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Chapter Six: While I Breathe I Hope

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Soil red, rich and deep. The bones of crag, peaks and deep rooted oak.
Cold foamy waters gallop furiously, dashing against the jagged rocks below.
I stand on the cliff, my dark hair blown back by the gale.
The love of my life, the place of my heart. Alba, we shall never part.

Dirk at my palm as I press the blade deep, 
crimson droplets trickle from the ledge, through the air, down to the sea.
An nì a thig leis a’ghaoith, falbhaidh e leis an uisge.
What comes with the wind, will go with the water. 

The redcoats they come and have taken from me, 
my clan and of others, our homes stolen away. 
They call us now thieves as we live off our land.
Yet how can a thief steal from his very own hand?

A fish from the river. Breac à linne.
A staff from the wood. Slat à coille.
And a deer from the mountain. Is fiadh à fìreach.
Thefts no Gael was ever ashamed of. Mèirle às nach do ghabh gàidheal riamh nàire.

 

 

Hunched over the chamber pot, the acrid brown liquid of the lord's insides hurled as his hands shook the vessel wildly. Face covered in sweat, his black matted hair hung wet and limp across his pasty forehead. Weak, nauseas and horrifically anxious, when Craven was not entertaining the basin with vomit, he was pacing the room almost pulling his hair out at the very root as his nerves jittered uncontrollably. The ability to relax was impossible, as was the hope of distracting himself.

 

Evans had left a variety of books to read on the wooden dresser, such as Gulliver's Travels, A Christmas Carol and a collection of poetry by John Keats and Lord George Gordon Byron, but Craven found his favourite pastime a disinteresting entertainment these days. He was unable to hold his mind on any topic for but a minute, and even in that sparse moment he grew utterly bored with any musing.

 

Then once more the wicked withdrawal pendulum swung and the lord would transform into an enraged angry beast with an unforgiving wrath. Curse those green painted walls in Evans' bedroom, the vibrant colour of the first shoots of grass in spring mocking Craven's torment with its ebullience. In one episode he threw a pewter candlestick at the green wall in fury before breaking down in fits of uncontrollable sobbing as the reality of his situation hit him once more. Crying because he thought he was going to die, and nothing could save him. Crying because he simply wanted to die. Other times he would sit still, like a sad puppet with broken strings, limp on the floor just staring at the battered green wall as if he were gazing into a looking glass that revealed his bleeding soul.

 

Although it had only been five days since Craven had had his last taste of opium, it seemed now that the horrific effects of withdrawal had reared their ugly head. Sometimes in his weaker moments he would scream out for it, desperately pleading Evans for a small swig of laudanum. However even in these frantic moments Craven knew he wanted to be rid of it and was eventually talked down. In his calmer moments he wished he had never gone near the stuff to begin with. For every moment of calming detachment from reality, for every moment of pleasure that he had forced his body to endure when taking opium, his body was now determined he repay back those stolen sensations with devastating misery and pain.

 

At the behest of Evans, Craven remained at Le Cabinet de Curiosities under the gentleman's care just until he was feeling better. The lord, in his chaotic and overwhelmed state, begrudgingly obliged. That had been three days ago, and Craven had yet to leave the master bedroom. His body was exhausted and frail, yet incapable of consuming nourishment without regurgitation. His nerves refused to let him sleep, although sometimes it transformed into a deep depression and he slept for hours, even hallucinating in a semi-awake state at times. Craven was convinced he had spoken to Evans for hours that very morning only to be advised by the man himself that he had been downstairs the entire time while Craven slept.

 

Lord De'Montmoray was aware he was extremely unwell, of the body and the mind, and although he knew he should have protested more and attempted to call for his carriage back to Ashcombe Manor, in all honesty he was scared and did not want to return to his haunted prison of isolation. A place where his staff would bother him to no end with that look of unease on their faces as they secretly questioned the stability of their master. Of hushed whispers in the corridor, perhaps filled with a little judgement and reproach, to further add to his torment. With no family to fill the rooms, his house in Bloomsbury was nothing more than a burial chamber waiting to be filled with his corpse. He knew if he returned, he would soon be drawn back to The Afternoonafied Affair each night, and then there would be no saving him. His fate would be sealed.

 

Lord De'Montmoray knew there was something incomparable in being looked after by someone that was not being paid to do so. The experience was more personal, and after the first day spent upstairs at Le Cabinet des Curiosities he had already grown at ease in the shop, despite being terrified of his current situation. Since the death of Emily no one had cared for Craven as a person rather than a master. At Ashcombe Manor he was attended to. At Le Cabinet des Curiosities he was nurtured. Deep down, Craven knew that was the real reason he had agreed to stay and be nursed by Evans and Helena.

