She may have been settling in to the castle happily enough, but the bad dreams became a regular staple of her nightly rest. It was difficult to wake up fresh and ready to greet a new day on the Scottish moors when you’d spent the night in a dark cell praying for death to claim you. None were quite as vivid or realistic as that first night — the night that had plunged her into a panic so deep it had taken over an hour, as well as the gentle ministrations of Ian, to bring her back to her senses. But they were still unpleasant, and unsettling. Whenever she occupied that space, there was no possible future to it — no hope of escape, not even the fleeting glimpse of a suspicion that it was just a dream, that she would wake up in the castle again, warm and safe and happy. It was a truly awful way to spend her nights, and she found herself making excuses to stay up later and later into the night to avoid the solitary embrace of her bed and the inevitable nightmares of cold stone and overwhelming, crushing, obliterating pain.

But as much as she hated the dreams, she had to admit that the information they gave her was useful. She had borrowed some writing materials from Audrina, who had pulled them from a drawer in her bedroom, reassuring her that Colin had plenty to spare. The little gallery of charcoal sketches in their room had spread to cover another wall — the beautiful collection functioned like a miniature timeline of their relationship, and Audrina was always delighted to show it off to an approving Cora. Lots of drawings of Audy, of course, in various poses and states of relaxation. A few of the people and places around the castle, and at least a couple of the ornery old cow and her sweet calf that Audrina claimed was ‘definitely probably’ her favorite. One, high up on the wall, was of a breathtaking vista — a cliff above the sea, waves crashing on the rocks and clouds scudding across a sky that Cora just knew was a crystalline shade of blue, even though the only color was the black smudges of charcoal. Atop the cliff, just big enough to make out, were a couple of figures standing close together.

“That’s us,” Audrina told her, her voice soft with that special, dreamy quality she only got when she was talking about Colin. “On the isle of Skye. When I told him I was expecting the twins. That’s where we named them, too.” Little Catriona was growing a fine head of blonde hair just like her father’s — but little Dougal was crowned with a set of curls just like his mother’s, and the same shade of rich, dark red. He was going to be quite a sight as a young man — especially if he chose to wear it long, as a lot of the men seemed to.

“He’s got quite a talent,” Cora observed. There were dozens of drawings of the babies on the new wall — the reason for the expansion. The babies sleeping, or playing, or gazing thoughtfully at one another. It was clear that Colin spend a great deal of time with his children, and the love he had for them was clear in every carefully sculpted line. She could even tell the babies apart from the drawings — a difficult enough task in real life, let alone in charcoal. “I wish I could draw.”

“Take it up. If Ian’s not taking all your spare time,” Audrina added with deliberate casualness. They hadn’t spoken much of that particular relationship — honestly, Cora felt a little guilty about how she was handling it. Ian just hadn’t brought up the kiss they’d shared on the battlements, the perfect gentleman that he was, and she felt uncharacteristically shy about it. They spoke frequently, and she often caught him gazing at her with a half-smile on his face, but there was a pretty big elephant in the room.

“Is my cousin bothering you, the rogue?”

Cora started. Colin was standing in the doorway, clad in his usual MacClaran kilt, but the smile on his face was a teasing one that reminded her a great deal of Audrina. He was holding Dougal, juggling the boy up and down — the baby was gazing up at his father and giggling in that strange way babies had of finding humor absolutely everywhere.

“Haven’t you better things to be doing as Laird of the castle than bothering your son?”

“Not in the slightest.” Colin grinned, glancing down at the baby, who uttered a shriek of laughter as he did. “I’m not sure what he thinks is funny, but he’s been doing this for hours. The men are beginning to make fun of me.”

“Usurped by a bairn,” Audrina said, grinning at him. “You had a good reign, my love, but it’s time to retire...”

“Not likely,” Colin chuckled. “Cora, how are you settling in? I’m afraid we haven’t had much of a chance to talk.”

“Cora’s been having dreams,” Audrina said meaningfully. “Dreams like mine. Dreams about Bellina.”

A shadow passed across the Laird’s face. “Aye, I was afraid that might be the case. It’d be a wild coincidence, the resemblance you bear that woman. A shocking thing, what happened to her. She was a good woman and a great healer.”

“What did happen?” Cora pressed him, frowning. “My dreams are — not clear at all. She wasn’t in a fit state to be particularly coherent about what was happening to her, or why, so I don’t get much information…just the faces of the men who...” She shuddered, not wanting to finish that sentence, and Audrina touched her arm gently, comforting her.

