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Chapter Text

The first time she fell through the stones it had been in the midst of a haze.

Her body having been flung first in the car, rattling off the sides, and adrenaline had been coursing through her veins. The humming noise grew louder and louder as she mindlessly ducked through trees and scratched her legs on the underbrush. The stones were a beacon to her, and in desperation she let herself be led. Sometimes just before sleep, she could recall the last fleeting sight of the contorted Model A car with the form of her husband in the front seat, bloody and dying. The memory of him had faded too much to stir any visceral reaction now.This would be her third journey. The mere thought of subjecting her body to it again filled her with dread. Time had worn on her, and the passage was never gentle—but this time, she was hurtling toward a child rather than leaving one behind. Her long fingers curled around the opal in her pocket, its smooth surface grounding her. The irony was not lost on her—it was the birthstone of two of her daughters. Gemstones were a guide. The rest was left to fate.She tucked a strand of her curls behind her ear, steeling herself and said one last prayer to the  Virgin mother. 

The first journey through the stones was nothing more than a vague memory, blurred by sadness, pain, and confusion. The second had been different—devoid of external stimuli, yet she had been acutely aware. She could feel the strands of time, not simply flowing around her but through her, as if she were once again trapped in the tumbling car, weightless and powerless.The third journey was no less brutal. As the humming grew into a shrill, banshee-like wail, she thought of them. She thought of small fingers tangled in her hair, of auburn and blonde curls slipping through her hands, of laughter and dragonflies. Her girls. They were the reason she endured this torment.

The sunshine woke her. A rare warmth for this time of year in the Highlands, but enough to tell her that time had passed. Faith let her heavy head rest against the dry grass, staring up at the drifting clouds as she listened—just listened.The first time she had fallen through the stones, she had awoken in a dim stone house, unable to see the sky but just as unsettled by the silence. Now, she searched for familiar sounds and found only stillness, a quiet so deep it reassured her. No hum of engines, no distant roar of planes. Wherever—whenever—she had landed, it was long before such things existed.Aside from the ringing in her ears, nothing felt immediately wrong. She was alive. She had survived the journey.

The warmth of the sun faded as Faith pushed herself upright, the dizziness of travel still lingering at the edges of her senses. She took a steadying breath, brushing dirt from her skirts—no, not skirts, just the tattered remains of her modern clothing. It didn’t matter. Clothes could be changed. The year could not.She had to move.

The land around her was unfamiliar yet eerily the same—a Highland landscape untouched by time, rolling hills stretching toward the horizon. But she knew where she was. If she followed the lay of the land, she could make her way to Inverness.

She walked. Hours passed, or perhaps more. The rhythm of her steps, the crunch of dirt beneath her feet, and the occasional whisper of wind through the heather were all that accompanied her. No distant hum of cars, no distant murmur of voices. Just her and the past.Inverness came into sight, smaller than she remembered but bustling with life—carts rolling over the worn streets, merchants hawking their wares, men in tricorn hats and breeches, women in layered wool gowns. And then she saw it in a newspaper, the year 1778. Too far.Her heart pounded in her chest, but her mind was faster, already doing the calculations. If she had landed when she intended, she would have arrived in time to see them as she left them—her daughters, ten and five, waiting for their mother.But they wouldn’t be waiting anymore.Seventeen and twelve.She had missed seven years.The realization left her breathless, as if the air had been stolen from her lungs. Seven years. A lifetime for a child. Her hands clenched into fists, fingernails pressing into her palms.What had they been told? What did they remember? Would they even recognize her?She swallowed against the rising wave of panic. Standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by strangers from another time, was no place to fall apart. She had made it this far. Now, she had to find them.She had to find her girls.

***

Claire Fraser was no stranger to emotional wounds, yet she found herself more comfortable tending to physical ones. She applied the ointment carefully to the wrists of her newest charge, whose dark eyes remained fixed on the window, distant and unreadable.

“They’re healing,” Claire murmured, reaching for another bandage. “Slowly, but they’re healing.”

Of course, they would never return to the flawless alabaster skin they had once been. Claire vividly remembered the deep cuts when she first saw them—the jagged gashes left by a bottle’s broken edge. Jane Pocock had intended to end her life, a fact she had confessed bluntly days ago. But now, Jane had sworn she would never attempt it again—not with her little sister waiting for her to heal.Claire gently wrapped the final bandage around Jane's wrist, her fingers working with practiced ease as she focused on the task at hand. Jane sat still, her dark eyes distant, her thoughts clearly far away from the care Claire was administering. The girl’s gaze remained fixed on the window, as if looking out onto another world, one where the pain of her past might be lessened, even for a moment.

"All done," Claire murmured softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jane’s face. The lock was dark but in certain lights had an auburn tint to it. Jane didn’t respond, but Claire could sense the faintest shift in the air—a slight, imperceptible tension leaving her, as if the simple act of care had brought some comfort.

The door to the small room creaked open, and in stepped a young girl, no older than twelve. Frances. Her auburn curls bounced with each step, and she wore the same somber expression that had marked her family since their arrival. But today, there was something different in her—something lighter in her eyes, as if a song had stirred within her.

"Frances," Claire said softly, looking up. "You’ve come in just in time."

Frances gave a small smile and, without missing a beat, she began to hum. The tune was light and playful at first, the kind of song Claire might hear from children running through the streets of the village. But as the notes gathered into a full melody, Claire felt a strange twinge in her heart.

"Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside,
Oh, I do like to be beside the sea..."

The lyrics were unexpected, and yet they flowed from Frances’s lips as though she had known them her entire life. Claire’s fingers paused mid-motion, the familiar tune from an era far removed from their own time. She blinked in confusion, unsure whether she had heard it correctly.Frances continued, oblivious to the oddness of her song, as she circled the room, her voice lifting in the air.

"Beside the seaside, beside the sea!"

It was a popular song from 1909, a time that Frances and Jane—having come from the 18th century—could not possibly know.Claire’s heart skipped, and she cast a quick glance at Jane who was trying to smile. But Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off—something beyond the strange, time-defying reality they were all living in.

She cleared her throat, gently setting down the bandage and reaching out to touch Frances’s shoulder. "Frances, sweetheart," Claire said carefully, trying to mask her concern, "Where did you hear that song?"

Her face must have given away the effect the song had on her. She had last heard it in the twentieth century, on the radio, and had hazy memories of her mother singing it to her as a child, before the car accident. The song felt like warmth and light, a distant echo of a time she could barely remember.

"O-our mother used to sing it to us," she stammered, her voice faltering as the memories rushed back.

“Y-your mother Faith?” Claire caught sight of the gold locket gleaming around the neck of Jane. The locket held a sketch of their mother, and on the outside was the name Faith engraved. ​​Claire’s heart skipped a beat as her mind raced. Could this be the same Faith—the daughter she had thought lost in the hospital in Paris? The one who she thought was born dead? Was this what Master Raymond had meant by apologizing? The possibilities were dizzying.Her breath caught in her throat. No, it couldn’t be —but the name, the locket, the connection—it was all too much of a coincidence. The moment felt suspended in time, as if the world itself had held its breath.It felt like far too much of a coincidence. The moment hung in the air, suspended in time, as if the world itself had held its breath.

“Mistress Fraser?” Frances’s small voice broke the stillness, and Claire turned to find the girl stepping forward, tugging gently at the healer’s skirt. “You don’t look well.”

Claire blinked, momentarily shaken from her thoughts. Her head felt light, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She hadn’t even realized she was swaying, her thoughts a jumbled mess.

“Get Mr. Fraser,” Jane’s voice was firm, and Claire glanced up just as Jane began to climb out of bed, her movements slow but determined.

“No,” Claire said quickly, stepping forward to gently press Jane back down onto the mattress. “You need to rest. Stay where you are.” Her voice was more forceful than she intended, and she caught herself, realizing the depth of her own reaction.

Jane, however, was insistent. “Something’s wrong with you. We can see it. Get Mr. Fraser.”

Claire could feel her pulse quicken, and her mind struggled to pull itself together. Jane and Frances were both concerned, their eyes wide with worry. But the world outside the room felt distant, as though she were no longer part of it. She needed a moment, needed to gather her thoughts before anything else could be said.

“I’m fine,” Claire managed, her voice a little too steady. “But thank you, both of you. Please, just—stay put.”

But even as she spoke, she could feel the weight of what she had just uncovered hanging over her. The locket. The name. The possibility that this Faith was the same Faith she had believed lost forever.This was no simple matter. And she couldn’t keep ignoring it.Jamie hesitated, his acceptance tinged with uncertainty. Claire had told him that night, long after Frances and Jane had gone to bed following the incident with the song. She had, unable to stop herself, tucked them in under an extra quilt, staring at them both, peaceful and young in their slumber.

"Don’t you want to believe our Faith lived?" she had asked softly.

Her husband blinked back tears, his voice strained. "Course, Mo Nighean Donn, but..."

