The Voice and the Vow
Isla sat on the edge of the bed in the guest chamber, her eyes red from crying, her body still aching. The bruises on her thighs and arms were angry and fresh, but the greater pain lived somewhere deeper. In her heart. In her pride. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if she could shield herself from the world, from him—from what had happened.
She missed home.
More than anything.
She missed her mother’s cooking, her dad’s bad jokes, the sound of rain tapping on her apartment window, and the scent of her favorite bookstore downtown. She even missed the mindless buzz of her old job, the occasional texts from her friends, the cozy familiarity of her ordinary life. She would give anything for a slice of her mother’s chocolate cake and a couch to cry on. Here, there were no couches. No chocolate cake. Just stone walls and aching silence.
The fire in the hearth had long burned low, the embers casting a faint orange glow across the stone floor. A draft slipped through the narrow window slit, brushing her bare feet like a ghost’s touch. Somewhere in the distance, a raven called—its cry bleak and rasping, as if mourning with her.
She hugged her knees to her chest. It was hard to believe that only days ago, she’d felt something for Lachlan. That she’d trusted him. Craved him.
And now…
A new thought slithered in—one she hated herself for having.
What if she was wrong to walk away?
Had she overreacted? Was she being childish? Maybe she should have stayed and yelled at him instead. Demanded answers. Fought back harder. But how could she face him again after what he said—after he threw Mairi’s name at her like a weapon, someone who could handle him in ways Isla apparently could not?
Her throat tightened.
She clenched her fists.
No. She wasn’t going to cry again. Not right now. She had cried enough. She had survived the humiliation, the pain, and the slap of betrayal. She wouldn’t let herself spiral.
She closed her eyes and imagined the sway of wind chimes on her mother’s porch, their hollow tings dancing with the smell of honeysuckle. Summer evenings spent sprawled on the couch, watching reruns and licking melted chocolate from her fingers. That aching clarity of joy—so distant, it may as well have belonged to another lifetime.
She rose and paced, the stone cold under her feet. Her gaze landed on the book she’d left on the side table: The Druids. The same book she had clung to like a lifeline hours before. Her fingers brushed the cover.
Maybe Alastair was right. Maybe learning magic could help her.
A sudden idea sparked—bright and wild.
If she studied hard enough, fast enough, maybe she could find a way out. A spell. An enchantment. Something to take her home before she shared the same fate as Book Isla.
She grabbed the book and flipped through it, searching. Her eyes scanned passages about ley lines and ancient rituals. Nothing mentioned time travel again.
But then…
A voice.
Not from the hallway. Not from the courtyard.
From inside her head.
He only acted that way out of jealousy.
She stilled.
“Hello?” she said aloud.
No answer.
“Who said that?”
Silence.
She looked around the room, heart pounding.
Had she imagined it?
She opened the book again.
He didn’t want to lose you.
This time, the voice was clearer. Male. Warm, almost sorrowful.
She froze, hand trembling over the page. A symbol inked in ochre shimmered beneath her thumb—only for a second, but it was enough to steal her breath.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
But the voice said nothing more.
Isla pressed her lips together, unsure whether she was going mad or being guided. Her mind reeled.
She thought back to Lachlan’s outburst. His fury. His need to possess her, control her.
Had it really come from fear?
Was that why he lashed out? Why he tried to wound her first, before she could reach his softest parts?
What if she found him and he didn’t care? What if the voice was wrong? What if she wasn’t worth fighting for—not by him, not by anyone? The thought sliced deeper than any blade.
But still—there was something unresolved between them. Something festering. She wouldn’t find peace until she unearthed it.
She reached for her clothes and dressed slowly, wincing as fabric touched her sore skin. Isla fastened the worn buttons of her blouse with fingers that shook. She braided her hair back from her face like armor, then straightened her spine in the mirror until the ghost of herself disappeared.
Before she opened the door, she paused. Her reflection looked hollow. Eyes dulled by grief. But beneath it all, there was the spark.
A flare of purpose.
She had come here by accident. Or maybe by fate.
Either way, she wouldn’t waste the time she had.
Even if she never found her way back home, she needed to understand this one. She needed to understand him.
And she needed to understand herself.
She placed a hand on the doorknob—then froze.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Not close, but not distant either. She held her breath, bracing for something—or someone.
Then silence.
A whisper shivered across her skin like a breeze:
Be brave.
Her breath caught. The book, now nestled under her arm, pulsed faintly with warmth.
She didn’t know who the voice belonged to. But it didn’t matter. Not now.
She stepped into the corridor—not as a broken bride, but as a woman gathering her power.
She would find Lachlan.
She would demand the truth.
And whatever came next—she would face it on her own terms.
She closed the door softly behind her, the click of the latch sounding far louder than it should have. It echoed down the corridor like a sealed promise, final and fragile.
The hallway stretched out before her, cloaked in the hush of late hours. Tapers flickered in wrought-iron sconces, their flames unsteady, casting long shadows that crawled along the stone like whispers too afraid to speak aloud.
Her feet moved slowly at first, the book warm beneath her arm. She could turn back. Retreat. Let silence stretch into safety and solitude.
But no.
Not this time, she told herself. Fear had walked beside her long enough. Let it watch from behind, not lead.