Cleaning Day

I scowl at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. I am entirely convinced that everything is ugly this morning. From the dreary gray sky outside, to the flat off-white walls of my room, to the dull brown carpeting. Even the gaudy knick-knacks that adorn most of the flat surfaces around me seem vulgar and disgusting at the moment, and the faint rim of purple around my eyes and the wild riot of my hair do nothing to contradict these impressions.

What a morning to have a hangover. Even though the three extra hours of sleep I got after Jamie left have eased my headache somewhat, they also managed to completely sour my mood.

I grumble a bit as I rinse my mouth, grimacing as I spit out the taste of mint. Mint! It is a flavour I only rarely encounter on Skycity 15, except in medicinal applications, and so unless I have a horribly stuffy nose, or a swollen, scratchy throat, I don't enjoy the taste at all. Whoever decided to put it in toothpaste of all things should be forced to swallow a whole tube of the stuff at once. Toothpaste should taste like lemon verbena, or rosemary, or ginger, or even licorice root – not mint.

Though, for all that, the taste does spark something in my mind. . .

Jamie mentioned something about me taking mint gell-oh shots last night. No, no, it was menthol. . . or menthe? Something like that. But I can't remember doing it, or anything about them – not yet.

It'd be nice if I could tell myself I cared, one way or the other. But I don't, really. Not being able to remember is just another unpleasantness of this unpleasant day. I doubt I've been gifted true oblivion – I'll remember eventually, whether I like it or not.

I step into the tub, to use the primitive composting toilet I've rigged up out of mechanisms scrounged from around the manager's barn. It's a clumsy, ramshackle object, but it does the job – if a bit inefficiently.

Kind of like me here at Leoch.

I rest my head in my hands. Ugly day equals ugly thoughts. I really shouldn't be surprised.

The root of the problem, of course, is that I've thrown myself so completely into being Farm Manager here, I've had neither the time nor the peace of mind to think things out properly. So much has happened, I've discovered so much, and so many things have changed so rapidly, I can hardly blame myself for being overwhelmed. I've been running on adrenaline and instincts almost constantly since I got here. Last night was just a fantastically over-the-top coup de grâce.

My mind is a mess. No wonder I can only perceive things as messy.

I suppose it's apt that today is Saturday.

Week-ends have never meant all that much to me. Growing up without a religion, and working a job that doesn't care what minute it is, let alone day, never gave me any personal emotional connection to Friday, Saturday or Sunday.

However, Saturdays are Mrs. Fitz's big cleaning day, and, as I learned last week - it does no good to argue with her or her helpers. It is far wiser to just get out of the way.

Perhaps today would be a good day to spend in the library. After all, I've been wanting to explore the place a bit more ever since I discovered it – on that brief but necessary absence from my rooms last week, to let Mrs. Fitz's cleaning team do their job without my hindrance.

I nod to myself - it's perfect. A quick visit to the greenhouse, and I'll spend the rest of today in the library. Thanks to last night's indulgent abundance, not to say blatant excess, I'm not hungry, so that won't be a problem either.

As I get up, I note that the composting compartment of the bucket is almost full. I'm going to have to officially announce my little "fertilizer experiment" sometime soon. . .

A wave of half-memories slam into me.

I groan. Here we go. . .

I'm often not quite sure whether it's a blessing or a curse that no matter how plastered I manage to get, my brain always insists on recording every slurred word, every idiotic laugh, every embarrassing joke I make, and then throwing them all back in my face for days afterwards.

I sneer as I wash my hands.

This time it's definitely a curse.

Last night I told Jamie this bucket was part of a chemical experiment. That was what he'd meant when he said I'd talked about experimental fertilizers. And somehow he must have mixed that up with me telling him that water was too expensive, and that the vodka from the Rim was good practice. . .

And somewhere in there I think I asked him what a skunk was.

Wait. . .

What?

What on earth is a skunk?

I can't remember what his responses were yet, so I still don't know. . .

But they were clearly all things that might very easily have given away that I'm from the future.

It's the closest I've gotten to lying to him since we made our vow of truth.

My mind wobbles a bit, unsure where this day is going to lead. Alcohol is a depressant after all – and I didn't exactly need another one of those. It's no wonder that I've already started to slip a little sideways. . . I can see the edges of the abyss on the horizons of my mind, beckoning me forward in all directions, even as I plead with myself to stay grounded in my gray, starkly unpleasant reality.