She had implored him to continue, her heart heavy. "But to think Faith’s wee lassies... ended up doing what they needed to? I cannae think of a worse fate."

The more time Claire spent with the two of them, the more convinced she became. She could see the Fraser red in Jane’s hair when the light hit it just right. At times, Jane looked so much like Brianna that Claire’s heart would flutter uncomfortably. In Frances, Claire often thought she saw more of who their father could be—everything from his coloring to his petite build.Sometimes, it was easy to forget the girls lived in a brothel. They had manners, and a quick wit. Jane, rather matter-of-factly, told Claire that she was a "fancy piece"—something she seemed to feel both proud of and mortified by.

“You’ll never have to do it again,” Claire swore as they washed clothes in the creek. Jane appeared determined to master the art of laundering, though she wouldn’t explain why, a mystery that made Frances giggle. The love between the sisters was clear and admirable, “Sell yourself, I mean,” 

Jane had paused dipping her hands into the cold creek to wash one of Jamie’s undershirts. There was a slight upward tug of her lips but it seemed forced, “its all I know how,”

And that had nearly broken Claire. Jane must have mistaken what she thought was pity for something else, her frustration boiling over as she hastily threw Jamie’s shirt into the basket and left without a word. Faith must have been dead, Claire had told Jamie, for there was no way she would have left her daughters willingly. What kind of life had Faith led? Claire spent each night hoping, almost pleading, that Master Raymond—whether in person, as an apparition, or through some astral projection—would return to her. She longed for his return, if only so she could choke him or demand to know exactly what had become of her child.

Chapter Text

The fact that the drawing had survived was a testament to its artist’s stubbornness.Faith traced her fingers over the initials—E.P.—etched into the corner in that familiar, sloppy scrawl. She could almost see Edmund hunched over his paper, biting down on his lower lip as his pencil furiously moved across the page. His ability to capture the world with such precision never failed to amaze her—and, at times, frustrate her. He could express so much more in his drawings than he ever managed to put into words.She tore her eyes away from the signature and let them settle on the drawing’s true subject—her older daughter. Janey stood at the center, her auburn curls tousled by the breeze, her half-grin forever captured in careful strokes of graphite. 

You’re worrying over nothing, my love.

Edmund’s voice echoed in her mind, so vivid she could almost feel the imprint of his fingers on her arm. She had been heavily pregnant then, fretting over whether Jane would adjust to having a younger sibling. Jane—her fiercely independent, yet impossibly clingy, almost five-year-old, who still insisted on squeezing between her parents at night.The memory surfaced with aching clarity. The night Frances was born, Edmund had placed the tiny bundle into Jane’s small arms, kneeling before their eldest with gentle solemnity. She’s your responsibility now, he had told her. Little Jane had nodded gravely, cradling her sister with all the weight of her new duty.Faith swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the edges of the paper.How could she ever explain to them?Somehow, since arriving in 1778, the pain of their absence cut deeper, sharper, as if time itself conspired to remind her of all she had lost.

The ship rocked beneath her, the rhythmic creaking of wood and the occasional shout from the crew breaking the fragile silence. Faith closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the salt-heavy air, willing herself to steel against the weight of memory. The drawing trembled slightly in her grasp, or perhaps it was her fingers that shook.A bell rang above deck, followed by a surge of movement. The ship was nearing its destination. Philadelphia.Faith folded the drawing carefully, tucking it back into the pocket of her cloak before rising to her feet. The wooden planks groaned underfoot as she stepped toward the narrow stairs leading above deck. A gust of wind met her as she emerged, whipping at her skirts and tugging loose strands of hair from their pins.She squinted against the morning sun. The shore loomed ahead, golden sand bleeding into dense green, a world unfamiliar yet strangely expectant. A collection of wooden structures rose beyond the docks, smoke curling from chimneys. The sight should have filled her with relief—after weeks at sea, land was a welcome reprieve—but dread settled in her stomach instead. This was not home. Home was a place she could not reach until she found her daughters and begged their forgiveness. 

***

J ane rather liked Mr. Fraser.

She wasn’t sure if it was because of the man himself or the undeniable resemblance he bore to his son, William Ransom. Suddenly, his pathetic cries of I’m a bastard on the first night they met made much more sense. He hadn’t been lamenting a character flaw—he had been stating a fact.She wanted to see him again for a number of reasons, not least of which was to tease him about his melodramatics, but mostly she wanted to thank him.

“Ye ken Latin, lass?” His tone held the same near-surprise and wonder as William’s had when he first discovered the same.

"Mater mea docuit me." Her Latin was rusty, but it was there.He stiffened. Perhaps rustier than she thought, “What I meant to say was that my mother taught—”

“Nae, lass, I understood ye,” Fraser said, bending to pick up more logs. “Does your mother know many languages?”

Jane frowned. “She knew some French, but I fear whatever she taught me, I’ve long since lost.”

Fraser gave a thoughtful hum, stacking the logs with practiced efficiency. “A rare thing, that. A woman well-versed in languages.”

Jane tilted her head, watching him. “Is it?”

“Aye.” He dusted off his hands and straightened. “Most lasses I’ve met are taught enough to read their Bibles and pen a letter, but no’ much beyond that.” His gaze flicked to her, sharp with curiosity. “Did she teach ye Latin for a purpose?”

Jane hesitated. It wasn’t a question she had ever considered before. “I don’t know. Perhaps she only thought it important.”

Fraser gave a low chuckle. “Aye, well, she was right about that.” He studied her for a moment longer, then turned back to his task.

Jane watched him work, her mind turning over memories of her mother. Latin lessons at the breakfast table. French phrases woven into bedtime stories. The way she would correct Jane’s grammar with a gentle tap of her finger. Had there been a purpose to those lessons? Sometimes Papa would catch her eye and there’d been some kind of conspiratorial gaze. 

“She always said language was power,” Jane murmured, almost to herself.

Fraser glanced at her. “A wise woman, then.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Yes. I think she was.”

A gust of wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth through the clearing. Fraser tossed another log onto the pile and dusted off his hands once more.

“Ye should keep at it,” he said. “The Latin, I mean. If ye’ve got the learning, best not to lose it. Especially so if yer mother sought out time to teach you,”

Jane nodded. “Perhaps I will.”

She wasn’t sure why his words settled so heavily in her chest. But as she followed him back toward the cabin, she found herself silently conjugating verbs, testing the old lessons still buried in her mind. She placed her hand over her chest feeling the familiar locket. Jane’s thoughts continued to drift back to the lessons her mother had given her, and how, in this strange new world, those lessons felt like a bridge to the past. The memory of her mother’s gentle voice, always encouraging, flooded her senses. There had been so many things Jane had taken for granted—the quiet mornings spent over books, the soft hum of a lullaby in French, the steady guidance of a mother who knew how to instill a sense of wonder in her daughter. Now, in this foreign place, those small but meaningful moments seemed distant, like fragments of a dream slipping through her fingers.As she walked alongside Fraser, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the rustling of leaves in the wind, Jane couldn’t help but wonder what her mother would say if she were here. Walking beside Fraser on his land, learning to hunt and sew, Jane found herself thinking that perhaps she would never have to resort to earning money through laying with men. Both Mister and Mistress Fraser had told her firmly that it was not something she should ever do, and she wanted to believe them. But as long as she carried the weight of survival on her shoulders, and for Fanny's sake, the thought lingered in the back of her mind. The Frasers, kind as they were, would not live forever.

“Ye ken that lullaby—the sea one?” Fraser asked, pausing just before the path resumed. “The one yer mother kent?”

Jane tried to smile, but a small frown tugged at her lips  instead. Why were the Frasers so curious about a song? It wasn’t as if it was a popular tune, nor one that contained jokes or dirty words. It was just a lullaby, a quiet piece of her past. Why did it matter to them?

“Did she ever tell ye strange things? Perhaps about stones?” 

“No never,” Jane would have remembered hearing about stones of all things, “she was just my mother. Lovely and dead in her grave,” 

She tried  to mask the sharpness of the words with a hollow laugh, though it stung her more than she'd care to admit.Fraser seemed to sense the weight in her tone, his expression softening slightly as he gave her a respectful nod, though his eyes remained curious. “Aye, I ken,” he said gently. “I didna mean to open old wounds, lass. But ye  see the stones sometimes are queer.Some folk say they bring visions, strange things, like a sort of passage to another time.”

Jane gave a quick shake of her head, looking away to avoid his gaze. She wasn't sure if she was more confused or frustrated. Her mother's past had been shrouded in mystery, and every new thing she learned about it only made her feel more disconnected, like the fragments of a life she couldn’t quite piece together.

“I do not  believe in such things,” she muttered, though doubt lingered at the edges of her words.