“You’d best speak to my mother, I think, lass. She was closest of all to Bellina — she was her cousin, after all. When she didn’t return from her trip back home, Mam made the trip all the way down to Italy to see what had happened to her. It was the first and only time she left Scotland — and the first time she’d even left this castle since marrying my father.”

“I didn’t realize,” Cora murmured, remembering how distraught Mary had been when she tried to press her for information about the death of her cousin.

“Best go gentle,” Colin said softly. “She’s still grieving. A terrible thing, truly. But if you’re truly her spirit reborn — as this one is my Maeve — then your presence here is a blessing from the Lord himself. Perhaps you can help her heal.”

“I don’t remember much of her, I’ll be honest. But I believe in the connection. After what Au — what Maeve has told me… it feels like the same thing. The only difference is… Maeve cast a spell through time to bring her reincarnation back here. From what I can tell, Bellina did nothing of the sort.”

Audrina shrugged. “Perhaps I brought us both here. Maeve and Bellina were as close as you and I, back in the day.”

“Aye, that’s true. Always giggling and whispering together. Whenever I wanted to know what the creature was thinkin’, I’d always ask Bellina first.” Colin grinned, shuffling his son in his arms a little. “She always helped me get back in her good graces.”

“They always promised they’d be there for each other,” Audrina said, her eyes a little unfocused the way they often were when she was trying to remember things about Maeve’s life. “They had a pact to help each other. Just like ours. Maybe that pact is what brought you home to me, when I needed you most.”

Cora smiled. It was amazing to think that a friendship could have manifested itself again, six hundred years down the line, in a different time, a different country, a different world. But hadn’t she always felt like she and Audrina were fated to know each other, love each other, live their lives side by side on the same path?

“You’d best speak to Mary, I think,” Audrina said now, and the smile on her face suggested that she was thinking the same thing. “We’ll sort out what’s happening.”

“Last time, she said — she said something about Bellina’s enemies becoming mine.”

Colin looked a little worried at that. “Aye, I had thought of that. I suppose you know about the Inquisition?”

Men in dark uniforms with cold, cruel faces. Cora shuddered, and nodded.

“They’ve been coming down hard on witchcraft. We thought our women safe — there’s not a witch among them, unless you think healing with herbs is somehow evil or cursed, of course. But after Bellina was taken…well, Mam’s been a little paranoid. That’s part of why she boarded up Audrina’s tower.”

“The English lords were very quick to accuse me of witchcraft, too,” Audrina admitted. “It’s something they take very seriously here. The Catholic faith —”

“ — says nothing about herbs,” Cora cut her off, irritably.

“No. But the men who uphold the Church do,” Colin said, stressing the word ‘men’. “We’ll keep you safe, Cora. You’re a member of the family now. But Mary’s right to be worried.”

It was with a heavy heart that Cora sought out Mary. She found her eventually in the kitchens, deep in conversation with Margaret, and she waited politely until their business was concluded — something about stores for the winter. She’d been dismayed to realize that they were still in autumn — the cold night air was only going to get colder. But she rather looking forward to the snow.

“Mary, if it’s alright — I need to speak to you. About our mutual — relative.”

A shadow passed across Mary’s face, and Cora saw her visibly steel herself for the conversation ahead. Such a lot of quiet strength in this unassuming woman. “Yes. Come with me.”

She took her to the same room they’d sat in before — this time it was brighter, with weak sunlight filtering through the uncommonly large window, which in daylight looked out toward the little vegetable garden that was kept within the walls. Mary gazed out of the window for a little while, then looked back to Cora. “This was Bellina’s room, when she lived here. I haven’t been able to bring myself to give it another purpose since she left us.”

“Mary, I — I’ve been dreaming. The way Maeve dreamed, when she first got here — at least from what she’s told me. I think — I think you were right, when you called me by Bellina’s name. I think her spirit has been reincarnated in me, and brought back to this place.” She felt a little ridiculous, saying all this — she’d always been a spiritual woman, but a skeptic within that, someone who interrogated and questioned and challenged presumptions. But the evidence was incontrovertible. Here she was, in medieval Scotland, dreaming of a woman who looked just like her. What better explanation could there be?

Mary had tears in her eyes, but there was the ghost of a smile on her lips, too, even as she wept. With one shaking hand, she reached out to lightly brush Cora’s cheek with her fingertips. “Bellina,” she murmured, and suddenly she reached out and pulled Cora into her arms, held her close and wept against her hair. “Oh, Bellina, you came back. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you, my darling girl.”

