in the gloom, working with a kind of practiced rhythm. None wore grey robes. Instead, they had rough brown tunics and their sleeves were rolled back to reveal raw, flour-dusted arms.
Interesting. So the druids didn’t cook for themselves. That might make things a little easier.
"Can I help you?" a nearby woman asked, drying her hands on the front of her dress. She had a worn, lined face and faded red hair tied back with a strip of cloth. Not yet elderly, but definitely older than her years. Norah guessed life here was hard.
"I actually wondered if I could help you," Norah said with a quick smile. "I’m a widow and the druids have offered me sanctuary for a while. I’d love to make myself useful."
The woman studied her a moment, then gave a faint nod. "We could use another pair of hands. There’s dough to be kneaded. Nesta will show you."
She pointed toward a small, dark-haired woman near the rear of the kitchen. Nesta barely looked up as Norah approached.
Norah introduced herself. Nesta replied with a grunt and slid a bowl of dough toward her.
Kneading bread didn’t require much attention, which was just as well. Norah’s thoughts raced as her hands worked. The bread itself wouldn’t help her much. She remembered from the previous evening that the loaves were communal, torn apart and passed around by hand. No way to guarantee a single target would receive a specific portion.
The stew, maybe. She’d noticed the cauldron the night before—large enough to feed the entire grove. If she managed to slip something into it, she might catch Matthew in the mix. But she’d likely catch a dozen others, too. And her remaining poisons weren’t nearly strong enough for mass exposure. Her small reserve was meant for precision.
She shaped the dough into rounds, mimicking Nesta, then scored the surface and set it aside.
Nesta gave a faint nod of approval, then whisked the bread away toward the oven.
Norah took the chance to look around again. She wiped her floury hands on her skirt, glancing at the walls, the doorways, the way the smoke curled up into the rafters. There was nothing useful here. Not unless she wanted to burn the place down. Tempting, but no.
"Can I do anything else to help?" she asked a passing woman. "Clean dishes, maybe? Or does everyone here have their own?"
"They’re already laid out in the dining area," the woman said, not even pausing. "See if the vegetable girls need help."
Norah didn’t bother. Instead, she slipped out of the kitchen and into the cool, damp air beyond.
It was a grey day, soft mist hanging in the trees. The air smelled of earth and wet leaves, and the damp sank quickly into her sleeves and hair. It was a relief after the heat and smoke of the kitchen. The druids might have believed in spiritual balance, but they certainly didn’t apply it evenly.
The dining area was easy to find. Stretching hides overhead offered minimal protection from the drizzle, but the space beneath was dry enough. Long wooden benches stood on either side of low tables, and a massive cauldron sat at the far end. Beside it, bowls and spoons were stacked in haphazard piles.
Nothing was labeled. Nothing was separated.
Norah prowled quietly through the rows, pretending to inspect the seating arrangement. But her thoughts were dark and heavy. How was she supposed to target Matthew if everything was shared? If there were no patterns, no predictability?
She should have made her move last night, when he sat beside her. She’d missed the moment. That didn’t usually happen. She was cautious, yes, but she was also prepared. Usually. This job had caught her off-balance.
"Get on with it, Norah," came Jack’s voice from just behind her. She hadn’t even heard him approach.
She turned slightly. "There’s nothing individual," she muttered. "I could get anyone."
"That’s a risk you have to take," Jack said, his voice flat.
Norah shook her head. "I’m going to find a better way. We still have time."
She didn’t know if that was true, but it was the only option she could live with.