Fraser didn’t press her further, but the silence that followed was thick, as if something unspoken was hanging between them. Jane couldn’t help but wonder why the Frasers cared so much. Why did the sea lullaby matter? Why did the stones matter? All of it felt like pieces of a puzzle she had no intention of solving, not when survival seemed to demand her full attention. Did Fraser actually believe in such tales of visions and time-travel? Why did the Frasers care so much? Why did the sea lullaby matter? Why did the stones matter? Every question pulled her further into a web she had no interest in untangling. Not when survival demanded her full attention.Yet Fraser’s words gnawed at her. Visions. Time. A passage.

She stole a glance at him. Did he actually believe in such things? The idea was absurd. He was an educated man, measured in speech and reasoned in thought. He did not seem the type to entertain foolish superstitions. But then again, he was Scottish.A wry, humorless smile twitched at the corner of her lips before she suppressed it.Perhaps that explained everything.The wind stirred around them, carrying the scent of damp earth and heather, a reminder of just how far she was from anything familiar. The sky had darkened, the weight of dusk settling in, and yet the silence between them stretched on, thick as the fog that sometimes rolled in from the hills.

Jane crossed her arms, as if bracing against a chill that had nothing to do with the air. “And you?” she asked at last, tilting her head slightly, studying Fraser’s face. “Do you believe in such things?”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something graver. He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I believe there’s more to this world than we can always explain,” he admitted. “But belief and proof are no’ always the same thing.”

His answer was careful, measured. She had expected as much.Jane let out a breath, shaking her head as she turned away again, staring at the horizon where the land met the sea. It was easier than looking at him, easier than considering the implications of what he was saying.

“How does the song relate to time-travel?” Jane asked and he paused in his carving. 

Fraser, who had been steadily carving a small piece of wood in his hands, stilled at her question. His blade hovered just above the surface, and for a moment, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Then, with a slow exhale, he set the knife down and studied her with quiet intensity, “tis a long story and I fear it not mine to tell lass but for our purposes let’s say there are auld stories tell of lasses who bring songs from different times to their own?”

She was intrigued, wrapping her arms around herself, “that sounds like superstition,”

“Did yer mother ever mention where she learnt that song?”

Jane hesitated, the memory pressing at the edges of her mind—her mother humming that same haunting melody under her breath while brushing Jane’s hair, the way she sometimes gazed out the window as if searching for something beyond the rolling hills, “no,” she admitted, “I never thought to ask her,”

Fraser nodded, as if he had expected that answer. “Then perhaps,” he said gently, “there’s more to her story than ye ken.”

“Y ou asked her about time-travel?” Claire paused in brushing her hair, twisting so she might see her husband propped up on pillows. He peered up from his glasses giving a Scottish noise of affirmation but not elaborating on why he would go about mentioning. 

“If the lasses are Faith’s, it is reasonable, no?” he shifted beneath the quilts, “Brianna’s bairns are both travelers,” 

“Yes,” Claire put the brush aside, resorting to using her fingers to try to get through the nest of unmanageable curls, “but both of their parents are but-

“Brianna only has you so there’s a possibility that Faith is like her sister,” 

They had both agreed not to tell the girls—not until they were sure. Jane was only just beginning to respond to others outside of her sister, a tentative step forward that could be easily undone. She still struggled to sleep; the evidence was plain in the purplish-yellow shadows clinging beneath her eyes, a stark contrast to the pallor of her face. She had lost weight, too, her frame more delicate than it had been months before. They all saw it, even if they did not speak of it aloud.It was reasonable to think that Faith had given her daughters the gift of time-travel as well. If true, it would be something tangible, something undeniable—perhaps even a way to finally connect them all, bridging the gaps between past and present, between what had been lost and what could still be found. But certainty was a fragile thing, and neither of them was ready to shatter what little stability the girls had left.

“I do not know if it was wise of you to go asking so bluntly about the matter,” she said, her voice edged with quiet reproach.

Jamie exhaled through his nose, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Jane saw your reaction, Sassenach,” he said evenly. “She would have had questions whether I asked or not.”

Claire pressed her lips together, unwilling to concede the point but knowing he was right. Jane was observant—too much so for her own good. And with all the uncertainty already swirling around her, what harm had already been done?

“Do you think Jane suspects something?” Claire asked, her voice quiet but tinged with concern. She glanced at Jamie, who was still lounging in the bed, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“I’m not sure,” Jamie replied, his voice rough from his earlier effort. “She’s a sharp lass, aye. Kens Latin and some French which she learned from her mother,” 

The implication lingered in the air, unspoken yet undeniable. If Faith had, as they theorized, been revived and raised by Master Raymond, the French and Latin would make sense. But then again, many people knew those languages—Jamie did, as did Lord John and William. It was part of the education afforded to those of higher status. And of course, it was natural for a mother to want to teach her children.

"I wish Frances were older..." Jamie murmured, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. "She's more open, or at least, I think one could ask her questions directly but if she was nae older than five she’ll have less memories,” 

Tears blurred Claire’s vision as the full weight of the thought hit her like a hundred suns. If Faith had lived, she and Jamie would have never truly known her. They had loved her, mourned her, but they couldn’t even give her child the memories she should have had of her mother. She had always sympathized with Jamie for not being able to raise Bree or William, but now, at the mere prospect of it happening to her, she felt as though she were on the verge of shattering. Bree had been her sun, her tether to keep living in the future. She could recall intimate memories of nursing her baby, of counting each toe, of wiping away each tear, and to think her child was without her, it hurt more than she ever thought possible.To think of the years Faith had been robbed of—of all the moments she would never experience with her mother—left Claire breathless with grief. What kind of mother was she to have left her child in a world so cruel? And if Faith had truly been raised by Master Raymond…

Claire pressed her palms to her face, trying to stave off the storm of emotion that threatened to engulf her. She needed to focus, to figure out a way to make this right. But how could she? How could she ever bridge the chasm between what should have been and what was? The thought of her daughter's face, so small, so fragile, and now perhaps filled with confusion or worse, an aching emptiness—Claire couldn't bear it.

"Sassenach… come here," Jamie's voice was soft but firm, pulling her back from the edge of her despair.

She turned to him, and without a word, Jamie gathered her into his arms, holding her close. His warmth, his steady presence, was a balm to the ache that had gripped her heart. He didn't need to ask, didn't need to speak. He simply held her as she let the tears fall, unable to stop them now. The weight of their loss, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, had finally cracked the dam she had built to protect herself.

"I canna bear it, Jamie," Claire whispered through her tears, “how could I not know? How could I not feel her out here somewhere?” 

“Claire let us not torture ourselves again,”

  ***

A familiar face visited her dreams, one she had not seen in a long while. He appeared as he always did—shrouded in an aura of deep blue, the brief shimmer of wings heralding his arrival. Master Raymond. The embodiment of a "frogman," a name the French muttered with disdain, yet one that suited him all the same.He moved toward her with a weariness that seemed to settle in his very bones, each step deliberate, burdened by something unseen. His black, fathomless eyes refused to meet hers, shadowed with secrets he could not—or would not—share.Faith cared little for such hesitations. She had never been one for decorum, and now was no different.

“Where are my daughters?” 

"Ma chère fille," he said, his voice softer than she remembered, though his figure seemed smaller, too. "Les filles sont en sécurité."

"Do you think that’s reassuring?" she snapped, wishing he were physically present so she could punch him—though she wasn’t one for violence. "You told me that if I used the gemstone, I’d be able to steer."

"Ah, chère, even with the gem, travel is unpredictable," he replied.

“I left them to do your bidding, Raymond,” Faith said, her voice steady but laced with something darker, a tinge of regret perhaps. Her thoughts drifted back to that night, the night she had slipped away, when the air had been thick with unsaid words. Frances and Jane had been exhausted, their eyes heavy with sleep, barely able to focus on her as they blinked up at her through the dim light. She had left before they could even rub the sleep from their faces, her departure swift, deliberate, as if there had never been time to linger.Edmund had been different. His gaze had held her longer than it should have, staring at her as though she were something plucked from the pages of one of those strange H.G. Wells novels, as though the very sight of her had made him question reality itself. And she supposed, to him, in that moment, she might as well have been something not quite human.She tightened her jaw, her hand clenched into a fist at her side as she focused on Raymond. “Where are they? Where is Edmund?” The words were out before she could stop them, more urgent than she intended. There was no use pretending she wasn't desperate to know. They had been her responsibility. She had left them behind, and now the silence that followed felt like a betrayal.

Raymond’s expression remained unreadable, his eyes dark as the night, yet there was a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—behind them. But that was a fleeting moment, one that vanished as quickly as it came.

“You can sense them on your own,” Raymond replied, his eyes twinkling with something like mischief—or perhaps nostalgia. For as long as she could remember, he had spoken of the mystical blue light, that strange, otherworldly glow that seemed to exist just beyond the reach of understanding. La lumière attire tous les voyageurs comme des papillons de nuit, he had often said, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. The light that drew all travelers in, like moths to a flame. But it was the blue ones that seemed to hold a particular fascination for him, and Faith had never fully understood why. There was something about those lights that captivated him, something that went beyond curiosity.Raymond had always taken a special interest in the blue ones, as though they were a secret he alone could unlock. She didn’t ask why. There were some things about him that, even after all these years, she couldn’t quite bring herself to question.

