Breaking Time Page 2

  A bright glow burned against his lids. He closed his eyes tighter and welcomed whatever might follow, only hoping he’d find Thomas there. A wall of light had formed above, descending as if the sun were pulling him through the sky. His body rose into its searing embrace.

  He waited for the long drop to the ground, but it never came.

  Callum kept soaring.

  Not just through the street.

  Not to death’s embrace.

  But somewhere else.

  Leaping to another world, like the man in Thomas’s story, Callum thought.

  So he leaped.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Klara

  Present Day

  Klara usually thought of rain as Scotland’s natural lullaby, but right now it felt more like the bars of a prison cell.

  It had been three days since Klara had been outside, thanks to the seemingly endless torrential downpour. Three long, uneventful days cooped up with a gradually dwindling number of entertainment options. Not that she went outside much when it wasn’t raining.

  Having read every one of the dozen sappy romance novels that guests had left behind and having watched an embarrassing amount of reality TV over the last six months, she was out of options.

  Maybe it was a good think that Klara’s Aunt Sorcha, who usually manned the reception desk, had gone to visit a friend in Cowdenbeath this afternoon. Since Klara’s dad had asked her to cover for Sorcha, at least she’d have something to do.

  Klara opened Kingshill Manor’s check-in portal on her phone. An American couple was due to arrive at 3 p.m.

  She hoped this couple would prove to be better guests than the one who’d checked out yesterday after knocking over the vintage Morrison & Crawford ceramic sugar barrel. Jockie Boyle, who’d been the manor’s caretaker since Gram was a girl, had spent most of the afternoon trying to glue it back together.

  At least her mom had been spared the sight of one of her favorite antique pieces lying on the floor in shards.

  Brooches. Coins. Antique dirks. High crosses forged in mistcovered monasteries. At least three bagpipes. Her mother spent much of their annual summer visits scouring antique shops and flea markets for treasures, collecting enough to fill one of the old storage barns on the manor property by the time Klara was in high school.

  The plan had been for her mom and dad to retire once she was finished with college and move to Scotland permanently. They’d looked forward to moving into the manor and transforming the manor from the lackluster, dusty bed-and-breakfast it had been for many years into a truly special inn.

  Klara’s dad used to call the jumble in the barn “Loreena’s buried treasure.” But when, a year after she died, he’d decided to move to Scotland and fulfill her dream, he’d lovingly restored each piece and put them on display in the inn’s common rooms.

  The giant oak doors in the manor entryway were her mom’s favorite salvage. Celtic knots wove their way down the door’s edges, simple yet beautiful. The knob, now burnished with age, was a rearing horse’s head. Klara’s throat tightened at the memory of her mother, Loreena Spalding, hauling them back to the manor in the bed of Jockie’s rusty pickup truck.

  Barking erupted in the other room. Klara hauled herself up. “Finley!”

  Her collie-shepherd mix was a terrible watchdog for intruders, thieves, and murderers, but all hell broke loose when the mailman came around.

  Pulling her hair into a hopefully decent bun (okay, the mailman was cute and looked her age), Klara jogged to the kitchen, passing several rooms. Placards bearing Scottish clan names blurred by: Campbell, Brodie, Cameron, Fraser. A little cheesy, sure, but it allowed them to distinguish the rooms, which also meant charging different prices for each. Her dad might be a mild-mannered innkeeper now, but he’d been the CFO of a boutique hotel chain back in the states, and he knew a few things about the business.

  Steps sounded outside the door, which set off another series of barks. “FINLEY!” Klara picked up speed through the dining room and slid into the gilded grand foyer—the manor’s pride and joy—where her dog pressed his nose against the mail slot, snarling. A clutch of white envelopes fanned out on the floor.

  She glared at Finley. “You chased him away. Thanks to you, I’ll be single forever.”

  Finley gazed up at her and wagged his tail.

  Sighing, Klara patted Finley’s head, then scooped up the mail—and froze when she spied a familiar academic seal. Her stomach dropped.

  When Klara applied to the University of Edinburgh during the spring of her junior year at Vandam Academy in New York City, she had no idea her world was about to fall apart. That June, her mother was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer and in less than two months she was gone.

  For a while, Klara and her father seemed to be drowning in the numbness of their grief. Klara withdrew from her friends, her extracurricular activities, even her riding lessons at the Central Park stables, and graduated a semester early. When her acceptance letter arrived and Klara learned she’d been accepted into the astronomical sciences program, her dad seemed happy for the first time since her mom got sick. Klara couldn’t bear to tell him she wasn’t sure she still wanted to go.

  Her parents had met while in grad school at the University of Edinburgh. Loreena had grown up in New York City with Grams, but had fallen in love with Scotland when the two went back for a visit. Klara’s dad might have grown up in Ohio and was only half Scottish, but he liked to joke that he’d been born “tearin’ the tartan.” Since he had little family left of his own, Grams and Aunt Sorcha and their many cousins welcomed him into theirs.

  So when he decided they should move right away so Klara could help him refurbish the inn before she started college, she couldn’t think of a reason to say no. And most of the time she was happy they’d come.

