(um, long time no update? i got bored. here you go. more later maybe. sorry for those of you who feel strung along...i'm trying to get back into this for practice. i'm in college now, but i'm on break so i have a lot of free time. god, i can't believe i started these things when i was fifteen...anyway, hope you enjoy)
Apparently, Alexander Malcolm could not have cared less about my distress. We locked gazes for less than three seconds and then I was dismissed for the more currently demanding situation. I blinked stupidly for a few moments, then turned on my heel and started walking towards the exit of the close.
My pace slowed as I realized the full weight of my situation. I was a history nerd, not a geography one. I hadn't the slightest idea of where Edinburgh was located in comparison to the hill and the standing stones through which I had so cluelessly traveled to 1768. I winced in remembrance of the four day horse ride Fergus and I had taken. I would not be able to get back to that place on my own. Before I knew it, I had turned myself around and walked back toward the now dissipating crowd. Fergus and the man I didn't know were struggling to help Malcolm up, which was an obviously difficult task. Malcolm's wife was laboring to help the boy they had rescued from the fire. Sighing with reluctance, I marched up to the latter and grabbed the boy's free arm. Malcolm's wife shot me a look of surprise, but I forced a smile and turned to walk. I could feel the gaze of Fergus boring through the side of my head, but I ignored it. After having to swallow my pride and eventually ask for help, I wasn't sure I could stomach his smugness.
"And ye're an idiot," Ian Murray finished. I felt sorry for the young man on the receiving end of this comment, for that was not the only rebuke he had received tonight. In fact, it had been going on for almost an hour and a half, during which Malcolm's wife had been attending to his burns. Adding to the pitifully abashed look on his face from being scolded in front of others, the poor thing's eyebrows had been singed clear off, along with a bit of his hair.
I had finally been informally introduced to the strange man I had seen at the printshop; his name was Ian Murray, and the boy from the fire was his son, Ian Jr. I assumed they were somehow related to Malcolm, but I didn't want to ask for fear of turning the wrath on myself. A few minutes after we returned to Malcolm's room in the brothel, the verbal thrashing began. Blame was thrown around the room, and I was scared to get caught up in it.
Malcolm apparently decided that enough yelling had gone on. "Ian, man," he said soothingly. "I think it's time ye let the boy have a say for himself, aye?" The older Murray looked as though that was the last thing he wanted to do, but after a moment, he grunted approval.
"Right then," said Malcolm, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "How - " He stopped mid-sentence and rounded on me. I nearly spilled my cup of water in surprise. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly.
"Fergus," he commanded. Said person leaped up and clasped Malcolm on the shoulder. I frowned as they exchanged a few words in another language. I knew that jerk was French, I thought rudely. Fergus turned to me.
"Come with me, Frankie," he said firmly. "Ye look to be famished." Actually, I wasn't hungry at all; I had been so preoccupied with my near future that I couldn't think of food. But I didn't say this. I just nodded and took the arm Fergus had offered me. Before walking through the door, I turned suddenly, remembering young Ian's current condition.
"You should put water on his burns," I announced, not addressing anyone. "For about thirty seconds. If it hurts, put a cool towel on it. Not a wet one. And, um, I don't know if you have aloe vera plants here, but that heals it faster too." My voice sounded too loud, and I wished I hadn't spoken. Young Ian was looking at me as though seeing me for the first time, and Malcolm's wife was staring at me with an alarming look on her face. I cleared my throat awkwardly, and left the room in a rush, face flaming.
Fergus escorted me back to the room I had previously slept in. Upon entering, I flung myself on the bed and buried my face in the pillows. I heard a scrape on the floor as a chair was dragged across it. Fergus sat to my right, trying to soothe me with insignificant calming murmurs. After a while, I flopped over and took a deep breath.
"Fergus, I need you to take me back where you found me," I said in a rush. He raised an eyebrow, and I sighed. "I know, I know. Nevermind." I rolled back over with a groan. There was a pause, and I heard Fergus get up and leave. I felt like I was on death row.
I had never been so uncomfortable in my life. I found myself envying young Ian, sitting in the corner with what was probably a cup of something alcoholic and looking relieved. I, however, was standing in the middle of the room with my hands clasped together, waiting for someone to do something. Anything. Finally, Malcolm stood up, and I immediately regretted wishing for action. The man looked as though he was about six foot four, maybe taller, and it was more than disconcerting to have him stand up and walk towards me. He stopped a few feet short and surveyed me for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke.
"I'd like to express my apologies fer givin' ye a false name, previously," he said politely. My eyes widened in confusion, but he ignored it. "And also, for failin' to introduce ye properly. This," he motioned to the burned boy in the corner and the man towering over him, "is my nephew, Ian Murray, and his father, Ian senior." I ducked my head to both of them. "And this," he went on, "is my wife, Claire." I nodded to her as well. So it was his wife, then. Before he could continue, I decided to make my case.
"My name is Francine Carolyn Moore," I said quickly. "But no one calls me that, it's Frankie. I'm fifteen years old, and I'm not whatever you think I am. I just want to get home. Please – " But Malcolm put a hand up to stop me.
"I dinna think ye're anythin'," he said shortly. "My wife, however, has a slight inclination, and would like to talk to ye before we help ye." I must have brightened at the word 'help', because Malcolm gave me a small smile before motioning to Claire. She stood up and walked over to me, looking thoughtful. She peered at me.
"Frankie, I'd like propose a few things," she said airily. "I'm just going to be out with them, and you tell me whatever you think. Sound alright?" I smiled blandly. What the hell did she mean by that?
"Do you know anyone by the name of," Claire paused briefly, then narrowed her eyes. "Winston Churchill?" I gawked at her as the blood drained from my face. I thought I was going to faint. A thousand things ran through my head and I sat on the floor, hard, breathing heavily. Claire let out an exclamation, then moved to help me back up. I flinched and crawled backward until I hit the wall. I scrambled up and put a hand out.
"Stay away," I gasped. "Just…don't touch me." My outstretched hand started to shake. With anger.
"Is this some kind of…joke?" I seethed. I had never felt such fury. "Is this like, a hidden camera show or something?" Claire started to say something, but I didn't wait for an answer. "You people are sick," I said with disgust, and marched toward the door. To my immediate revulsion, Fergus grabbed my wrist to prevent my exit. I tried to yank it away, to no avail.
"LET ME GO!" I bellowed, throwing a punch with my free fist. Fergus grabbed a hold of that one too, and twirled me comically into an inescapable position. This only infuriated me further.
"This isn't a game, dear," said Claire soothingly. She put a hand on my shoulder, and I thought I would cry. "You really are in 1768. When you're from, I don't know, but I came from 1968. I assume you're from around there. I just did that to make sure, I didn't mean to upset you." I looked at her, teary-eyed, and I knew she was being sincere. I let my shoulders slump.
"That's it. I'm going crazy," I muttered. Claire smiled.
"You wish," she said sympathetically.