Faith’s frustration bubbled over, her breath coming in sharp, angry gasps. “I do not want to play your games, Raymond. I have no interest in growing my abilities. I want my daughters. I want my husband,”

Master Raymond’s expression softened for a brief moment, his lips curling into a semblance of understanding. But it was fleeting. The blue light around him flickered, as though reflecting his inner turmoil. “Chère, you do not understand,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your abilities are intertwined with their fate. The more you resist, the harder it will be to find them. And Edmund…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping, as though he were trying to gather the strength to say what came next. When his eyes finally met hers, it was only for an instant before they fell again. “He is not where you expect him to be.”

Faith’s breath caught in her chest. “What do you mean? Where is he?” The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them, desperation lacing her tone.

Raymond’s silence was suffocating, heavier than any answer he might give. He seemed to weigh his next words with the care of someone standing on the edge of a cliff. As if revealing too much would send them both tumbling into an abyss. “He is lost, Faith. Not in the way you think. But he is caught between time and place, unable to return to the path you know.”

Faith’s stomach dropped. “Caught? Between what?”

Raymond’s gaze drifted from hers, his voice barely audible. “Between two worlds… and neither one is his own.” The blue light around him dimmed further, as though the very air around them had grown thick with the weight of his words.

“I do not understand. Is he dead? In purgatory?” Faith's voice cracked, and she clenched her fists to stop them from shaking. The panic rising within her was relentless, threatening to swallow her whole.

“Always so literal, my child,” Raymond replied, his tone shifting—almost affectionate, though it did nothing to ease her rising fear.

“I am not your child. I don’t care about your riddles. You said the gemstone would help me. You said—”

“Ah, mais non," Raymond interrupted softly, shaking his head. "The gemstone was never meant to guide you, but to show you what lies beyond your sight. You must learn to see the things hidden in shadows, chère. The light will only take you so far.” His voice grew distant, almost wistful. "But you will find them. In time, and only if you embrace what you fear most."

Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of his cryptic words. “What do I fear most, Raymond? What could possibly be worse than this?”

Raymond’s lips parted as if he would answer, but the dream began to fade, his image blurring at the edges. His final words lingered in her ears, haunting and unresolved,“Not what you think, Faith. Not what you think at all. Embrace your power Ma chère ,”

She closed her eyes again, focusing all of her energy on the fragments of the dream she could still grasp. The fading sensation of the blue light, the pull she had felt, lingered in her mind like a whisper, urging her to reach out. She focused on that, on the shimmer of energy she had felt flowing from the gemstone, hoping that if she could hold on to it long enough, she might find the courage to do what she had never dared before: control it.

Find him, she thought, Find Edmund. Find them.

But as hard as she tried, the dream refused to cooperate. It slipped further away, the edges fraying like tattered fabric, slipping through her fingers no matter how tightly she grasped at it. She could feel the presence of the blue light, but it wasn’t enough to steady her, to make the connection solid. She felt as if she were falling, weightless and alone, unable to anchor herself in the dream.Her frustration was palpable, and the more she fought against the tide of the dream’s dissolution, the more she felt herself being dragged under. She had spent years in this powerless state, never able to travel in the ways Raymond had promised her, never able to tap into the light that seemed to come so naturally to others. But now, with Edmund’s image seared into her mind, she couldn’t afford to let this slip away.

I can do this, she thought, her pulse quickening. I have to.

She let go of the fight, releasing her mind to the currents of the dream instead of struggling to control them. She focused on the light—the same one Raymond had spoken of, the one that had pulled her so many times before but had never allowed her to truly grasp it. She reached for it with everything she had, every scrap of willpower she could muster, and this time, something shifted.

A spark. A flicker of blue.

For a moment, the world around her steadied, the chaos calming just enough to let her focus. She breathed in deeply, centering herself, and this time, when she reached for the light, she felt it. The pull was stronger now, more insistent. She reached deeper into the current, allowing it to guide her, not as a passive passenger, but as an active participant.

Come to me, she whispered to the blue light. Come to me and show me where they are.

The world around her solidified, the edges of the dream reshaping, shifting as if the very fabric of reality were responding to her call. The blue light flared brighter, its warmth surrounding her like a protective cocoon. She could feel the path ahead opening, just out of her reach, but closer than it had ever been before.And then, as the mist began to clear.There she was, bent over a river, her profile illuminated by a brilliant sun—her Jane. She was older now. The soft roundness of her childhood face had faded, replaced by the sharp angles of adolescence. Her nose was delicate, much like Edmund's, small and refined. Her hair, still as curly as it had always been, cascaded around her face in wild, untamed waves.Faith stood frozen, her eyes fixed on her daughter as she washed something in the river, performing the most mundane of tasks. But it was not the task that caught Faith’s attention—it was the angry scars that marred the insides of Jane’s wrists, dark and jagged, as though they had been carved in desperation. The sight struck Faith’s heart like a knife, and she felt a deep, gnawing pain in her chest.She wanted to reach out, to speak, to call Jane’s name, but no sound escaped her lips. She watched, helpless, as Jane continued her work, seemingly unaware of her mother’s presence.

Faith’s heart ached as she watched Jane’s hands move with practiced care, the river’s water flowing over them, a soft sound that only seemed to heighten the tension in the air. The scars on her wrists were like open wounds, a visible sign of pain that Faith could only imagine. Her breath caught in her throat as she struggled to process the scene before her. What happened to you, Janey? she thought, a thousand questions racing through her mind, but none of them made it past her lips. She couldn't speak, couldn't move, as if some invisible force held her in place.She reached out instinctively, her fingers twitching, wanting to touch her daughter, to comfort her, but the dreamscape had no physicality. Jane remained just out of reach, an untouchable figure, and Faith felt the bitter sting of helplessness.Jane’s gaze flickered up, her eyes scanning the horizon as though sensing something, as though feeling Faith’s presence despite the distance between them. Her eyes locked onto Faith’s, and in that instant, it was as if time itself stopped. There was no river, no scars, no pain—just Jane’s eyes, full of recognition and sorrow.For a moment, Faith saw her daughter as she had been, the little girl who had once clung to her side. But that vision faded quickly, replaced by the distant figure of the young woman who now stood before the river, her past written in the scars on her skin.

"Mom?" Jane’s voice broke through the stillness, a soft whisper that barely reached Faith’s ears, but it was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

Faith’s pulse quickened. She wanted to call out, wanted to bridge the gap between them, but the dream began to blur, the edges of the scene fraying like threads pulling apart.

"No, not again," Faith whispered, desperate to hold on to this moment, this glimpse of her daughter, but it was slipping away.

Jane’s image flickered, wavering, and just as Faith stepped forward, reaching desperately for her, the river, the sunlight, and the entire scene dissolved into nothing.Faith cried out, her voice lost in the void, but the dream had already faded, leaving her standing in an empty, disorienting darkness. The last image of Jane lingered in her mind, her sorrowful eyes, the scars—everything.Her heart hammered in her chest, but this time, there was a flicker of something else. A spark of hope amidst the overwhelming grief. Jane had seen her. She had sensed her. She’s still out there, Faith thought, clenching her fists. And I will find her. I will find them all. The blue light still pulsed gently in her hand, an unwavering beacon in the darkness. This time, Faith wasn’t going to let go. This time, she would follow it wherever it led.

Chapter Text

“ T ry me.”

Claire knew that tone of voice all too well. Even without turning around, she could picture the expression on her daughter's face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the slight tilt of her head, and the single eyebrow arched in challenge. She had heard that same taunt more times than she cared to admit, especially when Brianna was a teenager, always pushing, always testing, always demanding the truth.But this was different.Claire swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She turned her gaze away, scanning their surroundings as if searching for an escape, some convenient distraction, an excuse to delay the conversation she wasn’t sure she was ready to have. If Frances or Jane appeared, she could brush it off, change the subject—but neither of the Pocock girls was anywhere in sight. They were alone.No escape.

She exhaled slowly, turning back to face her daughter, though she couldn’t quite meet her eyes at first. “Do you remember Faith?” she asked, her voice quieter than she had intended, as if saying the name aloud might summon Faith’s daughters. 

Brianna’s smirk faltered. Her raised brow lowered, drawing her features into something more serious, more uncertain. She blinked, as if she hadn’t quite processed the question, “my sister?” 

The word hung between them, heavy and fragile all at once. There was no teasing now, no challenge, only quiet confusion—and perhaps something deeper, something Claire couldn’t yet name.She nodded once, bracing herself. “Yes.”

“What about her?” 

Claire hesitated, “we-I think she lived,”

Brianna’s naturally pale face blanched even further, the color draining from her cheeks as if someone had snuffed out a candle inside her. Claire could see it—the war waging behind her daughter’s eyes, the way her mind raced to fit the impossible pieces together. Faith. Sister. 1744, premature and dead in France . That was the supposed end. The story Claire had told her, the truth as far as either of them had ever known. A tiny grave in Paris, a life too brief to leave more than a whisper of memory behind. Brianna’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. Claire could see the muscles in her throat working, the effort it took to force herself to breathe, to think, to reason through something that defied all logic.