  Only now, as she opened the letter with trembling fingers, Klara knew that studying at her parents’ alma mater had been her mother’s dream, not hers.

  Klara wanted more than to study the stars—she longed to discover new ones. New worlds.

  Dear Ms. Spalding, We received your notice of withdrawal and have removed you from the matriculating Fall 2022 undergraduate class. We wish you all the best in your future endeavors.

  It was done, then. No going back.

  Klara waited for second thoughts to hit her, but all she felt was a massive wave of relief. She swore to herself that she’d tell her dad as soon as she could explain it. She just needed to find the right explanation, the right combination of words that wouldn’t break his heart.

  “Klara!”

  She jumped at her father’s deep voice. “Crap,” she hissed.

  Quickly, she jammed the envelope into her hoodie pocket and whipped around just in time to see him emerge from the east corridor.

  “Mail’s here!” she practically shouted, brandishing the other envelopes like one of the many swords that hung on the walls.

  “You seem really excited for the mail.” Her dad took the envelopes from her and paused, consulting Finley with an arched eyebrow. “Or is it the mailman?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Just passionate for bill paying?” He nodded approvingly. “Good for you.”

  The thing about her dad—the thing that made it so hard to just tell him—was that he never ever suspected Klara of doing the wrong thing. When she was a kid, he had even walked in on her when she was stealing actual cookies from the actual cookie jar and believed her when she said she was just picking up the cookies after their cat, Jasper, had knocked the jar over. He was weird like that.

  Sure, her dad teased her—a lot—but he was a total softy, a man who was moved to tears by movie trailers and the occasional insurance commercial. That’s why Klara tried to avoid any talk of her mom. Eighteen months had come and gone, but it almost always made her dad cry.

  She had to be strong for him. Ju
st like her mother always had been.

  She cleared her throat of its tightness and forced a smile. “What’s on the agenda today, Dad?”

  He brightened. “I just got us a deal with a band to come and play music here on weekends,” he said, pumping his fist in triumph.

  “Yaaaaay,” Klara said weakly, trying to sound encouraging. Her ears were still recovering from the last Scottish folk group her father had “discovered,” who turned out to be four American study abroad students with an affinity for the bagpipe but no actual skill. “Are they...local this time?”

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “Your mom had the eye for all things Scottish, not me. But I’m trying, kiddo.”

  She shrugged. “The tourists can’t tell the difference anyway.”

  If anyone were to look at the two of them, they’d never imagine she and her father were related. Ethan Spalding was tanned and stocky, a stark contrast to Klara’s tall, pale frame. Her red hair was identical to her mother’s, though Klara kept hers long and her mother had worn it in a short, professional bob. Her dad’s hair was an ashy brown before it went gray.

  “What about you? Maybe...going out for a walk?” he asked hopefully.

  Klara crossed her arms in affront. For dignity’s sake, she felt she should at least pretend to be offended at her dad judging her for choosing an indoors lifestyle. “A walk? In all this rain?”

  “It’s been, what—” he furrowed his forehead, making a show of doing math in his head “—three days since you’ve been outside?”

  Okay, now she was offended. He was keeping count! Rude. She smiled sweetly. “It’s been, what? Zero days since you minded your own business?” she asked, giving him a cheeky wink. “Plus, it’s pouring. Just like it was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that...”

  Her dad raised his eyebrows in disapproval but said nothing. Until—

  “I was thinking...” The words came out slowly, as if he was reluctant to speak. He tucked the envelopes under his arm. “How about we invite your grandmother over to hear this band play? I bet she would love to talk about what classes you’re taking—”

  Her stomach clenched with guilt. She wanted to see her grandmother but talking about nonexistent classes probably wasn’t a good idea.

  Klara had dreamed of living near her grandmother ever since she could remember. Grams had fallen in love and moved to Edinburgh when Loreena was in college, but ever since Klara was a baby she and her parents visited Grams and her wife, Granny Laura, every summer. They stayed in the manor, which Grams had inherited but had no interest in running, because there was no room in the tiny, ancient Edinburgh apartment, but Klara slept over almost every night and spent hours listening to Grams’ stories and made-up tales. Someday, she thought, she’d pop over to Grams’ apartment when she wasn’t studying, bring her college friends over to get their tea leaves and palms read late into the night. Klara had grown up on her grandma’s free-spirited wisdom about everything from finding her path in life to what to do if you crossed a witch in the wood.

  “Yeah, I’ll send her a text.” Maybe she could get her news about college off her chest. Grams had always been a problem solver, but this wasn’t your run-of-mill white lie.

  She pulled out her phone.

  Hey Grams, can I come around this weekend?

  Her response was instant. Y

  Klara scrunched her brows. Because I want to see you lol.

  Y as in yes.

  Grams may be a fast texter but she also had the tendency to create her own lingo. Great, I’ll give you a call later to sort out a time.

  She looked at her dad. “All set!”

  “Great!” He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

  She saw the car keys dangling from his pocket. “You know what, maybe I will get out. I’ll take this,” Klara said, snatching the keys. She turned and strode to the oak doors.

  “Okay,” he said. “Be safe.”

