Chapter Eight

At the bottom of the stairs, the mist thinned and the Highland melody drifted to an end. Whispered conversations filled the void left by the music. She had the sensation that she’d entered another world. Irene clung to Logan as they entered a wide, circular alcove.

Mist cleared, as though chased away by the torch lights that hung in brackets on stone walls. The double doors closed behind her and locked, which did nothing to calm her nerves. Standing in the clearing was Lady Roselyn and the other tour guests.

When her rescuer set her down, Irene’s legs buckled, and Logan kept his arms around her a moment longer than seemed necessary before he released her. He shielded the diary from the group as he handed it to her. “You threw this when you tripped.” He rubbed his neck and grinned. “It hit me in the head.”

She grimaced. “Sorry, but thank you,” she whispered as Lady Roselyn approached.

“Yes, thank you, Logan, for saving Irene,” Lady Roselyn said. “First steps on this journey can be tricky if you’re not careful.” She turned toward the group. “Please stay close together as we proceed to our destination. It’s easy to get lost, which is the reason we selected an entrance near our activities.” She motioned for everyone to step in line behind her as the corridor narrowed. “As we proceed toward the Great Hall,” she said, “feel free to look around. This is not one of those tours where you’re instructed not to touch. Touching is part of the experience. Stirling Castle played a major role in the Scottish struggle for independence from England’s rule. As a result, the castle was constantly under attack. To our left is a hallway that leads to the castle’s Chapel Royal, where our weddings take place, and further down are housed the bedchambers for our guests. And here we are.”

Lady Roselyn stepped aside, extending her arm to present the entrance to a banquet hall. Banners hung from the ceiling in alternating shades of reds and greens. “Welcome,” she said dramatically, “to the thirteenth century.”

There was a flurry of activity in the Great Hall. Men were bringing boughs indoors from pine, holly, and fir trees and placing them in piles, while women turned them into garlands and wreaths. Musicians warmed up their instruments, and an artist sketched a wolfhound puppy chewing on a bone. A fireplace large enough to roast a full-grown cow blazed happily on the far side of the room, and over the mantel were crossed swords and a shield so highly polished it shone like a mirror. The smell of baking bread laced with herbs danced in the air. The scene was equal parts overwhelming and thrilling.

Irene spun around. Everywhere she looked was a buzz of activity. Because of the detailed journal entries in her mother’s diary, the setting before her felt like a scene from a well-loved book. Her mother’s words had come to life. Irene pressed her arms against her waist to control her excitement, wishing her sister were here.

Lady Roselyn raised her voice to get everyone’s attention. “My sisters and I will each lead a group of you to your rooms. Bridget is in charge of escorting the men, and Fiona will escort Irene and Julia. I will escort Sean and Ann to their suite. We’ve stretched the rules a bit to make your accommodations as comfortable as possible. Although we have a full schedule and our time here is limited, we’ve learned that having private quarters where you can relax and get away from the new sights and sounds is a welcome opportunity and helps make your experiences all the more enjoyable.”

“It is as I’ve always imagined,” Ann said.

Stunned, Irene turned to look at her. Sean and Logan looked as shocked. For a brief moment, Ann seemed happy and engaged, and her eyes focused. But then, just as before, her animation didn’t last. In the next moment she was leaning on her husband, Sean, as Lady Roselyn guided them down a corridor. Unfazed, Bridget motioned for the men to follow her in the opposite direction.

“Ann and Sean are truly a lovely couple,” Fiona said to Irene and Julia. “We have great hopes for both of them. Are you ready?” Fiona’s sunny expression was contagious. She’d changed from the modern clothes she’d worn at the ticket booth to a more century-appropriate gown. While Lady Roselyn wore blue, and Bridget a shade of forest green, Fiona’s gown looked like it had captured the firelight, which brought out the red highlights in her blond hair. Like her sisters, Fiona wore a red-and-green tartan sash over one shoulder.

“Your rooms are not far away,” Fiona said. “In this century, they are referred to as chambers. That reminds me. For our female guests, the bathrooms, or garderobes, as they are called in this century, are connected to your quarters. That said, and even though they were scrubbed and cleaned this morning, they are basically holes in the wood plank benches and empty into the streams below the castle.” Fiona gave an apologetic shrug. “We’ve set a bowl of oranges stuffed with fragrant cloves nearby, as there might be an odor. Actually, count on a smell and be pleasantly surprised if there isn’t one. Sorry. Oh, good, here we are. Irene, this is your chamber. Julia has the one further down the hallway.”

Inside was a four-poster bed with vibrant red velvet curtains hanging from the top of the bed’s square frame that cascaded like a crimson waterfall onto the wood floor. The bedspread was the same shade of velvet, its hem braided with alternating green and gold threads. The bed looked so inviting, Irene yawned in response, and caught Fiona smiling.

“For some reason our guests are tired when they first begin the tour,” Fiona said. “Make yourself comfortable while I show Julia to her chamber. We gather for the first feast of the day after you’ve rested, and the meal will also include games my sisters and I have planned for our guests’ entertainment. Would you like me to send someone to help you find your way back to the Great Hall? We’ve made quite a few twists and turns along the way.”

Irene sat on the side of the bed. “No, thank you. I never get lost.”

When the door shut, her room felt even more cozy and warm. A fire blazed opposite the bed, and a tapestry hung near a leaded-glass window. The tapestry was as welcome as the room. It pictured a meadow frosted with snow and a path that led to a cottage with the image of a Scottish thistle painted on the door. A wisp of smoke trailed from the cottage’s chimney, and its windows glowed with warmth.

Irene yawned again. Maybe she’d take just a short nap.