“That’s not possible,” she said, though the words lacked conviction. They hung between them, not as a challenge, but as a plea—an attempt to tether herself to the reality she had always known, to keep herself from slipping into something too vast and uncertain.

Cllaire swallowed hard, her throat tightening around the words before she could force them out. “That’s what we thought too… except…” She hesitated, knowing that what she was about to say would sound absurd, even impossible. But then, hadn’t their lives already defied reason more times than she could count? Afterall Brianna had just returned yet again from the future, and more recently from 1739.She took a breath and pressed on. “Bree, do you remember that song I used to sing to you? I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside ? Frank had a record of it—I used to play it all the time when you were little.”

Brianna’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

Encouraged by the confirmation, Claire continued, her voice a little steadier now. “Frances and Jane both know it.”

Brianna blinked, waiting for the significance to hit her. When Claire didn’t elaborate right away, she prompted, “Okay…?”

“They shouldn’t know it, Bree.” Claire’s tone sharpened, and something flickered behind her eyes—a mix of certainty and unease. “That song won’t be written or released until the early 1900s.”

Silence stretched between them.

Brianna exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. “Alright, that’s… odd,” she admitted. “But how does it relate?”

Her voice was measured, skeptical but not dismissive. Claire could see the gears turning in her mind, trying to slot this strange detail into some logical explanation. But there wasn’t one. At least, not one that fit into the world Brianna had always favored.

“Their mother’s name was Faith,” Claire said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly would make them unravel. She swallowed, steadying herself before continuing. “And they have a picture of her.” She hesitated, her pulse quickening. “It looks—well, it looks like me.”

Brianna’s expression shifted, skepticism flickering in her eyes, but Claire pressed on before she could interrupt.

“Not just a resemblance, Bree,” she said, her voice thick with something between wonder and dread, “and it’s not just that,” Claire added, pressing a hand to her chest, as if trying to still the frantic beat of her heart. “I feel it, Bree.” Her voice trembled slightly now, the weight of her conviction pressing down on her. “I can’t explain it, but I know. I know .”

Brianna stared at her, lips slightly parted, struggling to process what she was hearing. Claire could see the resistance there, the logical part of her daughter’s mind trying to fight against the impossible.Brianna inhaled sharply, but she didn’t speak. For the first time since the conversation began, Claire saw something shift in her daughter’s eyes—not understanding, not yet, but something close to recognition. A tiny crack in the wall of doubt.

“Far be it from me to doubt your feelings, Mama,” Brianna said, but there was a strange twinge in her voice—something caught between disbelief and forced acceptance, as if she were trying to hold the impossible at arm’s length. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head before continuing, “So what you’re saying is… Jane and Frances are my nieces? Your granddaughters?” 

Claire nodded slowly, her gaze steady, unwavering. “Yes.”

Brianna blinked, her throat tightening. “Jesus.” She dragged a hand through her hair, trying to piece it together. “I mean, the family tree was unconventional, but this is a whole new level.”

“One more thing, Bree…” Claire hesitated, the weight of what she was about to say pressing down on her chest. She drew in a breath, steadying herself before continuing. “Frances and Jane… we—we haven’t told them yet.”

Brianna’s brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face. “You haven’t told them?” she echoed, her voice laced with surprise. “Why the hell not?”

Claire sighed, glancing away for a moment before meeting her daughter’s gaze again. “It’s… complicated. Possibly even more complicated than when you were told of your true paternity,” 

Brianna scoffed, folding her arms. “I’d say so.”

“They’ve been through so much already,” Claire said, her voice softer now, filled with something Brianna couldn’t quite place—concern, guilt, maybe even fear. “They’re still adjusting, trying to find their footing after everything they endured.”

Brianna’s expression shifted as understanding began to settle in.

“They grew up in a brothel, Bree,” Claire continued, her throat tightening. “That was the only life they knew. And now they’ve been pulled into a world they don’t fully understand yet—one where they have to figure out who they are outside of all that.” She exhaled sharply. “Telling them now—dropping this on them when they’re still trying to learn how to just be —it wouldn’t be fair.”

Brianna was quiet for a long moment, her arms still crossed, but the tension in her shoulders had lessened, “So, what? You’re just never going to tell them?” she asked, her voice quieter this time, more thoughtful than accusatory, “you know Frasers don’t react well to earth shattering news,” 

Claire shook her head. “No. We will.” She swallowed. “When the time is right.”

Brianna studied her for a moment, then sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Jesus, Mama.” She shook her head again, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally muttered, “This family gets weirder by the day.”

Claire and Brianna locked eyes, the sheer absurdity of it all hanging thick in the air between them. Neither spoke for a moment, both just staring at each other, expressions caught somewhere between shock and wonder, grief and bewilderment.And then—just like that—Brianna snorted. Claire blinked, startled, before an incredulous laugh bubbled up in her chest.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Brianna groaned, shaking her head even as laughter spilled from her lips. “Only our family, Mama. Only us .”

Claire pressed a hand to her forehead, shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle her own laughter. “I know. I know .” But it was impossible to stop. It wasn’t really funny—not at all—but it was either laugh or cry, and at the moment, laughter was winning out.

Brianna let out another breathless chuckle, wiping at her eyes. “I mean, Jesus, Faith —of all people—possibly alive all these years? With children ?”

Claire nodded, still laughing but now with an edge of something softer, something fragile underneath. “ Granddaughters , Bree.” Her voice wobbled slightly. “Your nieces. Jem and Mandy have cousins,”

That sobered them both a little, the weight of it settling in again. Brianna let out a long exhale, leaning back against a tree. “It’s…a lot.”

Claire nodded, running a hand through her curls. “It is .”

They were quiet for a beat, both processing, both letting the emotions swirl inside them—the joy, the grief, the shock.

“I don’t know whether to be thrilled or devastated,” Brianna admitted after a moment. “If Faith lived, then—God, Mama, she lived . She was able to grow up. Maybe she was happy. Maybe she—”

Her voice broke, and Claire reached out instinctively, squeezing her daughter’s hand.

“But if she wasn’t happy,” Brianna whispered, “if she was stuck there… and then her girls—”

Claire swallowed hard. “I know.”

Their laughter had faded, replaced by something heavier, but they were still holding hands. And as painful as it was, there was something beautiful in it too. Brianna was startled then, and jumped backwards.

“Mandy!” 

Claire’s gaze darted around the dimming landscape, scanning for the small, dark-haired figure of her granddaughter. The twilight made it difficult to make out much of anything, and for a brief moment, panic gripped her chest.

“Isn’t she with Roger-

Before she could finish, Brianna exhaled sharply, lifting a hand in a halting gesture. “Sorry, I—” She grimaced, running a hand through her hair, clearly searching for the right words. “It’s hard to explain, but Mandy… she has these abilities . She could sense Jemmy before we found him. And she seems to be able to sense me and Roger, like some kind of—”

“Beacon?” Claire supplied, brows knitting together in concern and fascination.

“Something like that,” Brianna admitted, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe she can get a read off Frances and Jane too.”

Claire’s breath hitched. The thought of a four-year-old being able to sense something as intangible as blood ties, something that even she and Brianna had struggled to wrap their minds around, was staggering.

“She’s done it before?” Claire asked, her voice quieter now, measured.

Brianna nodded. “With Jemmy, yeah. When he was taken, she knew . Before any of us did.” She hesitated, glancing at her mother. “And sometimes, it’s like she just knows things she shouldn’t. She used to say things about Da—about Jamie—before she ever met him. Or really met him,”

Claire swallowed hard, processing. A four-year-old girl, sensing the presence of family she had never known, never met —it shouldn’t have been possible. But then again, neither should time travel.

***

“Enough lass,” Jamie told Jane. They were in the stables, where the scent of hay and horseflesh hung thick in the quiet. The warm bodies of the animals breathed steadily nearby, a kind of grounding rhythm to offset the long hours they'd spent hunched over old grammar notes and pronunciation drills. Jamie stood beside Jane at the stall door, rubbing the horse’s neck with one hand, the other resting on his hip, “We should retire soon.”

“I’m not…” Jane began, and then a yawn betrayed her, wide and unstoppable. She blinked hard, trying to fight it off. “Fine. I am tired.”

She leaned against the stall rail, curls brushing her cheek as she dropped her head for a moment. Her voice softened as she looked up again, almost frustrated with herself.

“But I feel as though it’s all just…” She tapped her temple with two fingers. “Right here. Like I know it, but the words won’t come out right. It’s stuck.”

Jamie gave a knowing smile, the one he wore when he understood something before you’d even finished saying it. He nodded toward the hay bale nearby.