Last night was every kind of unwise. Even the parts I can't remember yet. Especially the parts I can't remember yet.

And I only have myself to blame.

I sigh as I get dressed, allowing myself to relive several of last night's more pleasant memories. Jamie giving me strawberries. Kissing him over the bar counter. My first sight of him in a kilt. Our first dance. The press of his thigh against my own, with only the incidental barrier of cloth in between. Sitting next to him, even as we stood side-by-side against attacks from all comers, almost supernaturally keyed into each other. Our eyes and spirits locking together, as powerful music spoke across our merged destinies. The warmth of his hands and mouth against me after an eerie waking dream I somehow know for certain that he shared with me. . .

I blink.

Lock.

Key.

Why do those words remind me of something?

I shake my head. Regardless, I can't bring myself to regret a single moment of any of it, no matter how much I know I should. . .

We make a good team. We make a good couple. I wish, not for the first time, that I was not on a mission, that the two hundred years between us didn't loom like a mountain over me, threatening every moment to crush our connection. Because that connection. . . I've never felt anything like it before. Nothing Frank and I had between us ever came anywhere close to the instantaneous, bone-deep burning I feel with Jamie. If only he and I belonged to the same era of history. . .

I shake my head again. Wishful thinking won't get me anywhere good in this world. For Lamb's sake - for the world's sake - I force my mind to think of other matters.

I have things to do that Jaime does not, and cannot know about.

I grab my empty steel bottle off the dressing table, only barely avoiding knocking over the flower-filled plastic cup. I didn't bother putting it back in the bottle last night. Nor do I take the trouble now. It's been a few days since I've cut a fresh bouquet, and now is as good a time as any. But on a whim, I do remove the yellow rose and carnation, quickly tie a bit of string around them, and hang them upside down on one of the posts holding up the dressing table's mirror. Mrs. Fitz's team will throw out the faded cupful of flowers, but they'll let anything so clearly set aside alone. The rest of the flowers I can easily replace – I'm about to replace. These two, I intend to keep.

I slip my info screen into the pocket of my coat, and pull a shawl around my head and shoulders. It's only a short walk to the greenhouse, but it's also 8 AM on a gloomy mid-November day in the Scottish Highlands. I have learned all too well that at this time of year, Scotland is not a great deal warmer than a Skycity in the middle of the North-Atlantic, even taking our post-Apocalyptic atmospheric differences into account.

I briefly wonder how men used to stand it, wearing knee-length kilts all winter long. Particularly if what Jamie told me about their undergarments is true.

Or the lack thereof. . .

I make my way down the main corridor of the guest wing, through two long side hallways, past the kitchens and out, through to the kitchen gardens. The chill air seems to clear my head a little, though the bleak grey of the empty plots doesn't help my state of mind much. I'm nearly to the bare, still orchard, close to the end of the cobbled garden path, when the greenhouse finally becomes visible behind its enclosing wall of swaying evergreens. The trees are either pines or firs - or possibly spruces - I frankly don't know enough about them yet to be able to tell the difference. The two-week long unit on coniferous trees I took in school is a depressingly long number of years ago. But the dark brightness of their ageless green is a welcome sight, nevertheless.

I go through the little white-painted gate hung between two of their trunks, then push the greenhouse door open with my hip. My first breath of the warm, plant-scented, softly damp air inside never ceases to take me by surprise, no matter how many times I come out here. I never expected anything in this time period to be so intensely identical to something I had encountered nearly every day on Skycity 15. It may be floored with raked gravel instead of polished metal, the trays might be filled with soil instead of growing medium, the great vats of water are missing, and the long rows of mostly ornamental plants and flowers here bear little resemblance to the essential staple crops we grow on Skycity 15, but Castle Leoch's greenhouse still smells exactly like my old farming station, and I love it.

A strange feeling of home creeps up my spine, sparking a vague, poignant memory – one far more distant than the events of last night, but nevertheless related to them. . .

I shiver a bit, then shake it off. I'm here for flowers.

I clip a few clusters of red salvia, and some long-stemmed orange and purple gazanias, arranging each one in my steel bottle as I pick them. I realize this is the first time I've arranged the flowers directly in it, and not in the smaller cup that was such an effective decoy. I wonder for a moment what Jamie has done with the cameras, but then I shake my head. It's far better that I do not know.

I select a few white caladium leaves, veined with striking dark green, and then make my way down and across several rows, to where the ferns are growing. I cut some lacy fronds, and one or two long fiddle-head shaped buds, just unfurling from their green nests.

