Page 5 of Here in Your Arms
This was not—could not be—a dream.
Maybe shehadblacked out. Maybe she had fainted, hit her head, wandered outside in a daze...?
Gingerly, feeling more sluggish and feeble than simply tired, she shoved to her feet. After taking a moment to steady herself, she turned in a slow, stumbling circle, her nearly new tennis shoes sinking slightly into the uneven ground. Trees loomed in every direction, dark silhouettes against a gray sky.
She tried to focus, to reason this out. But a deep, crawling unease settled in her bones. Something wasn’t right.
She’d been in the reading room, poring over the diary of a woman from almost seven hundred years ago, it had been near midnight, she’d been tired... that was all she remembered.
Unable to make sense of this, Rose imagined her first order of business should be to get out of the woods. She needed to find someone, find help. Forcing her shaky legs forward, she stumbled through the underbrush. Branches scraped against her coat, snagging at her sleeves as she stumbled blindly over uneven terrain. A twig snapped underfoot, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. She had no idea where she was going, or if she’d picked the right direction, but the forest infront of her as she moved seemed less dense than what had been in the opposite direction, what was now behind her.
She walked for what seemed to be a quarter hour or so, though she didn’t feel she’d gotten very far.
Then, through the trees, she thought she saw some light.
Not the cold, sterile glow of a streetlamp, but something warmer. She squinted through the mist and made out the shape of a small wooden building. Smoke curled from a chimney, disappearing into the night. The sight filled her with immediate relief.A house? A shop?
As she stepped closer, she spotted the sign hanging crookedly above the entrance. The words were carved deep into the worn wood, the edges softened by time as if the sign had hung there for ages. The letters were foreign but not unrecognizable. She was familiar with the ancient Scots language, by sight anyway. Sheshouldhave been able to read it, at least somewhat. She’d spent years studying medieval Scotland, after all. But the script was old fashioned and faded, the words unknown. Still, the squat building and sign had a country pub feel to it, and her spirits improved-marginally, anyway. A pub meant people. And people meant answers.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she stepped forward and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
It didn’t move and she almost crashed into it. Locked. The pub was closed.
Damn, she thought, but then realized it was morning and thus unlikely that a pub would be serving drinks before the sun had fully risen. Rose stepped back, rubbing her hands over her arms as another gust of cold wind cut through her. She glanced upward, surveying the gray sky. It had to be morning—early morning,judging by the deep hush that lay over everything. No footsteps on the road, no distant hum of cars, no voices carrying on the wind.
Shaking off her disappointment—as this ancient-looking building seemed to be in the middle of nowhere—she moved along the length of the building. Set in the middle of the wall on one side was a window, which had no glass and was shuttered from inside. Carefully, she shifted her weight and peered through a narrow gap between the boards. She caught glimpses of what looked like a hearth, a few heavy wooden chairs pushed haphazardly near the darkened fire, and a thick wooden beam overhead blackened from years of soot. But there were no signs of life.
She moved along the side of the pub, trying another window, but the view was just as unclear. Frustration curled in her gut. Turning the corner, she nearly stumbled over a row of wooden buckets, filled with rainwater and stacked against the outer wall. Beyond them, something else caught her eye—a long row of fabric draped across low, bramble-covered bushes, shifting slightly in the breeze.
Clothes.
She considered the oddity—not that they were laid out over bushes, since they were probably put there to dry—that the items were so...unusual. Rose took a step closer, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of them. Long tunics, their rough linen fabric stiff from drying, hung beside a woolen shift, its shape strange and unfamiliar—almost like an old-fashioned nightgown, but thicker, heavier. The color of the fabric was muted, earthy browns and grays, as if they had been dyed with something natural, not synthetic. And then, there were the stockings—if theywerestockings. Not the smooth, elastic kind she was used to seeing, but thick, knitted things that looked more like something out of a history book than a laundry pile.
Her confusion deepened.
Who the hell still wore clothes like this? She’d seen plenty of reenactments, studied medieval garments in books, but thesewere different. These didn’t seem to be costumes, hadn’t been designed for a play or a museum exhibit. They looked...lived in.Sturdy. Functional.
Her gaze fell on a separate patch of bramble where a woolen shawl lay spread over the thorny branches, woven thick and solid. It was easily the most modern-looking piece here, yet still oddly old-fashioned. She hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides.
The wind howled, slashing at her exposed neck, prompting her to consider larceny.
Rose stepped forward quickly, fingers trembling as she plucked the shawl from its perch. It was heavier than it looked, the wool coarse beneath her fingertips. She hesitated just long enough for guilt to gnaw at her again.It’s not like I have a choice,she reasoned. She was freezing, alone, and at this point, her dignity and morals took a backseat to survival.
Still, she whispered an apology to the unseen owner as she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, over her own thin wool coat, burying her hands in the folds of the thick material. The shawl was chilled and offered no immediate warmth, but it did prevent the icy wind from rattling her further.
It smelled of woodsmoke and the faintest hint of something herbal—lavender, maybe. That was almost comforting.
Almost.
Rose moved on, stumbling through the countryside. She did her best to avoid the dense clusters of trees, but they were everywhere, hemming her in. The land felt vast, untouched, as though she’d stepped into a world that had never known pavement or power lines.
The hours stretched endlessly as she walked, and her mind churned through every possible explanation. At times, she convinced herself this was nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream, and any moment now, she’d wake up, warm in her ownbed, with the memory of it fading like mist. But as her feet ached and the cold once again seeped through the layers of her clothing, that theory lost its appeal.
She considered that she might be the victim of a prank, but almost immediately dismissed the idea. Who would do something so elaborate? It made no sense—there was no one in her life who would go to such lengths, and certainly not for something so cruel as to leave her lost and freezing in the middle of nowhere.
Sadly, the only explanation that held any weight was the most unsettling one of all: she must have fainted, somehow wandered outside in a daze, and was now well and truly lost. She had no recollection of leaving the archives, no memory of walking out into the night, but what else could it be? That was something thatcouldactually happen, she reasoned.
She still felt disoriented and, in truth, was at times panicked.
