Page 130 of A Scot in the Storm
“No,” the old woman agreed. “But the interesting ones always do.”
Rory looked profoundly unconvinced by this assessment.
Abigail nearly laughed again.
Then the air changed. Not violently this time. No thunder or storm or lightning splitting the cliffs apart. The world simply thinned around them until every breath felt drawn through silk.
The stones beneath Abigail’s boots hummed softly. Even the sea below the cliffs had gone still, which was something the North Sea simply did not do unless reality itself had taken leave of its senses.
The Cailleach stepped toward the archway.
“It’s time.”
Fear moved instantly through Abigail so sharply she grabbed Rory’s hand without thinking.
His fingers closed around hers at once.
The old woman pointed toward the center of the tower floor where drifting snow had begun slowly circling against the stones, not from wind but movement, and light unfolded where darkness should have been, too bright to belong among ancient stone.
The scent hit her first.
Not gradually, but all at once and sharp enough to cut straight through salt air and winter cold until Abigail staggered where she stood, because suddenly the world smelled of antiseptic, overheated air, burnt coffee gone stale in paper cups, sunscreen lingering faintly in the air, and the peculiar feel that hospitals gave off, sterile and profoundly lonely at the same time.
Home. Not a memory or imagination.
Light unfolded where darkness should have been, too bright and clean and modern to belong among ancient stone and drifting snow, and Abigail gasped softly as the hospital room sharpened into view.
Beside her Rory swore and crossed himself.
Christmas lights blinked faintly near the window. Machines glowed beside the bed. A tiny artificial tree leaned sideways near the television with a surfing Santa hanging from a branch.
And there was Sam.
Pale beneath white blankets, one arm tangled in tubing while the monitor beside him traced green light steadily through the dim room.
Pain tore through Abigail so violently she nearly doubled over beneath it.
Her brother stirred faintly against the pillow, his face thinner than she remembered and far too pale beneath the weak hospital light, though one sock had somehow vanished entirely beneath the blankets in a way that felt painfully, absurdly like him.
Her little brother could lose a battle with footwear under almost any circumstances.
The thought nearly destroyed her.
“Sam,” she whispered.
His lips moved slightly before her name escaped him in the smallest rough murmur.
“Abs.”
Something inside her shattered completely then, and the sound that left her throat was every sleepless night she’d spent swallowing fear before answering his calls so he wouldn’t hear it in her voice. Every doctor’s appointment she’d pretended not to dread. Every moment she’d smiled while secretly calculating survival rates and treatment costs, and whether terror could be disguised long enough to keep another person afloat.
The hospital room sharpened further around her until she could almost feel the dry recycled heat against her skin. Another few steps and she could reach him. Sit beside the bed. Hold his hand.
Abigail stepped forward instinctively. Beside her, Rory’s hand loosened around hers slowly enough that she felt exactly what the gesture cost him.
Behind her now, he stood motionless, and though Abigail could feel the heartbreak radiating from him, he didn’t try to stop her.
“If ye must go,” he said quietly, his voice roughened and dangerously close to breaking, “know that I’ll love ye forever, and I’ll no hold ye here.”