I had never seen a real fern until I discovered this greenhouse. That was my fourth day here.

It feels like several lifetimes ago.

I fill my bottle with water from the plumbed-in spigot on the side wall, and drop in a little plant food tablet from the box of them beside the water station.

For a moment I consider looking for the special room where they grow strawberries, but then I think better of it. I have more important things to do than daydream about Jamie. Which is all I would do if I found it, I have no doubt at all. . .

I'm halfway back to the house when I round the corner of the garden walk, and almost run straight into Annie.

"Miss Claire!" she says, sounding both pleased and surprised, "I was hopin' tae see ye, bu' no' oot heer now, aye?"

"No," I manage a polite nod, "Of course not. And it's good to see you too."

"Aye," she grins, "Bu' I might as well ask ye now. . ." She looks around hastily, then leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, "Are ye free this upcomin' Fraeday?"

"I. . . can be," I say, amused.

"Good," she grips my upper arms in triumph, "Thear's four o' us girls goin' oot tae Cranesmuir fer our day off, an' we'd like ye tae join us. Will ye?"

I can't help but nod assent, charmed, as I always am by this girl's unabashed and cheerful generosity.

She claps her hands, "Ah, tha's grand! Wee'l mak a proper day ov et!" Then she points urgently towards the greenhouse, "I mus' go nae, sorrae – Mrs. Fitz wants flowers enough for twentae guest rooms, an' shee'll skelp me iff'n I tarry." She hefts the empty basket she's carrying, "We'er right lucky ye prefer tae pick yer oon, aye?"

I grip my bottle a little tighter, "If you want to call it luck. . ."

Annie laughs delightedly at this, and then skips hurriedly down the path, trailing a waving hand behind herself as she calls out, "See ye Fraeday, then!" before disappearing around the bend.

She's gone for quite a few seconds before I realize I'm smiling. It's the first time I've done so this morning. But then, Annie always perks me up. It's impossible to be gloomy around her, no matter how ugly the day is. I'm still smiling as I go back indoors, and begin to find my way to the library. A short interlude with flowers, in a greenhouse that smells like home, and a visit with Annie, no matter how brief, has done worlds of good for my mood.

Miraculously, the library is right where I left it last week, at the corner this wing makes with the main body of the house. I slip in through one of the smaller side doors, preferring not to attempt to open the massive double-leaved main door that leads directly in from the main corridor. At this time of the morning last week, it was still locked.

My little side door is open, however, and as I step in, a strange, eerie peace settles in the pit of my stomach.

It is a large room, two stories tall, with a sort of mezzanine level running like a balcony around the middle. The floor and walls are of bright golden panels of wood, and the whole space is lined with row upon row of the same kind of strange-smelling paper books that Lamb reverenced so much. A fleet of sliding ladders grant access to every shelf, and tables, lamps, chairs and sofas of every type and description fill the vast majority of the rest of the room.

I am suddenly overcome with how silent it is in here. It is a kind of silence both magical and somehow physical, full of thought and memory so deep it might get into your blood. The kind of silence that renders it impossible to care about ugly grey days.

On a day like today, I couldn't have asked for a better refuge.

Maybe now I can do something about the chaos in my mind. . .

I choose a small table that's neatly slotted into a window embrasure, and settle myself comfortably onto the bench beside it. I set up a small info screen stand, put my screen into it, power it up, engage the security shields I've devised, and shadow-connect to a local network I discovered yesterday. A few more keystrokes, and I have a search window open that I'm more than reasonably certain isn't being spied on.

I stare at it for at least a full minute before I manage to think where I can possibly start. . .

Slowly, I type into the search field - "sky boat song".

Whatever power ruled last night's events, it was most often manifested in the music, and the music had started there.

The search comes back as "Skye Boat song" and it is followed by thousands of hits for lyrics, videos, and audio files. I select a text file that purports to discuss the three main versions of the lyrics, open it, and begin to read.

Not five minutes later, and the placid, yet eerie feeling in my stomach has shattered into a completely unexpected full-bore panic attack. I dig my hands into my hair, wildly trying not to hyperventilate.

How?

How?

The song is about the aftermath of Culloden, and I simply cannot believe it.

Everything, everything, seems to come back, somehow, to Culloden. I always seem to come back to Culloden. Again and again I end up there, cold and alone, on that terrible, cursed, haunted moor! There is no escape, none at all, for me – neither through the Stones, nor to the Isle of Skye, nor even into death. . .