 

Evans was kind and sympathetic, often coming in with ginger tea and a special chicken broth he proudly announced was made from his mother's Italian recipe that had been passed down from generation to generation. The gentleman would laugh, saying that although he had been subjected to many unexplained phenomena in his lifetime, the most mystical of them all was the healing properties in chicken broth. There was no mention of the cabinet at the insistence of Evans himself. He simply stated Craven's health would be put into further jeopardy with the additional stress of the topic and there would be time to talk about it when the lord was better recovered. A noble gesture from a man that was obviously desperate to talk about his life's pursuit, but even as he mentioned it Craven could tell Evans was ardent in his sentiment of wanting only what was in the best interests of the lord. A humbling notion if ever there was one.

 

And so with a smile Evans fluffed the lord's cushions, adjusted his blankets gently and dimmed the curtains when he sensed Craven was struggling with the brightness of the sunlight. Evans arranged for extra clothes to be brought from Ashcombe Manor in order that Craven could wear fresh garments each day. Why Evans even left pencils and a beautiful green leather journal with a carved Celtic tree on the front for the lord to write and draw in, encouraging him that self-expression helped one's mind to cope with difficult situations. A few pages had even been scrawled in, Craven growing fond of drawing black angel wings over and over again. There was no explanation for the vignette played out in his mind, but an angel with dark eyes and black wings often entertained him and the lord sketched it many times.

 

While the eccentric shopkeeper was indeed very knowledgeable in medicine, he was even more so of an expert in comforting, which was the primary matter required in a situation such as Lord De'Montmoray's. The shopkeeper endeavoured to talk Craven through each and every hellish feeling he was experiencing. Instead of meeting anger with anger when Craven left a crumbling hole in the plaster wall of the bedroom from the candlestick, Evans simply attempted to educate with an intention to placate. He calmly explained to the lord why he was acting the way he was. It was not a result of Craven losing his mind, it was Craven's brain trying to adjust from not being in the mind altered state it was constantly in. That was why he fell into a rage at times. That was why he jumped from sadness to fear to anxiety. Evans made Craven hopeful that he could conquer the demon that chained him down. The demon that Craven was not even aware had a hold over him until it seemed too late.

 

It is never too late. When Craven brutally confessed to Evans on the first day of his stay that he would inevitably fail in this endeavour to save him, the shopkeeper nodded with a small smile and simply said; While I breath I hope. Perhaps Mr. Edgar Robin Evans was a far cry from being your average gentleman, but he had the kindest heart of them all. He gave Craven hope when he had convinced himself all hope was lost….

 

'Argh!' Craven cried out in pain, grasping his abdomen as he retched into the pot once more.

 

Loud steps scurried up the stairs of the shop, and a concerned Helena Rose appeared at the door of the bedroom. With bloodshot eyes, Craven threw her a look of pure hatred before throwing up again in the basin once more.

 

'Aye I know,' remarked Helena uneasily 'Evans told me to give you some space since you came here to rest, but he has stepped out of the shop for a wee bit. Are you all right luv?'

 

Biting her lip, she instantly regretted the words, feeling a fool for asking the question when the answer was plainly and painfully evident before her very eyes.

 

'What do you suppose?' Craven replied hoarsely 'My body cannot handle all of this. I am sick to my stomach, shivering cold and yet I feel as if my very skin were on fire.'

 

''Tis the poison you were feeding your body.' explained Helena gently 'It just needs time to adjust is all. It will take time, as long as needs be, but you will heal Craven. We all do, eventually, if we find the right way.'

 

'Ambiguous hope and foolish sentiments are not going to stop me from hurling my insides into this pot. If anything, now I feel the urge even more.' he muttered dryly 'I wish I had not woken up after that damned seizure.'. Weakly, the lord climbed back onto the bad and crouched up into a ball on his side 'It would be merciful to kill me now. You would not let a dog live this way, so why am I being kept thus?'

 

'Perhaps there is a reason death keeps you at bay?' she replied positively 'Perhaps you are destined for more yet?'

 

Helena tentatively approached the man and tried to place her hand gently on his back to offer some comfort, but Craven pushed her away angrily, causing Helena to retreat a few steps in surprise.