  She turned back again, smiling, leaving one hand on the doorknob. The horse’s cool brass nose pressed into her palm. She met his eyes. Dark green, like hers. It was the only feature she’d inherited from him.

  “What’s going to happen, are the fairies going to get me?”

  “Don’t say that in front of your Grams! All right, have fun, kiddo. Craig is picking me up for dinner, his wife made a roast if you want to come, but if not, you are more than welcome to come see the band with us at The Black Hart.”

  Klara shrugged on her red raincoat and smiled up at him. Craig and his wife were like family, but she could do without listening to them reminisce about their grad school days tonight.

  “Thanks, Dad, sounds delicious but I am still stuffed from breakfast, but I’ll try to swing by to see the band. Though no promises.”

  At eighteen, she could legally drink in Scotland. It should have been every normal American teenager’s dream, but Klara had never felt normal—not even before they uprooted their lives to a country across the ocean. Going to a pub to socialize with strangers was the last thing on her mind. Cute mailman aside, she preferred the leading men of romance novels, who were hot and charming and broody and didn’t try to pull her into any awkward conversations.

  Maybe she was just easily annoyed but on-the-page boys didn’t bother her with silly questions about things she didn’t want to talk about. Like watching too much TV. Or college. Or her mom.

  Klara pulled the great oak doors open and was greeted by a gust of cold wind and a slap of Scottish rain. The breeze swirled around her, filling her nose with the scent of earth and kicking up locks of her hair. A memory flashed into Klara’s mind: leaning out their third-floor window, spying on the saucers of milk her mom had left out on the fire escape for the fairies.

  She would go for a drive, dispose of the letter from the University of Edinburgh, and return to an empty house, at which point she would figure out how to 1) finally tell her dad, or 2) wipe his memory so he never remembered she’d been accepted in the first place.

  She pulled her hood over her whipping hair with a determined tug. Her reality TV and romance novels would be waiting for her when she got back.

  * * *

  Driving on the left side of the road would never feel truly natural to Klara, even though she hardly drove when living in New York, where the A train was her go-to mode of transportation. Then again, she couldn’t cruise in her dad’s beat-up Mini Cooper in New York. At least not after that third speeding ticket.

  She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, keeping time with the windshield wipers. The rain was pouring down harder now—the squeaking wipers could hardly keep up with the torrents of water. She loved Scotland, she really did, but this weather and gloom made her miss the sunny, cluttered skies of New York.

  She eased her foot off the gas pedal. The winding roads were too slippery and narrow to risk more than a snail’s pace. Then, to make matters worse, the music abruptly cut out, replaced with a steady stream of static.

  “Really?” Klara groaned.

  She fumbled for the radio, glancing down to change the channel. When she looked up, something was in the road in front of her.

  No—someone.

  A figure stared back at her, dark eyes locked onto hers with a gaze that seemed to burn through the sheet of rain.

  Too late, Klara jerked the wheel to the right with a strangled scream, the car juddering and banging as she swerved, just barely avoiding the ditch. Her body pressed against the seat belt with incredible force, only slamming back when the car finally screeched to a halt.

  Panting, Klara forced her eyes open. She hadn’t remembered closing them in the first place. Her whole body shook.

  “Owww,” she groaned.

  So much for airbags.

  She willed her thundering heart to slow and looked into her rearview mirror, ready to give the man the kind of road-rage-fueled dressing-down th
at only a New Yorker could deliver.

  But he was nowhere to be seen.

  Or so she thought, until she saw the body crumpled in the middle of the road.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Klara

  Holy crap. She had hit something.

  Someone.

  She had hit someone.

  Snapping back to reality, Klara scrambled for her phone. Her stomach dropped when she realized it was back at the manor, collecting lint between the couch cushions.

  Klara yanked off her seat belt and vaulted out of the car, boots smacking across the wet pavement. Splayed on his back, the stranger’s arms were wrapped around his torso, hands balled into loose fists. As she got closer, she saw that his knuckles were bruised and bloodied, like he had just tried to fight her car and lost.

  Up close, he didn’t look much older than her. Long, dark curls clung to his beardless jaw. His cheeks were rosy. A good sign, she thought dizzily.

  “Hey? Can you hear me?” Klara gently poked his cheek. Nothing. She gathered her nerve and jostled his shoulder “Hello?” Still no response.

  This guy had to have a phone. She looked for a pocket, but his weird clingy pants had none. Gingerly, she brought her hand to his heavy coat. “If you can hear me, I’m sorry, I’m not being a creep I just need—”

  She pulled the coat open, revealing a huge red stain across his torn white shirt.

  Blood.

  “Shit. Shit.” Klara half cried, half yelled. She lurched back onto her heels and shouted, “Help! Help us!”

  Her voice was lost in the sound of the rain. The road remained empty.

  Klara had a vague memory of someone telling her that you shouldn’t move an injured person. But out here, it might be hours until another car passed by.

  Klara’s throat burned. She had to do something.

  “You are not dying on me. Not today.” She tried to hoist the guy into a sitting position. After a few hard tugs, he groaned and picked himself up slightly, making it easier for her to do the rest. She slung his heavy arm around her shoulder and together, they stood up shakily.