I wrench my hands free of my head, and grip the edge of the table, desperately attempting to calm myself. Be sensible, Beauchamp! I have only been to Culloden once, and this is not what I felt then. I do not have to go back. . .

Back to Culloden bloody moor. . .

Why?

Why am I so afraid of that idea?

And why can I remember being there, time and time and time again, with a copper-golden light shining all around me, my hands red-stained and terrible?

Sorcha.

My name is Red Sorcha. . .

I stare at the wood grain on the table in front of me, wide-eyed and sightless.

WHAT. . . ?

None of this is what I felt when I heard the song last night. So where are any of these feelings coming from? I decide I don't care. I banish the memories as best I can, behind a thick glass wall in my mind.

I can still see them, I won't forget - but they are removed from the many noises currently clamouring in my brain.

Slowly, I manage to get my breathing under control.

I'm still hung-over. That must be it. My brain is remembering snatches of alcohol-induced dreams, and connecting them to the things I know will happen here in a few years' time. That's all it is. That's all it can possibly be.

Right?

I turn back to my info screen, desperate for something prosaic to ground myself in. I type "Scottish Clan restoration act", and open the first result that comes back.

I'm halfway through the long and very wordy article before my heartbeat slows, and I feel at all like myself again. And even then it takes another half-dozen verbose and very dully-written paragraphs for me to realize I haven't taken in a single word of this article at all. I close the window and open a new one from the second search result.

This one is much better, with a far more comprehensible timeline, tracing Scotland's current political situation back almost fifty years, to the wildly unexpected popularity of the Scottish Languages Preservation Initiative.

It was then, for the first time in modern history, that a law was passed which required all Scottish primary schools to teach, not just Gàidhlig, but the full range of Scotland's native languages, both local and national. Very naturally, this had necessitated hiring a large number of supplemental teachers who could effectively impart such a curriculum, and spreading them across the country. This had lead to a small but highly significant immigration boom, bringing in all manner of people from New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United States, England, Wales, Ireland, and several other places. If they knew Gàidhlig, and could teach, they were welcome.

I realize this is at least part of the reason why each Scottish accent I've encountered here is so different from every other, not to mention inconsistent within itself, so often using what even I can recognize are borrowed colloquialisms and slang. Not only are there many individuals here from all over the world, it's likely all of them were taught by people from all over the world. Add in that Scottish English is a highly flexible dialect to begin with, and it's no wonder the maze of regional accents have become jumbled and even more confusing than they were historically.

It's a lot like what happened on Skycities – with each Township fostering its own unique identity, even while most stand solid for their own whole City as well. New Oxford is one of the more diverse Cities, which is very lucky for me, since it means I grew up hearing several accents at least somewhat related to the ones I've encountered both here, and on Cold Island 12.

Hearing them straight from the source is highly different, of course, much like the difference between reading a sentence, and having to speak it aloud.

I smile grimly to myself. And Colum had the cheek to tell me I sounded American! Well, perhaps I do, but there's a very good chance that more than a few of his relatives sound a little bit English, as well.

And speaking of sounding English. . .

I check on the progress of my forged birth certificate. Apparently it is still being "processed" - whatever that means - and will not be mailed for several days yet. But it has not been flagged as suspicious, or unofficial, or anything like that, so I assume most of my constructed background history has held up so far.

I seriously consider my forged paper trail for nearly half an hour, trying to discover if I need to shore up some part or another, or if it would be wise to add anything to it.

Eventually, I settle on looking up the names Beauchamp and Moriston, so I might have a stronger concept of my ancestry.

What I find on one particular site draws the day's first laugh out of me.

If ever Colum casts my heritage up to me again, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ do I have a comeback for him!

I stay on the site for quite a while, discovering several extremely relevant and useful things about a much higher number of Scottish Clans than I ever could have expected. . . and something very interesting about Clan Fraser in particular.

From there, it's a logical step to find out as much as I can about official Clan Gatherings. Yule is about a month and a half away. Clan MacKenzie is having a Gathering then, and, from what the next site I bring up tells me, I assume an Oath Taking will happen as well.

Best to be prepared, in any case. To know what I might expect.

This brings my mind back around to Jamie, and, annoyingly, Dougal.

If a Clan MacKenzie Gathering is anything like the ones I'm reading about, then Dougal will play a highly significant role in the proceedings, and, very probably, Jamie can't be there at all.