 

'Only fools believe in destiny.' he snarled 'Just leave me be! I know the reason why I am alive is because you and he refuse to leave me alone. You both only have your selfish reasons for keeping me here in this hell. That is why you are so solicitous in your concern.'

 

'We are not keeping you a prisoner, we are taking care of you.' she replied patiently 'You can leave any time you want, as you well ken. Sorry to say it luv but we are the only ones who do care for you at the moment.'

 

'Do not insult me with your feigned compassion and concern for a stranger.' grumbled Craven, drawing the blankets up to his chin once more 'Everything comes with a price, mark my words.'

 

'Aye, Evans seems to think you can help him with that damn cabinet.' shrugged Helena 'That does not mean he has to look after you, or that he has to take it upon himself to help heal you. Of course we are concerned, you great dolt! For all that you have endured and now to go through this? Craven, how could anyone without one compassionate bone in their body not be concerned?'

 

'Yes,' hissed Craven, turning around to glare at the woman in accusation 'you that knows all about me and my misery. You could not possibly understand what it is like to feel the loss of a family for you yourself abandoned yours of your own volition.'

 

'What are you on about?' replied Helena in confusion 'Craven-'

 

‘Oh yes,' interrupted the lord 'Evans warned me not to ask you about it but I know, Helena. I know.'

 

'Out with it then, what do you know?' inquired Helena shortly, hands on hips.

 

'Quite the hypocrite,' replied Craven 'when you too were betrothed to another and had children. Yet have you ever mentioned any of them? Perhaps helped ease my feelings by knowing I was not alone in losing my family? Now I know why you kept that information from me. Oh yes, Helena Rose, I see the type of woman that you are. Happy to pry the secrets from everyone around you to your own advantage while you, Mistress, keep your darkest shames concealed under your red lace petticoats.’

 

Although Craven could not see it, Helena’s fists were clenched tight as she glared at him coldly. ‘So that is what you think of me?’ she remarked sharply ‘Evans told you I had a husband and children. And you believe I abandoned them? For what? To play the whore? Well at least we know where we stand now, aye? First you accuse me of being a fraudulent homeless woman trying to deceive Evans, and now this. I dare say I have made a spectacular impression on you, your lordship.’

 

‘He told me enough.' replied Craven angrily 'That you returned through that cabinet and back into this present day. A wife and mother, but I dare say those trifle blessings were no boon to a sweet Scotswoman such as yourself when faced with a new life in London with the affluent Mr Edgar Evans. You must have thought you struck gold after living in some heathen village in bonnie Alba. Yes, Helena, you are nothing but a snake and a harlot….and-’

 

Craven's rant was cut abruptly short as he threw up into the chamber pot once more.

 

'Do you really think I stayed here to be with Evans and his wealth?' she replied, somewhat mortified 'You bloody crabbit eejit. I'd wager labelling you the fool, not I, laddie. And to think I gave up my room for the likes of you!'

 

'Your room?' scoffed Craven 'Tell me, where does the actual owner of this one-bedroom shop sleep?'

 

Helena chuckled, looking a little sheepish 'In the attic. Aye Evans is a kind hearted dolt; this room is a great deal nicer. Yet he insisted I stay in this one, and to be sure he is a victim of his kindness because of it. But you? You are just a plain glaikit bastirt.'

 

'Speak English for heaven's sake, I am not familiar with the heathen tongue.' snapped Craven.

 

'Oh aye sweet lad, I'll be more than happy to translate.' snapped back Helena heatedly 'I called you a stupid bastard, and there be plenty more choice names for you yet just you wait. I wager you'll ken a lot of Gaelic by the time we're done.'

 

'Enlighten me then, that I ken, of why you remained here and abandoned your family?' mocked Craven 'I want the truth, if indeed you are even capable of it. Either of you.'

 

'You can insult me until the cows come home,' replied Helena fiercely, pointing a sharp finger at Craven 'but I'd be showing more respect to the man that is taking better care of you than your other physician, opium den, servants or yourself combined. I saw the way you mocked Evans when you first met him. Not the only one, the man gets ridiculed all the time. Thank God it's like water off a ducks back to him, so used to it. Sad, aye? And what does he do in turn? He offers you kindness and compassion. He takes you in and makes you tea and soup and tries to put your broken pieces back together again. Things I'd wager he ne'er received by anyone else in this life, or by yourself were the tables turned. You would have probably cast him onto the street to die before lifting a finger.'

 

Craven remained shamefully silent, turning his eyes away from the seething Scotswoman.

