Just in Time for a Highlander by Gwyn Cready Page B

The sight sent a wave of homesickness through Duncan. His grandfather’s house, situated not far from Langholm, had often been enveloped in odd and fascinating weather, and his visits there as a child, far from the city streets of Edinburgh, had formed in him a deep and unchanging love for the majesty of the Lowland hills.
    Homesick when you’re in the middle of Scotland? A fine fool you are. And yet home—and his grand-da—seemed more remote to him now than when he was in New York, half a world away.
    Outside a wolf howled, and Grendel appeared in one of the doorways, ears raised.
    “Do you hear your pack?”
    Grendel made an agitated noise, and Duncan scratched the dog’s ears. Duncan didn’t know how he had come to be here, more than three hundred years in his past, and wondered for an instant if he, like Grendel, had been responding to some ancient and unknowable call. But while finding out how he got here would be interesting, Duncan knew he needed to concentrate on discovering something more useful—namely, how to return.
    Grendel made another noise, in sympathy with his wild brethren, and leaned reluctantly against Duncan.
    “Poor fellow. I’m afraid we must both be resigned to stay awhile.”
    His heart cramped. What day was it? Still Sunday? He had been intentionally vague with grandfather about his arrival, protecting his options in case an emergency arose at work, but at some point his grand-da would begin to worry.
    The muffled sound of a man’s voice—deep, gruff, filled with anger—rose behind a door at the end of the hall. With Grendel at his heels, Duncan padded to the door at the cross section of two halls. Duncan looked left, right, and behind him. No one in sight. He leaned closer. A woman was speaking now, her voice as agitated as the man’s but quieter and appeasing. Duncan couldn’t make out the words, though the disagreement was heated.
    He jerked away when he heard footsteps approaching on the other side, and thank goodness he did. The door banged open, barely missing him, and slowed to a stop far enough forward to block him from view. Abby, stiff with upset and clutching her skirts, ran down the hall, pulling Grendel into her wake. She disappeared into a room and slammed the door behind her, stranding the dog, who flopped down sadly.
    Duncan moved around the open door and gazed in. It was not a room but a tight, round stone stairway rising higher into the castle. He stepped inside cautiously.
    The walls were bare save for narrow slits cut through the rock at eye level every four steps or so. A chill went through him despite the evening’s warmth. The slits were for arrows. He was standing in a battle-ready turret.
    With whom had Abby quarreled, though? Whose room was at the top of these stairs? He felt certain he could guess.
    He heard a noise and slipped back into the hall, closing the door with a click . He was halfway to the door into which Abby had disappeared when Nab ambushed him from the other direction.
    “There you are.”
    “Where is everyone?” Duncan asked.
    “ Och , there’s a fiddler playing in the upper bailey and a quite decent game of dice. A lot of men are watching. I think Murgo’s going to lose his goat, though. I passed Sir Alan outside the Great Hall. He was looking for you.”
    “Was he?” Duncan said, still looking abstractedly at the turret door. “Say, I might take a walk, possibly until quite late. If I wanted to swing by after that to chat with Rosston, where exactly in the castle do you think might I find him?”
    Nab considered this for a moment. “Well, he’s usually up with the owls. I think no matter how long you walk, you’ll find him with his men, so probably in the bailey.”
    “Right,” Duncan said, disappointed. “But let’s say my walk were to take me as far as, say—”
    “I cannot recommend walking much beyond the castle walls,” said a man holding an armload of papers who was cresting the stairs. “Not tonight. Between the