Page 68 of The Winter Laird

“Show me at once,” he demanded.

“Put the sword down, Nioclas,” she replied, exasperated. “None of these items will harm you. Unless you’re stabbed by the pen. But that would be merely a flesh wound. I don’t think anyone’s ever died of a pen attack.”

He eyed the quill warily.

“I’m not taking this out until you put the sword away.”

Nioclas did a swift, silent count. Two more dirks on his person, a sword strapped to the wall inside of the small alcove, a bow and arrow hidden in his trunk.

He reluctantly propped his sword against the wall.

“Come sit by me,” she said quietly. “I vow, this cannot hurt you. It isn’t alive.”

“What is it, then?”

Her blue eyes shone as she pulled it out. “It’s a tool I used every day. It’s called a phone.”

The black rectangle lay, unassuming, in her hand.

“Tell me of its purpose.”

Brianagh ran a finger over it. “When I press this button”—she pointed to a small circle—“the screen alights.”

“It provides fire?” Nioclas asked skeptically.

She shook her head and thought for a moment before replying. “No. It provides light, which is very different. It also acts as my record keeper, as it holds information about other people, such as their castle location and ways to send missives. But most importantly, it holds portraits.”

Nioclas was helplessly confused. How could such a thingholdportraits?

“Nioclas? Are you all right?”

He settled his mouth into a firm line. “Aye, my lady, of course. I’ve seen much worse on the battlefield, as you well know.” If she fought a smile, Nioclas was grateful for her discretion.

“Ready?”

He nodded, his body coiled and tensed to spring into action, should they need his skills. A bead of sweat dripped between his shoulder blades, and his breathing shallowed.

Brianagh touched the circle and it began to glow. Nioclas gasped and leapt backwards.

“It’s the light I told you about.” Brianagh watched him nervously. “It cannot hurt us, Nioclas.”

He watched as it glowed, then dimmed, then glowed again…then color as he’d never seen filled her hand.

She rapidly dragged her finger across the colors, despite his warning not to touch the evil thing, and her face instantly softened when the tool changed images yet again. A portrait did indeed sit in her hand, and it was somehow even clearer than the portrait from the strange card she showed him moments ago.

Nioclas wiped the sweat from his face. “By the saints…”

She met his bewildered eyes with her calm ones. “I’m not a witch, Nioclas. This is just an example of the amazing things man has created. Would you like to see what my family looks like?”

“By all that is holy, I don’t think I can,” he whispered. “If not a witch, are you a sorceress?”

She laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls, and lowered the tool to her lap. “No, Nioclas. I have no magical abilities. Reilly does, though. He’s the one who brought me here. He is the one who moved time. I’m just the person who got caught up in this family story that’s going around. I’m not the chosen daughter, or whatever the O’Rourkes claimed. I’m just a woman from the future, out of place, and not really sure how to get back.”

Nioclas heard the sadness, but her face remained impassive. He studied her. She didn’t look different, except that her lips shone more in the firelight because of her face paint. His instincts had never led him astray, and his gut wasn’t screaming at him to leave. Instead, a strong curiosity had him move closer to her and lean in to view the object that was now fading slightly.

“Where’s it going?” he asked.

She touched it again, and the colors brightened. He jumped.

---