 

‘Aye I loved man once.’ she continued angrily ‘Tearlach Kinninmont was his name. A beast of a Scotsman. Had long and wavy bright red hair and was big as an ox with eyes icy blue as a loch at dawn on a clear winters morn. He was the bonnie blacksmith apprentice in the village of Dysart. I lived just outside the village with my parents and three sisters. Met him when I was a young lass, sixteen the first time I laid eyes on him, his flame red hair like that of the sparks that flew from the anvil every time the hammer struck. Every lass in the village had eyes for him, but he and I fell head over heels for each other. A kindred pair we were. My other half in this life, and I ne’er wanted another damn thing except for him.'

 

Helena paused for a moment, rubbing her temples as if the mere words she uttered were giving her pain.

 

'Go on.' muttered Craven.

 

'I had worked as a chamber maid since I was fourteen in Castle Lon Dubh, residence of Clan Chief Áedán of Clan Kirkallean.' continued Helena 'The castle was close to Dysart, and all the surrounding villages pledged loyalty to the Laird. We were protected by Clan Kirkallean…and then Clan Kirkallean left to fight with the Jacobite army at Culloden Moor. Tearlach believed in the cause, and also left to fight with the Clansmen. Happened a short while into our courtship, me sixteen and Tearlach eighteen.'

 

'What year were you born?' asked Craven curiously.

 

'Why my lord,' taunted Helena 'I thought you gents knew it was impolite to inquire after a lady's age.'

 

'Well, you are no lady.' retorted Craven rudely.

 

'Aye and you are no gentleman.' quipped Helena drly 'I was born in 1730. That would make me one hundred and six years old. Have I not aged well?'

 

'So you are thirty-two?' he replied.

 

'Aye, and what age are you since we are asking?' she asked accusingly.

 

'Thirty-seven.' he replied.

 

'Well it seems older does not always mean wiser, or politer.' retorted Helena 'As I was saying, Clan Kirkellean left to join the Jacobite army at Culloden. I remained in Castle Lon Dubh and served as a chamber maid for the remaining Clan Kirkellean who stayed behind. Aye, there were mostly women and children, and a handful of men who were unable to fight.'

 

Helena sighed sadly to herself, shaking her head as she thought upon those previous days. After a few minutes of silence went by, Craven looked back to the woman.

 

'Well, what happened then?' he asked impatiently.

 

Although hard to tell from where she stood at the doorway, Helena's eyes had grown moist. 'The Jacobite army was slaughtered at Culloden and the English won. Clan Kirkallean had its land, including Castle Lon Dubh, stripped from them. Supporters of the Jacobites were imprisoned and executed, and the rest of us began a life living under the complete rule of the British Government. No clans, no lairds. That is when that damn bastard Admiral Lord Bayliss came with his soldiers and took over Castle Lon Dubh and turned it into Fort Augustus. Being a Kinninmont, I was not associated with Clan Kirkallean and was permitted to stay on serving as a chamber maid. I kept my head down and my opinions to myself. 'Twas the only way if you wanted to survive. Months went by and Tearlach never returned. I thought he had died in the battle along with most of the men who went and fought, and it ripped my heart to shreds. Tried to take my life, drank a concoction of wine and a few leaves of yew and hemlock under a great hawthorn tree about half a year after the battle had been lost.'

 

'You tried to kill yourself?' murmured Craven, his black eyes suddenly looking at her sadly as his attention was held fast.

 

'Tearlach was my life.' Helena replied miserably 'Let's just say lucky for me potion making is not my speciality. I woke up with a terrible stomach ache but still breathing, barely mind you my throat was so flamed and swollen. Sad and heart broken, aye that was me. It was what every Scot that stood up against the English felt. We all lost someone we loved in that battle. Gone were our lands. Our pride was stripped, along with our plaid weaves and tongue.'

 

'Plaid weaves and tongue?' queried Craven.

 

'The bastards introduced a law preventing us from wearing our clan tartans.' replied Helena with pure loathing in her eyes 'We were forbidden to speak Gaelic in the presence of the English, certainly not when working in Fort Augustus. Lord Bayliss referred to it as the language of barbarians. Soddin' crabbit bastirt, felt like telling him to thalla gu taigh na galla every time I saw the slimy cod. Even to this day I canna tell you why any of us continued on after that, aye but we did. I guess that is the spirit of the Scottish, it never leaves us. No one can ever take that away from us.'