Either way, I'll only have until then to execute an offensive against Dougal, since the next site I go to states that November and December are low-key "local" months in the ongoing Independent Scottish Council races.

I suppose in normal Human speech that means all the candidates have been given two months off for Christmas. . .

But according to this published itinerary, immediately after New Year's – and finally I learn what Jamie meant by Hogmanay – it's right back to the campaign trail for ten weeks of hard-selling speeches and debates, leading up to the elections in late March.

Dougal will be traveling all over his constituency then, far out of my reach.

So it's now or never if I'm going to follow though on this war of ours.

The glaring problem being – I have no idea what offensive I want to wage. I'm not even sure what sort of offensive I can wage successfully. My difficulty isn't resources – not anymore. The difficulty is that I don't want to fight him. If it was only me in the balance now, I very likely wouldn't go on the offensive at all. But now, there's Jamie to think of too. My battling Dougal is, without a doubt, the only way I have to free Jamie from whatever claws Dougal has in him. But I still need Dougal to be my ally, eventually, if I'm going to attempt to right more than one wrong while I'm here. And so I must find a way to fight him, to defeat him so soundly that he no longer wants to be at war with me, and yet, somehow, leave the door open for truce, and even, perhaps, friendship, one day.

Which is a huge problem, because at the moment, I'm fairly certain Dougal could cheerfully have me publicly drawn and quartered. . .

I get up, and walk around the room for a bit.

Very quickly, I realize that Lamb's library, much as it had impressed me, was mere child's play when compared to what is on offer here at Leoch.

Even a superficial survey of the just this first floor reveals that if Jamie hadn't given me an info screen, I probably would have been able to find all the information I needed anyway, had I time and industry enough, for here is an entire wall of shelves given over to periodicals – daily, weekly, and monthly. The quick scan I give them shows them to be an impressive variety of publications, from news and current affairs, to history, to geography, to science, to modern art, all perfectly organized, and very neatly arranged.

I am doubly thankful for Jamie's thoughtfulness, though – having an info screen has saved me days, perhaps weeks of time.

But it is good to know that such a variety of hard-copy periodicals still exist in this time – not just pinup car magazines. . .

The next set of shelves is full of reference books – encyclopedias and dictionaries of every sort. I select a large illustrated treatise on botany that looks both useful and fascinating.

The rest of this wall of shelves is given over to other non-fiction – history and science, biographies and religion. I'm particularly impressed by the collection of Bibles. One especially, under a glass case on a stand by itself, is notable, both for its age and ornamentation. It's an old MacKenzie family Bible, open to the genealogy lists that show Colum and Dougal's ancestry back at least three generations. And that's just the two pages visible. By the hand-inked numbers in the corners, there are at least a dozen more similar pages.

I sigh as I turn away, touched, for some reason I can't explain.

The rest of the main shelves on this level – and, by the looks of things, most of the smaller bookshelves scattered about as well – are filled with novels. Mostly classics, from what I can see, but there are a good amount of dramas, mysteries, romances, fantasy and science-fiction scattered amongst them all, too. There's even one whole corner filled with children's books.

I come away from that section bearing a book called "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", which I picked up purely on a whim, but the synopsis on the back cover fascinated me.

A story about a girl who accidentally gets into a colourful world she never could have expected? That sounds like a book I'd like to read, regardless of its target audience.

I spend nearly an hour skimming over the rest of the novels on this floor, quite unashamed of my interest, given that I've done so little for pure entertainment lately. Even my date with Jamie last night was specifically for the purpose of introducing me to the wider population here at Leoch. . .

Three books make it onto the pile I eventually take back to my little table - "The Prisoner of Zenda", "The Enchanted April", and "A Town Like Alice". I'm unsure if I'll like any of them, but I figure giving them a try can't possibly hurt.

I'm just settling back down at my table again, when I hear a buzzing sort of clamour outside the window nearest me. I get up to look, too curious to let it pass, and I see what looks like an enormous flying insect, zig-zagging over the ornamental gardens on this side of the house. But, it's clearly not a living thing.

I've never seen one this shape and size, but it's obviously a drone.

A bellowing cheer of many voices call out, and a small multitude of children scramble down the garden's neat pathways in pursuit of the humming, whirling thing. I smile as they disturb the neatly raked gravel paths in their enthusiasm, bringing interest and joy to a scene that was almost impossibly dull before they arrived.