“Sit, then,” he said. “Let your mind rest. Words’ll come easier when yer not stranglin’ them.”

Jane hesitated but did as he asked, folding herself neatly onto the bale with the practiced grace of someone used to making herself small..She bit her lip, unsure of how to put the words together. She didn’t know why she was saying this out loud—why she felt the sudden urge to confess this thing that had been haunting her for days. Maybe it was because she trusted him, or maybe it was because the thought of keeping it locked inside had become too heavy to bear.

“I keep seeing her,” Jane admitted, her gaze fixed on a speck of dirt in front of her. “My mom. I know it sounds crazy… but it’s like I can feel her there, sometimes. Not just in my dreams. It’s… in the air, in the little things, like the way the light falls in the morning or the way a song catches in my memory. And I keep thinking…” She swallowed hard, trying to find the words, but they felt clumsy, tangled. “Maybe it’s a sign. A sign that I should embrace my past, whatever it was. Whatever happened.”

She shifted slightly, pulling her knees up tighter to her chest, as though she could protect herself from the rawness of what she was feeling. “But then I think... what if it's just my mind playing tricks on me? What if it’s easier to hold on to the idea of her than to face whatever I’ve lost?”

Her voice wavered on the last words, and she bit her lip to keep it steady. Jane wasn’t sure what she was asking of Jamie, or if she even wanted an answer. But the weight of it—the pull to understand her past, to connect with the woman who had given her life, however briefly—was becoming harder to ignore.

Jamie stood silently for a long moment, his gaze shifting to her as if he was piecing together something deeper in her words. He didn’t rush in to fill the silence, allowing her space to breathe and think. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady, yet gentle.

“Ye’re not the first to be haunted by someone ye can’t remember properly, lass,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of experience. “I’ve seen it many times, with others…” His words trailed off as his eyes grew distant, as though he were recalling something far removed from the present. At her questioning look, he continued, his tone soft but laden with unspoken histories. “My ma died when I was a boy…..my father later…my godfather,”

“Do you see them?” Jane asked softly, unable to hold back the question any longer. Her voice was quiet, almost reverent, as if she feared the answer might be too much to bear.

Jamie let the silence stretch between them for a moment, and then he answered, his voice unexpectedly wistful. “Often, if I’m lucky,” he said, his eyes shifting away from her, focusing on some distant memory only he could see. "The Scots, we call them fetches —echoes of those who’ve passed, people who were once living, but who still linger in the spaces they left behind."

His words carried a reverence of their own, as if speaking of them wasn’t just about acknowledging their existence, but about honoring the space they occupied in the world of the living. He looked down for a moment, his weathered hands absently smoothing the leather reins in his grip, his mind drifting.Jane felt the weight of the term, fetches, settle over her like a heavy cloak. It was a word she hadn’t heard before, but one that made sense in the context of what Jamie was saying. It was as if the people who had passed—whether in body or in spirit—had left some part of themselves behind, lingering in the world like shadows or whispers. She wondered if that was how her mother felt to her—an echo, a presence she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Do they ever speak to you?” she asked, her voice small, tentative.

Jamie nodded slowly, the distance between them growing momentarily as he took a breath. “Aye. Sometimes, when the wind’s still, or when I’m alone in the quiet hours. It’s not always words, lass… it’s more like a feeling, a touch, like they’re there beside ye, remindin’ ye of things lost. Things ye didn’t realize you needed to remember.” He paused, his brow furrowing as if he were searching for the right words. “It’s not always comforting. It can be… unsettling,”

Unsettling, Jane thought wryly, was probably the best word for it. Her mother had visited her dreams before, fleeting, like a soft whisper in the dark—an apparition she could never quite hold onto. But these recent visits? They were different. More persistent. More real. It wasn’t the gentle apparition of her mother’s memory—it was something deeper, more tangible. Her mother was there, standing just out of reach, watching her with those familiar, comforting eyes. It was as if she were testing the boundaries of Jane’s memory, as though she were trying to re-enter the world from which she had been so abruptly taken.

For years, Jane had longed for more. She had fought to remember her mother’s face with more clarity, struggling to keep hold of the fragments in her mind, always fearing that one day they would slip away entirely. In the early years, the only tangible memory she had was the small, delicate sketch in the locket—a pale, charcoal image of a woman she could no longer fully remember. She had stared at it often, wishing the lines were clearer, that it captured more of the essence of the woman she had once known. But now? Now, Jane thought she could describe her mother’s face with a level of detail that surprised her. If she tried, she could sketch a more perfect image—every curve, every line, every faint smile that once graced her mother’s lips. It was as if her mind had finally begun to remember what it had lost for so long.But the question lingered, growing louder with each passing day: Why was her mother visiting more now? The question gnawed at Jane as she sat beside Jamie, staring out into the stables with a furrowed brow. The air around them was thick with unspoken thoughts, and Jane’s lips parted to finally break the silence.

“Frances hasn’t seen her,” Jane admitted quietly, the words spilling from her before she could stop them. “Or perhaps Frances just doesn’t know it's her. She was so young when our mom left…”

The pain of those words stung more than she expected. She could still remember the helplessness of it all—the abandonment, the unanswered questions, and the overwhelming sense that their mother had simply disappeared from their lives without a trace. Frances, so small when their mother left, could never fully understand the absence they had both endured. Jane had grown old enough to feel the loss keenly, to search for answers that didn’t exist. But Frances…she’d barely been five when their mother left. 

“Left?” Jamie repeated, his brow furrowing slightly, as if he hadn’t heard Jane correctly. “I thought ye said she died.”

Jane raised an eyebrow, the bitter edge of truth slipping into her voice. “Well, she must’ve,” she replied, her words colder than she intended. “She never came back for us, or for our dad. If she hadn’t died, wouldn’t she have at least returned?”

“Lass, I cannae say what happened to her,” he finally said, his voice quiet and steady, “but ye shouldna blame yerself for the not-knowing. If she were still out there, somewhere, I reckon ye’d have felt it by now.”

His words hung in the air, meant to comfort, but Jane felt a knot tighten in her chest. She had heard enough of this kind of sympathy, of the soft-spoken reassurances. She didn’t need pity, not now, not from him—of all people. She had fought too long against the weight of unanswered questions, too long against the ache of being abandoned to allow it to comfort her now. There was something darker clawing at the edges of her mind, something she couldn’t push away. She needed something else.Enough of his pity.She shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flicking toward the barn door, as if it held answers. She didn’t know why the question slipped out, but it did, sharp and sudden, like a stone thrown into still water. “Have you heard from Will—Mr. Ransom?”

The moment the name left her lips, she knew she had caught him off guard. The sympathy in Jamie’s expression evaporated as quickly as a shadow under sunlight. The change was instantaneous, a subtle but sharp shift that Jane couldn’t ignore.Mr. Fraser was a master at hiding his emotions, and his son—William—had inherited that same poker face. Jane was often struck by the resemblance between them. It amused her sometimes, how closely William mirrored his father’s carefully guarded demeanor. She thought back to their first meeting, when he had cried about being a bastard. She thought he was being dramatic. He was prone to dramatics.  But now? She couldn’t help but acknowledge the truth. William hadn’t been lying, not at that moment. He was indeed a bastard. Not just a melodramatic Lord, but a son born of another world entirely. She wished he would reply so she could tease him about the matter. How precisely did children of Scottish criminals become the 9th Earl of Ellesmere? 

Jamie’s face went still, but his eyes betrayed the slightest flicker of unease, a ripple of something unspoken. “I’m afraid not,” he said after a pause, his voice guarded but still calm. “I’m sure he’ll check in sooner or later.”

***

One time, as a little girl, Faith had been taken to Philadelphia. Even as a child of seven, she’d been disappointed that the Liberty Bell was not grander, though she supposed viewing it now, as it hung in what would become the tower of Independence Hall, it did look more imposing in its place. The sound of it, ringing through the streets, had always felt less like freedom and more like an echo of something long gone.

When she first came to Philadelphia it had been a long time since the bell had rung.She walked along the cobbled streets with her father, holding his hand as they toured the historical landmarks. It was a day like any other, but in that moment, as she walked through the crowds of early American settlers, something had pulled at her, something she could not explain. She’d always been aware of the subtle differences in the world around her, a strange awareness that had often made her feel out of step with her time.But this was before everything changed. Before Master Raymond had shown her the ways of time and fate. Back then, it had been a simple walk through history, one that didn’t feel like it belonged to her.

She caught sight of a man ahead of her, walking briskly, a shadow among the bustling crowd that filled the narrow Philadelphia street. The scent of roasting chestnuts mingled with the tang of damp stone and coal smoke. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, and vendors barked in a mix of English and French. Amidst the chaos, the man moved with purpose, barely glancing at the noise around him. She had been directed to him by a merchant who’d whispered that the man with the dark coat was the one they called Fraser .He wore a long, weathered coat and his black hair was tied back neatly at the nape of his neck. His profile was striking—aristocratic, with a proud tilt to his chin and eyes that seemed to scan the world with a sharpness born from experience. He was nothing like the man she had seen in her dreams. Not the man with hair like fire and eyes that softened when he looked at her daughter.Still, she stepped toward him.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Êtes-vous… vous a-t-on appelé M. Fraser?” she asked, her voice steady despite the storm within her.