 

'I could not imagine someone doing that to us here.' murmured Craven 'It makes one feel rather ashamed of one's ancestors when you recount it like that.'. Craven noticed the silence of his companion, and the tears in her eyes 'Helena? Is everything all right?'

 

'Evans informed me of what happened to my country up until the present day that we are now in. Our lands, lands that had been held by our families for centuries, were taken away and never given back. Even after the loss of the battle at Culloden, we always held the hope that our clans would gain their land, their homes, once more. It appears that our hope was nothing more than a dream. In the end a lot of my people left Scotland entirely, emigrating to other places around the world. Like a pack of damn gypsies.'

 

Drumming her fingers in agitation on the dresser before her, Helena looked at the image in the mirror staring back at her with a frown. 'After Culloden, life just went on.' she continued 'Three years passed, me still in mourning for Tearlach and working for Lord and Lady Bayliss. And then one day…Tearlach returns. He was in hiding, ye ken? Living on the land, hiding in the forests until the trouble had settled down a bit. Not being of Clan Kirkellean, he was easily able to return to Dysart with little trouble.'

 

'Did the English not suspect his part in the battle when he returned back to Dysart?' asked Craven 'He was a Scotsman after all?'

 

'Nay not every clan went to Culloden, and while some fought for the Jacobite Army, there were others that fought with the English.' replied Helena 'Clan Kinninmont was not apart of the battle in an official sense, but Tearlach was a man who went to fight because he believed in the cause. He just made up a story that he was living with his uncle up in Aberdeenshire and had decided to return to Dysart to start his trade. Anyway my heart burst with a happiness when I saw him at my family's door one eve. Rugged, ragged and filthy as a pig in mud but alive. It was a blessing like no other and on the very next day we ran to the local kirk to ask for the rites to be wed.’

 

Shaking her head, she looked towards Craven as he listened on quietly in his bed.

 

‘We were married and living a bonnie life for a while there.' she recalled sadly 'You know those rare moments that you look back to and realise you were truly happy?'

 

'A surreal moment of life that is so blissful you are convinced it is nothing more than a beautiful dream, for surely such happiness can only exist there.' murmured Craven 'Yes, I recall the feeling….'

 

'Aye.' replied Helena dejectedly 'Well before I knew it I was expecting with child. Nay but not one, we were blessed with a two wee bairns, twins run in my family ye ken? A bonny son Ruaraidh and beautiful daughter Liusaidh. Wee spitting images of us, flame red hair from Tearlach and brilliant green eyes from me, with fair skin and freckles all over. So beautiful, I knew they would both be breaking hearts when they were older.'

 

Helena grew silent for a few minutes, yet this time Craven did not irritably urge her to hurry along with her story. The mention of her children brought sadness in her voice and the lord recognised the tone and could empathise.

 

'The years went on and I remained serving at Fort Augustus as a personal maid for Lady Bayliss, and Tearlach set up his own smithy in the village.' continued Helena 'And then one day, Lord Bayliss received gifts from surrounding Scottish residents in the area of Fife. Gold, animals, furnishings, including that damn oak wardrobe downstairs.  Looked like some royal French armoire to me but Evans informs me its Tudor, not that it matters I suppose. Anyway, it arrived in the bedchambers of Lady Bayliss and it was my duty to transfer her dresses into it. So I did. I opened that damnable cabinet of curiosities, took a cloth, climbed into the thing to clean it…'

 

Resting her hands furiously against the windowpane, Helena looked out onto the bleak London back alleyway below her ‘…and before I knew it I was falling out of the same cabinet. Except I was not in Fort Augustus anymore, I was downstairs in the corner of some strange looking shop with Evans standing by the window, startled white as a ghost with a cup of tea in his hand. He dropped it and I panicked and started shouting at him in Gaelic before he could calm me down. Like you, he actually did think I was a stow away, but then soon realised that was impossible. So obsessed with the damn cabinet he examines the thing for hours every day and stays in his shop, or locks the door and resides upstairs. Never once did he see me scurry in there.'

 

'So he believed your story straight up?' asked Craven doubtfully.

 

'Well no, both of us were in a wee bit of confusion, ye ken?' replied Helena 'I noticed Evans was dressed strange, somewhat like that of what Lord Bayliss wore on formal affairs, but nevertheless different. More elegant. Also Evans had an English accent. So I assumed he must have been a friend of Lord Bayliss, perhaps playing a joke on me, and moved the cabinet while I was in it.'

 

'Moved you into a shop?' replied Craven doubtfully.