And then, off to the side, I see Rupert, holding a small radio-controller, grinning as he leads the children on their merry chase.

My smile freezes, but only for a moment. My feelings about Rupert have softened considerably, especially given his unexpected allyship with me last night. He's graduated up from being one of my watch dogs, to being an almost welcome guard dog. And as he plays with these kids, calling out cheerfully to them, and laughing at their shouted responses, I can't help chuckling a little to myself, remembering his similar complete abandon when he raised his glass in what has almost become his catch-phrase whenever I think of him - "At least suck hard!"

Wha-am!

Another set of memories from last night barrel into me with such a shock, I stagger back from the window.

Angus, Gil and I, shouting that phrase and many other innuendos, making long strings of horrifically lame rhymes with them, trading insults like handshakes, and laughing maniacally every time a shot lands. . .

I stumble back to my seat, and put my head in my hands.

Jamie hoisting me over his shoulder to the sound of much cheering, our long, protest-laden walk back to my room, the thorough embarrassment I made of myself before I remembered where I'd put my room key. . .

Key.

Lock. . .

Oh.

That's why those words sounded familiar.

I smile a bit, with the knowledge just how sweet Jamie really is, even when completely smashed.

His warm hands, his casual strength, his insistence on taking care of me. . .

My smile fades. Oh god.

His hands. . .

I remember, with perfect clarity, boldly coming on to him, and suggestively licking his fingers. . .

My face blazes hot with shame. Not over what I did, but that it might have offended him. And this morning while talking with him, I was so quick to assume he might have offended me, I gave not a thought to the fact that things might be the other way around.

I owe him an apology. Whether he was offended or not.

Then, finally, my brain is kind to me, letting me remember how nicely he fit beside me in bed, how warm and comforting his presence was, and how good I found it to hear his breathing in the middle of the night. I've slept alone for so long, I'd nearly forgotten just how much I love having another person in my bed.

And then, like turning a page of one of these paper-made books, a different memory comes clear to me.

Jamie, standing in my room at the manse on Cold Island 12, claiming me with his mouth. . .

Jamie was the one I dreamed of, the night before I came through the stones!

Yet another lightning flash arcs through my mind, and I remember the dark, faceless silhouette I saw a month ago on Skycity 15. That strange figure, so near and yet so distant, that I was so sure was staring at my tent. The figure I had dismissed as a dream, brought on by an electrical storm.

That was the first night I had dreamt of trees, mist and stones, of winds and one lone star to guide me home. . .

Home. . .

Was that Jamie too?

I don't know quite how to take any of this on board. I like Jamie, a lot. I trust him, and he's very dear to me. Last night hasn't changed my desire to date him, not in the slightest, but what can these dreams possibly mean? Dreaming of him after I met him, yes, that makes sense. But before?

I shake my head. Today was supposed to be about straightening things out, not making things more confusing.

With a sigh, I turn back to my info screen again. I look up what a skunk is, the current meaning of gay, what a swimming pool is for, what television is, what calves are, what tablet is made of, and what ingredients go into a daiquiri.

That answers most of my definition questions for the moment, except for the names that Jamie called me while he couldn't say Sassenach – mo grai and mo hrea and mo kneein doown.

He has called me all those things before, but not as frequently as he did last night.

And Sorcha. He also calls me Sorcha. . .

I shiver a bit, and decide he can keep his secrets for now. I think I'll be much happier not knowing what his names for me really mean.

Or, at least much calmer.

So I move on to looking up some information on how to build a contemporary info screen. I still have all those parts in the manager's barn, after all, and it might be a good idea to have a functional backup computer.

Only then do I discover that when Jamie had talked to me about computers, the term he'd used was "com" - with only one m - and not "comm" with two m's like I'm used to. Apparently his term is short for "combination" - as in, a combination of a touch-screen computer and an earbud communicator – while my term "comm" is an abbreviation for "communication" and only refers to the earbud part.

This doesn't quite explain why Dougal had a fully integrated com the night I first arrived here, seeing as the articles I've brought up all concur that such integration is totally outdated, but it is a step on the way.

I promise myself, I will understand what's going on in this house.

There's no other way I'll be able to truly change things for the better.

A sound from the corridor draws my attention away from my info screen. It sounds as though someone is unlocking the main doors. . .