The man paused mid-stride, turning toward her with a guarded expression. His eyes traveled over her quickly, registering her wild curls, windblown and uncontained without her bonnet, her worn traveling clothes, the shadows beneath her eyes. Faith supposed she must look half-mad—sleep had eluded her for days, and she had eaten little since arriving. Her body was weary, but it was her mind that bore the weight.

“Oui, je suis M. Fraser, et vous?” he replied, voice smooth but edged with impatience, as if she’d caught him on his way to something important.

Faith hesitated, her heart pounding. She didn’t know why she was asking this man, only that she had to. It wasn’t the name that drove her—it was the feeling. A pull, like something deep in her bones knew that Fraser was the right path. The name that lit up like fire in her dreams. The name Jane had said once, before waking.Still, her cheeks flushed at how mad she must sound, but the words escaped her anyway, aching to be freed

“Je suis... oh, vous allez me trouver assez étrange, monsieur. Je cherche un Fraser grand et roux?”Her voice wavered slightly as the words— grand et roux —left her lips, hanging in the crisp air between them like a prayer. Her breath caught. She almost regretted saying it aloud, but it was too late now.The man blinked, confusion deepening in his expression, but he didn’t scoff or walk away. He studied her for a long moment, the impatience in his eyes giving way to something else—caution, maybe, or curiosity.

She swallowed. She had seen the red-haired man before—tall, unmistakably Highland, walking beside her daughter Jane in that strange dream-space where time bent and memories drifted like fog. She had watched them together, his hand steady near Jane’s back, guiding her with the familiarity of someone who cared. Behind them, carved into a wooden sign and half-faded by mist, was a name that had carved itself into Faith’s very soul: Fraser’s Ridge. It hadn’t been a dream. Not really. Master Raymond had called it astral projection—a communion of spirit through time and thought. A gift. Or a curse. The bloody bastard had told her to embrace her gifts so she had, diving deep into the shadows between sleep and wake, chasing echoes across time. And yet they had exhausted her. Left her body trembling and her spirit more fragmented with each attempt.But tonight, in the waking world, she had followed a different kind of lead.This man—the dark-haired one with the elegant French—was no Highlander, but the name Fraser clung to him like the last page of a book she hadn’t finished reading. He was her only thread. So she tugged.

““J’ai des raisons de croire qu’il s’occupe de mes filles,” she said carefully, her voice tight but clear. I have reason to believe he’s looking after my daughters.She wasn’t sure how common the name Fraser might be—perhaps a dozen Frasers walked the streets of Philadelphia—but something told her this man, or someone he knew, was connected to the one in her dreams. The red-haired man who had walked with Jane and Frances.That caught his attention. His brows lifted slightly, and the impatience he’d worn before softened into something more cautious.

“Vos filles, madame,” he asked gently now, the edge gone from his voice. “Comment s’appellent-elles ?”

She hesitated only a moment, but her throat tightened around their names. She had spoken them before—whispered them in prayers, cried them into pillows, scrawled them onto letters she never sent. But now, standing before a stranger in a world not quite her own, they felt sacred.

“Jane,” she said quietly. “Et Frances.”

The man’s expression changed, subtly but unmistakably. Something flickered behind his eyes—recognition? 

“If you know anything,” she said quickly, switching back to English in case clarity might help, “if you’ve heard of girls by those names… please. I’ve been searching for so long.”

Then, in measured English, the man answered, “They’re in North Carolina, madam. Fraser’s Ridge.”

Faith blinked, the words crashing over her like a wave. Her knees nearly gave out beneath her.

“Fraser’s Ridge,” she echoed, just to hear it again. To make sure she wasn’t dreaming still.

He nodded slowly, watching her reaction. “If you come to my shop,” he continued, his tone gentling, “I shall give you further direction. Maps and names.. And if you are willing… you might carry some correspondence for me as well. Letters for the Ridge.”

Her lips parted with a gasp of gratitude, but no words came at first. She swallowed down the tightness in her throat, then finally nodded. “Oui. Anything, sir,” she said quickly, her French slipping back in, trembling with the emotion she couldn’t quite contain. “ Anything. ”

The man gave a slow, courteous incline of his head. “Tomorrow—”

“Non, monsieur,” Faith cut in sharply, stepping forward before she could stop herself. Her voice cracked with urgency. “I have waited too long. Please—tonight, if you can. I will sleep on your floor if I must. But I cannot lose them again.”

Her hands were trembling now, barely concealed at her sides. There was nothing practiced about her anymore—no grace, no composure. Just a mother who had spent too long grasping at fragments and shadows.The man regarded her for a long moment. The street noise seemed to fade around them, just a distant clatter. He could see it now—not just the exhaustion but the years worn into her face, her clothing, her very soul. And something in him shifted.

“Come now,” he said.

The man had introduced himself, quite simply, as Fergus Fraser —son of the redhead. Son of the redhead. It echoed in her bones like a church bell.He tried to smile at her—warm, practiced, reassuring. But Faith had no patience left for smiles. Not now. Not when every hour felt like an eternity dragging her away from her daughters. She would have left that very moment if she hadn’t been intercepted at the door by a force far more immovable than any map or horse.Marsali.Small, fierce, and glaring at Faith with the exasperated intensity of a woman who had raised too many children and tolerated too many fools, Fergus’s wife stood with her arms crossed, blocking the path like a Highland fortress in skirts.

“Yer no good to yer lassies if ye’re dead on yer feet, Mistress Pocock,” she said firmly, her voice thick with the lilt of Scotland, but sharp as a blade. “A night’s rest. That’s all I ask. Then ye can ride out at dawn like the bloody angel o’ vengeance ye are.”

If she was not so desperate to be in North Carolina, she rather thought she would have like Marsali’ tenacity. Faith opened her mouth, protest trembling on her tongue, but nothing came. She hadn’t realized just how deep the exhaustion had sunk in until Marsali’s words hit like truth. Her knees gave a little, and Fergus was suddenly at her side, steadying her elbow with the careful grace of someone used to dealing with broken things.

​​“You’ll sleep under our roof tonight,” Marsali continued, softer now, though her voice still left no room for argument. “And eat something hot. I’ll not send ye into the Carolina wilds lookin’ like death on two legs.”

Faith let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Her body wanted to collapse, to obey. But her heart burned with urgency.

“I dream of them,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Jane and Frances. Every time I close my eyes.”

Marsali looked at her—really looked—and whatever iron edge remained in her melted just a little. “Then let this be the last night ye dream of not findin’ them,” she said softly. “Ye’ll leave stronger come morning. And ye will find them, lass.”

Chapter Text

“ 'Tis not a bother," Faith reassured Mrs. Fraser gently, her voice warm despite having just sidestepped a flying biscuit aimed with startling precision by the younger of the couple’s daughters. The projectile landed harmlessly on the floor, and the culprit—Félicité Fraser—had the grace to look sheepish. Her head dipped, dark curls tumbling over her face like a curtain drawn in shame, though it wasn’t quite enough to shield her from her maman’s sharp, unimpressed scolding.

At Marsali Fraser’s firm prompting, Joan's older sister, Félicité, gave a stiff nod and offered a reluctant, "Désolée, Joan." Her tone may have held contrition, but her dark eyes—so like her father’s—still snapped with indignation as they flicked toward her sister. There was fire in that gaze, the kind that often flared between sisters close in age, tangled in rivalry, loyalty, and love all at once.

“Sœurs,” Fergus muttered with a faint, knowing smile, as if the word alone explained the entire incident. In some ways, perhaps it did.

Faith offered a smile in return—gentle, reflective. She had no sisters of her own, no brothers either. Her understanding of sibling bonds came not from memory, but from observation. Still, it stirred something in her, watching the two girls tangle like sparks off the same flame.She thought of her own daughters, far from here. Jane: headstrong, keen-eyed, quick to protect and even quicker to correct. She carried her strength like armor, and often tried to pass it down to Frances in pieces—though only when it suited her. Fanny, sweet and open-hearted, would follow her sister through fire without asking why. But there were times Jane bristled at that blind devotion, lashing out not from cruelty, but from a yearning for independence neither fully understood. Just like Félicité and Joan, Jane and Fanny quarreled. But beneath the snapping tempers and slammed doors, there lived an unspoken bond, deep and enduring. It was that bond Faith missed most—the soft, secret language of love between her girls. She longed not only to see it again, but to feel it surround her. To know, without a doubt, that it still existed.

“Mistress Pocock?” It was Joan who addressed her, head tilted curiously, a biscuit crumb still clinging to the corner of her mouth. “Where are you from? Your accent… it’s different.”