Cora let herself be held, emotion welling up in her own chest. It was obvious that Mary had thought of Bellina as a daughter she’d never had. How awful, to have her taken away so abruptly, so senselessly. And while she was away, too — and there were no phones, no emails or text messages. Poor Mary had expected Bellina to return to the castle. How long had she waited, as weeks stretched into months? Had she felt the way Cora had felt when Audrina went missing — the flame of hope in her chest slowly flickering and dying?

“Do you remember?” Mary asked now, releasing her from the embrace though she kept hold of both her shoulders. “Do you remember everything?”

“Some things. More and more every night. I expect the longer I stay, the more I’ll recall her — the same way Maeve has been recovering her memories of Colin and her life here. But the dreams — they’re mostly about her death, Mary.”

Mary shut her eyes. “I was afraid of that, yes.”

“Can you tell me what you know?”

“Of course, child. Of course.” She gathered herself, dabbed the tears away from her face gently but with an incredible dignity. “My grandfather’s sister — my great-aunt — traveled to Italy in her youth, met an Italian nobleman who ran away with her and settled in a village in the countryside. The whole family was outraged,” Mary reminisced, smiling. “They never stopped complaining about it. My great-aunt and her husband had seven children, and Bellina was the daughter of their youngest, Rosa. But Rosa got very sick after her husband died, and she wrote to us here, begging us to take on the care of her only child. Of course, I accepted. And so Bellina arrived. She had to learn our tongue and our customs quickly, the poor soul — but she was so dedicated, so studious. I used to see her in the garden, touching each plant and practicing its name in Gaelic and in English.”

Cora smiled — she’d done similar things in her youth. Once she set about learning something, she was unstoppable.

“We cared for Bellina like our own daughter. She would write home to her family once a month or so, and slowly the rift in the family mended. It was wonderful. We heard stories about the Inquisition, of course, but Bellina’s family were all good Catholics, and their village was tiny and remote regardless. They thought they had nothing to fear.” She heaved a deep sigh. “Then we got the terrible news. Bellina’s aunt — Angela was her name — was kind of the local medicine woman. She knew which herbs were good for wounds and which would ease a head cold, that kind of thing. Anyway, it only took a passing party of Inquisitors to stop over in the village one night on their way to Rome. They overheard a man in the tavern bragging about how quickly a flesh wound of his had healed with Angela’s help.”

“No,” Cora whispered. Something strange was happening — the hypnotic lull of Mary’s voice, the quiet room — she could almost see the village tavern. No, not almost — she saw it. Remembered it. The tavern had a red door… she had walked past it a thousand times as a child…

“They tried her as a witch,” Mary said sadly. “Bellina heard about it in a letter from her uncle. She was distraught. Angela had inspired her love for healing, taught her the basics of what she knew of herbs. Not witchcraft. Just common sense. I begged her, pleaded with her not to go — but she was a willful soul. She had to be with her family, she said. How could I tell her not to go? So off she went. And I never saw her again.”

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Cora whispered, taking the older woman’s hands and squeezing them in wordless comfort.

“Her uncle wrote to us,” she said heavily, her voice small and lost. “The village had been in the grip of a full-blown Inquisition when Bellina arrived. She was mad with grief, furious — she caused a scene in the village square, by all accounts, shouted the men of the Inquisition down, told them they were fools, that healing with plants wasn’t witchcraft, it was using the gifts God had given us through nature. Called them all fools and blasphemers. They didn’t take it kindly.”

Cora found herself smiling, though there were tears in her eyes. “She was brave.”

“She was so brave,” Mary whispered. “But she was reckless. And if she hadn’t been so brave, she’d be here with us today.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Cora murmured, pulling the woman into an embrace. She tried, with the hug, to convey her love, her condolences, her shared grief at Bellina’s loss. “I know I’m not — I’m not her, not exactly. But — but I hope I can remember enough of her — that I can carry on where she left off. That I can live the life she would have lived if she hadn’t been taken.”

A tear rolled down Mary’s cheek, and she smiled. “You’re already sounding so much like her.” The smile faded. “But please, Cora — Bellina — please, be careful. The Inquisition is still out there. Their network of spies is enormous. If you’re seen by the wrong person — or if anyone hears anything — you must be careful. Promise me. I can’t — I can’t lose her again.”

“I promise,” Cora said, and hugged her again. “I’ll be careful, Mary. You have my word. You won’t lose me.”