With a heavy click and a creaking groan, both leaves of the door swing wide. I hear the light scraping sound of two small wedge doorstops being placed. When the person doing all this finally steps fully into the room, I blink at them, surprised. It's Letitia. I would not have thought unlocking the library would be among her particular duties. But, here we are.

I stand, and respectfully incline my head to her.

The look she gives me in response is quite a study. She is more than one kind of surprised, not entirely pleased, and deeply determined at finding me here.

"A verrah good mornin' tae ye, Mrs. Beauchamp," she says, nodding sharply.

"Good morning."

"I see ye've found my favaroute refuge from Mrs. Fitz on cleaning days, aye?"

That brings me up short. It never occurred to me that the Lady of the house could possibly share any feelings in common with me, especially not when it comes to something like this. But, I suppose it ought to have. It must be strange, to be married to the Laird, and still not be the one in charge of your own home. After all, Mrs. Fitz, good, generous soul that she is, is still one of the most imposing, authoritative people I've ever met, manifestly in charge of every bit of her domain.

So, where does that leave Letitia?

In the library, apparently. . .

"Yes, it seems I have. I'll go if you want to be alone. . ."

"Nae nae," she waves for me to sit, and settles herself on a sofa not too far from my table, "I've been wantin' tae speak tae ye, anyroad."

"Have you?"

"Aye."

But she doesn't say anything for a long minute or two, instead regarding the wood grain on the boards of the floor as though she can read her own history in them.

And perhaps she can. . .

Seen this close to, and in this context, Letitia is much prettier than I first thought her, with an elegant mouth and sweetly pointed chin, well set up when it comes to arms and legs, and not at all ignorant of any of these facts.

I'm sure she isn't all that much older than me either – ten years maybe, and very possibly less than that. But by the look on her face just now, she might as well be a hundred. . .

"I see ye're. . . doin' some research?" she says, finally.

I blink before nodding, a touch more bluntly than I mean to. Of all the unexpected questions. . .

"Yes. I am."

"An' I heard ye say ye were a botanist – that furst night, aye?"

"Yes."

"An' that ye ken the ways of CRISpRs."

"Certain kinds of them, yes. . ."

Where is she going with this?

"And ye heard Dougal tell why my husband doesnae trust them, aye?"

"Yes, but-"

"Weel I think it may be in yer oon good interest tae look up British Vaccine number-" and here she rattles off a long ID that I tap into my search field out of pure Pavlovian response, "Jus' tae see iff'n et may help ye around t'farm. Aye?"

The search results come back, and they have nothing to do with botany, farming, or CRISpRs.

The first result is for a national registry of vaccine-related reactions and illnesses. . .

I click through to the site, and find myself looking at a nearly sixty year old survey list of thirty pregnant women who received an experimental broad spectrum vaccine. It was especially formulated for pregnant women, and a comprehensive list of their symptoms and reactions are listed.

All reported joint pains, a low fever, mild dizziness and nausea, and headaches.

Three women reported an unsightly skin eruption that healed in a week or so, fifteen reported coughs and sneezes consistent with a normal vaccine reaction, and five had minor itching at the injection site.

All of the women recovered, and survived.

All of the children were born normally, and all were reported healthy, except two. The first had a mild deformation of his finger and toe nails, which is listed as possibly being vaccine related, but highly unlikely.

The other was born with Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome, which is listed as strictly genetic and unrelated.

Unrelated.

I close the site window, and sit back to think.

That Colum blames modern medicine for his condition is perhaps understandable – anyone who has lived as long as he has with such an illness can easily become bitter, and lashing out at what seems to be the culprit is quite normal, as far as I can see. That he continues to blame the wrong culprit even when the real reason is extant doesn't baffle me either – it's always easier to lash out than it is to take responsibility. That he refuses to attempt a possible cure is beyond me, but then, preconceived notions and stubbornness can and have fostered even more unreasonable beliefs in better men than Colum Mackenzie

But that Dougal fosters this belief in his brother, to the point that he states it as fact to someone like me – a complete outsider – is quite unbelievable, and highly suspicious.

If Letitia knows the vaccine ID number off by heart, then there's no way Dougal is ignorant of the real reason for Colum's illness. And if there is anyone Colum would listen to on this matter, it's Dougal, I have no doubt.

And that means. . .

He is letting Colum live in ignorance. He is letting the disease take its course.

He is letting him die.

Dougal loves his brother. I'm absolutely certain of that.

But, perhaps he hates him too.