 

'Well it made more sense than what actually happened!' she chuckled bitterly 'I asked Evans if he was staying in Fort Augustus with Lord Bayliss. Evans was confused. He shook his head and said he did not know of a Lord Bayliss or where Fort Augustus was. He asked me why I was hiding in his shop but I went silent, growing more and more fearful by the moment. He offered to arrange a coach to take me home and asked me which part of London I lived. I replied Dysart, in Scotland.'. Helena shook her head, laughing to herself 'Evans was so polite. To think the man actually apologised for my adamant belief that I was in Scotland, as if it were his fault we were actually in London. He informed me he meant which part of London was I living in. I told him I was in Scotland, and he enlightened me ever so respectfully that I was indeed in London. I got angry, accused him of being a redcoat trying to taunt a Scotswoman. I recall yelling at him ye killed enough of us at Culloden and stole our lands, have ye not had yer fair share of shame? Evans simply shook his head in confusion and said what would a war that happened eighty-eight years prior have to do with you coming out of my cabinet in my shop in London?'

 

'I can see why you both thought each other stark raving mad.' chortled Craven.

 

'I called the man a ravin' eejit and said the battle had only happened fourteen years prior.' Helena sighed 'Aye, that was when he told me the worst of it. That the year was 1834.'

 

‘Ah.' remarked Craven 'Not something you would have anticipated, I imagine?'

 

She laughed bitterly ‘We both thought the other was utterly deranged. Something I gather you are feeling towards us now, aye? Well, no I vowed it was 1760 and he was to stop his nonsense. That was until I spotted the strange items in his shop. Everywhere I turned I saw something I did not recognise, including the window of the shop looking out onto a cobblestoned Pageantmaster Court.'

 

'That was odd to you?' asked Craven curiously 'How so?'

 

'I take it you've never been to the county of Fife.' chortled Helena 'Dirt roads lined with stones and barren plains is as best as ye get. There be no grand city out there, and truth be told I had never been outside of Fife, let alone London. Better yet, it was heavily snowing outside the window, the ground covered by several feet. It was a fairly warm day in Dysart where I had come from, definately not a hint of snow. The stuff of fairy tales, eh? Ah ‘tis no tale though sadly. A tale would have been a blessing, some story to learn a lesson from perhaps and then proceed back to your real life with your mind intact. The ways things have always been, ye ken? No, the reality of the situation was somewhat harder to digest. How do you begin to process that you, living in the year 1760 in Fife moved forward in time to 1834 in London? I could not believe him. I was no fool about to be tricked by some English man in fancy clothing. I just thought I had hit my head or something of the sort and was not seeing clearly.'

 

Craven chuckled 'I recall a similar experience before passing out into a heap.'

 

'Aye Evans mentioned that.' nodded Helena 'I can't blame you, what is anyone to make of all of this? Well, in my confusion I became distracted and saw this strange instrument lying on a table and I remember pointing to the object. I wanted to know what it was. Evans looked at me in surprise and said it was a stethoscope. He put it to his chest and asked me to put my ear to the other end of this strange long thing, and thump, thump, thump I could hear the very beat of his heart. I was amazed, and scared. I remember him smiling at me so kindly and offering the object for me to hold. He asked me a little bit more about where I was from and we chatted for a small while rather nervously, not knowing whether we were being misled by the other or experiencing something utterly profound. We were shocked, so shocked that we both remained sitting on the floor of his shop just talking…sometimes just sitting in silence. Trying to wrap our heads around what was happening for nearly an hour, and then I remember being startled by the loud chime of the longcase clock. With the stethoscope still in my hand I panicked and ran back into the cabinet, only to end back in my own time once more.’

 

‘Why in the devil’s name did you come back?!’ appealed Craven.

 

‘Like you said, Evans did not tell you the entire story.’ she replied darkly 'I stumbled back into the chambers of Lady Bayliss, with several other chamber maids attending to her.'. Helena shook her head bitterly 'Talk about terrible timing. They saw me emerge right in front of them, tumbling out of that damn cabinet.'

 

'Were they suspicious?' asked Craven.

 

'Suspicious!' scoffed Helena 'I had been gone but an hour, but when I returned it had been one entire day. A day of the soldiers and villagers searching for me in the woods and surrounding areas of Fife with no track, and then I magically step out of the wardrobe in front of an audience. They had just taken clothes from the wardrobe and knew there was no one in there. It had to be foul magic at play.'

 

'Magic?' repeated Craven with a raised brow.