Is there a difference between not doing everything in your power to save someone, and outright murder? I'm not certain there always is. And in this case, Dougal has every reason to allow his brother's stubbornness to run its course – right into his early grave.

Does he want the Lairdship that much? Has he truly gone that far?

That Letitia herself has come to me – me, of all people! - about this matter, and has imparted it with such cool, deliberate assurance, tells me he does, and he has.

What she thinks I can do with this information, I don't know, but that she so deeply wanted me informed of it at all is reason enough for me to take it deathly seriously.

"Well," I say, slowly, "Th-"

"Dinnae thank me," Letitia says, sharply.

I blink, and fall silent.

"As one woman tae another, ye ken how it is." Her jaw juts out a bit, and I see a stubbornness in her eyes that far outweighs anything Colum and Dougal combined could ever manage, "There are times that duty, honour and an' e'en justice fall away when it comes tae the demands of love." She pulls herself bolt upright, and looks me boldly in the face, "An whate'er ye may think o' me and what I ha'e done, know this – I love my husband, Mrs. Beauchamp. 'Til death do us part."

For some reason, I am sure she knows about Dougal and Geillis.

"And, by the same token, you love his son."

I say it quite forthrightly. A thread of tension in her jaw relaxes.

"Aye. Wi' all my heart."

I nod. There is only a very little more that need be said.

"There is one thing I must thank you for, Mrs. Mackenzie."

"Oh, aye? An' what's that then?"

"For not hating me."

She smiles, grimly, "Dinnae fash. If I hated every woman who had somethin' I wanted, I'd ha'e verrah few friends left," she nods at me, intently solemn, "Good day, Mrs. Beauchamp."

And with that, Letitia leaves.

For a long while I sit there, and wonder. Is this what Leoch will always be to me? Interminable conflicts, full of impossible opponents and surprising allies? Am I doomed to be trapped in the endless cycle of intrigue here?

What can I possibly have that Letitia wants?

Knowledge of CRISpRs technology?

Maybe. But I doubt it.

And then it strikes me.

She wants the power I have over Dougal.

Or, maybe, just power, period.

Because, as odd as it is to realize, of the three of us – Geillis, Letitia, and me – it is Letitia who has had the least choice in all of this to-do with Dougal. The least choice, and possibly the most to lose. Certainly the least to gain, no matter how things end up going.

Whatever I plan to do next, it is shocking to me just how much I suddenly want to protect her. This woman I barely know, and upon whose hospitality I unquestionably depend, is also in the palm of my hand. From the moment I begin my offensive, her future will be as I will it. She, and all of this household, from Hamish to Annie, to Lily Bara, to the farm hands I haven't met yet – all will be my responsibility.

A responsibility Dougal is clearly not inclined to take up, no matter if he manages to usurp the Chieftain title from his brother or not.

I used to think Dougal was a leader, and merely thwarted in his attempts to lead. But, in fact, there is far more going on here than that. He is a manipulator. A con man. A user. Not an irredeemable one, I fervently hope, but that's where he is now, and that is how I must treat with him for the foreseeable future.

And the only language a manipulator understands is more manipulation.

Huh. Now, there's an idea.

All at once, a battle plan appears in my head. It's quite vague and formless as yet, but with some very definite possibilities. I'll need help to carry it out, of course, but suddenly my war with Dougal seems far more manageable. Looking a few steps ahead, I can even see myself winning, if everything goes to plan.

Which it won't, but still. . .

I close down my info screen, pick up my books and my bottle of flowers, and slowly walk back to my freshly cleaned rooms.

Whatever choices she has made, and whatever she has become because of them, in the end, it is still the Letitias of this world that matter. The faceless, nameless forgotten of history, who always end up paying the price when warriors and heroes take the stage. It is the great body of Humanity that is important, not the flashy, fancy outliers – the eyelashes and fingernails amongst us. It is the skin, bones and blood, farm hands, Core-huggers, kitchen staff and garbagemen that are what life is about, and too often their safety and needs are casually brushed aside for the sake of duty, honour, glory, and yes, justice. But any justice that refuses to take into account the common, everyday person, with their common everyday lives, is no justice at all.

I'm arranging my new books on a shelf in the sitting room when Jamie appears outside my open door.

"Ah, there ye are, Sassenach," he calls, cheerfully, "We'er well gathered for the shinty match, an' if ye dinnae come now, they'll start wi'out ye!"

I go out to him, closing and locking the door behind me.

"Well," I say, halfway smiling, "We can't have that, now can we?"