Faith hesitated. A question that should have been simple was suddenly weighted with the strangeness of truth. And of the added complicity of the nature of being a time-traveler. Accents changed over time, they evolved with the people. That could also be a cause of her strange manner of speech. 

“Well…” she began slowly deciding to draw inspiration from what little truth that could be spoken, “I was born in France. In Paris. But I was raised… all over, really.”

Joan’s brow wrinkled in mild confusion, but before she could ask more, a quiet voice cut in.

“When were you in Paris?” Fergus inquired. It was a simple question, spoken softly, but it held weight. Though his tone bore that familiar lilting grace of a man long fluent in two tongues, the glance he gave Faith was sharp with something more—something watchful.

“I was razed zere until ze age of ten,” he continued, slipping more fully into his accent, as if unconsciously. “Until about… 1744.”

The way he said the date—like it mattered, like it marked something—made Faith’s spine straighten. She turned to him fully now, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d spoken. There was a flicker in them. Recognition, perhaps. Or hope. Or something quieter still: grief dressed in curiosity.He was not asking out of idle interest. He was searching.

“I fear I was in Paris some time after that, Monsieur,” Faith replied, her voice calm but guarded, the edges of her smile too careful to be called warm.

Fergus made a sound then—a low, ambiguous syllable that seemed caught between a French murmur and a Highland grunt. It might have been disappointment, or merely the sound of a memory surfacing too quickly.

“It has been so long,” Faith continued, looking down at her hands. “Since Paris. My memories of it feel like dreams half the time. Faded at the edges. Like ink left out in the sun.”

“Ah, oui ,” Fergus said, nodding slowly, his gaze distant for a moment. “Zat is Paris for you. A city made of dreams and ghosts.” His smile was faint, melancholic, and there was something unreadable in it. “And some ghosts are… persistent.” The table had fallen silent. Marsali, seated beside her husband, turned to him with a subtle frown, her blonde brows knitting as she studied his profile. Whatever unspoken thing he was reaching for, she could not quite grasp it. The tension in his shoulders, the faraway look in his eyes—it unsettled her..The children sat wide-eyed, shifting their gazes from one adult to another, sensing the weight in the room though they couldn’t name it. It was as though a story was being told in a language they didn’t yet understand, and yet they felt its pull, its gravity.

Faith, for her part, could only wonder why such a simple conversation had gathered such gravitas. What had he hoped to find in her answer?Then, in the stillness, Fergus spoke again—his voice softer now, more cautious, like stepping onto a frozen pond.Then, in the stillness, Fergus spoke again—his voice softer now, more cautious, like stepping onto a frozen pond.

“Tell me, Mademoiselle Pocock,” he said, “and forgive my impertinence—but… what is your first name?”

It was a simple enough question. Innocent on its surface. But the way he asked it—with careful formality, the faint lift of tension in his brow—it felt like more than mere courtesy. It felt like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

“Faith,” she said. “My name is Faith.”

“Mon Dieu” 

My god indeed. 

***

“ T ry me.”

Claire knew that tone of voice all too well. Even without turning around, she could picture the expression on her daughter's face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the slight tilt of her head, and the single eyebrow arched in challenge. She had heard that same taunt more times than she cared to admit, especially when Brianna was a teenager, always pushing, always testing, always demanding the truth.But this was different.Claire swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She turned her gaze away, scanning their surroundings as if searching for an escape, some convenient distraction, an excuse to delay the conversation she wasn’t sure she was ready to have. If Frances or Jane appeared, she could brush it off, change the subject—but neither of the Pocock girls was anywhere in sight. They were alone.No escape.

She exhaled slowly, turning back to face her daughter, though she couldn’t quite meet her eyes at first. “Do you remember Faith?” she asked, her voice quieter than she had intended, as if saying the name aloud might summon Faith’s daughters. 

Brianna’s smirk faltered. Her raised brow lowered, drawing her features into something more serious, more uncertain. She blinked, as if she hadn’t quite processed the question, “my sister?” 

The word hung between them, heavy and fragile all at once. There was no teasing now, no challenge, only quiet confusion—and perhaps something deeper, something Claire couldn’t yet name.She nodded once, bracing herself. “Yes.”

“What about her?” 

Claire hesitated, “we-I think she lived,”

Brianna’s naturally pale face blanched even further, the color draining from her cheeks as if someone had snuffed out a candle inside her. Claire could see it—the war waging behind her daughter’s eyes, the way her mind raced to fit the impossible pieces together. Faith. Sister. 1744, premature and dead in France . That was the supposed end. The story Claire had told her, the truth as far as either of them had ever known. A tiny grave in Paris, a life too brief to leave more than a whisper of memory behind. Brianna’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. Claire could see the muscles in her throat working, the effort it took to force herself to breathe, to think, to reason through something that defied all logic.

“That’s not possible,” she said, though the words lacked conviction. They hung between them, not as a challenge, but as a plea—an attempt to tether herself to the reality she had always known, to keep herself from slipping into something too vast and uncertain.

Cllaire swallowed hard, her throat tightening around the words before she could force them out. “That’s what we thought too… except…” She hesitated, knowing that what she was about to say would sound absurd, even impossible. But then, hadn’t their lives already defied reason more times than she could count? Afterall Brianna had just returned yet again from the future, and more recently from 1739.She took a breath and pressed on. “Bree, do you remember that song I used to sing to you? I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside ? Frank had a record of it—I used to play it all the time when you were little.”

Brianna’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

Encouraged by the confirmation, Claire continued, her voice a little steadier now. “Frances and Jane both know it.”

Brianna blinked, waiting for the significance to hit her. When Claire didn’t elaborate right away, she prompted, “Okay…?”

“They shouldn’t know it, Bree.” Claire’s tone sharpened, and something flickered behind her eyes—a mix of certainty and unease. “That song won’t be written or released until the early 1900s.”

Silence stretched between them.

Brianna exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. “Alright, that’s… odd,” she admitted. “But how does it relate?”

Her voice was measured, skeptical but not dismissive. Claire could see the gears turning in her mind, trying to slot this strange detail into some logical explanation. But there wasn’t one. At least, not one that fit into the world Brianna had always favored.

“Their mother’s name was Faith,” Claire said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly would make them unravel. She swallowed, steadying herself before continuing. “And they have a picture of her.” She hesitated, her pulse quickening. “It looks—well, it looks like me.”

Brianna’s expression shifted, skepticism flickering in her eyes, but Claire pressed on before she could interrupt.

“Not just a resemblance, Bree,” she said, her voice thick with something between wonder and dread, “and it’s not just that,” Claire added, pressing a hand to her chest, as if trying to still the frantic beat of her heart. “I feel it, Bree.” Her voice trembled slightly now, the weight of her conviction pressing down on her. “I can’t explain it, but I know. I know .”

Brianna stared at her, lips slightly parted, struggling to process what she was hearing. Claire could see the resistance there, the logical part of her daughter’s mind trying to fight against the impossible.Brianna inhaled sharply, but she didn’t speak. For the first time since the conversation began, Claire saw something shift in her daughter’s eyes—not understanding, not yet, but something close to recognition. A tiny crack in the wall of doubt.

“Far be it from me to doubt your feelings, Mama,” Brianna said, but there was a strange twinge in her voice—something caught between disbelief and forced acceptance, as if she were trying to hold the impossible at arm’s length. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head before continuing, “So what you’re saying is… Jane and Frances are my nieces? Your granddaughters?” 

Claire nodded slowly, her gaze steady, unwavering. “Yes.”

Brianna blinked, her throat tightening. “Jesus.” She dragged a hand through her hair, trying to piece it together. “I mean, the family tree was unconventional, but this is a whole new level.”

“One more thing, Bree…” Claire hesitated, the weight of what she was about to say pressing down on her chest. She drew in a breath, steadying herself before continuing. “Frances and Jane… we—we haven’t told them yet.”

Brianna’s brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face. “You haven’t told them?” she echoed, her voice laced with surprise. “Why the hell not?”

Claire sighed, glancing away for a moment before meeting her daughter’s gaze again. “It’s… complicated. Possibly even more complicated than when you were told of your true paternity,” 

Brianna scoffed, folding her arms. “I’d say so.”

“They’ve been through so much already,” Claire said, her voice softer now, filled with something Brianna couldn’t quite place—concern, guilt, maybe even fear. “They’re still adjusting, trying to find their footing after everything they endured.”

Brianna’s expression shifted as understanding began to settle in.

“They grew up in a brothel, Bree,” Claire continued, her throat tightening. “That was the only life they knew. And now they’ve been pulled into a world they don’t fully understand yet—one where they have to figure out who they are outside of all that.” She exhaled sharply. “Telling them now—dropping this on them when they’re still trying to learn how to just be —it wouldn’t be fair.”

Brianna was quiet for a long moment, her arms still crossed, but the tension in her shoulders had lessened, “So, what? You’re just never going to tell them?” she asked, her voice quieter this time, more thoughtful than accusatory, “you know Frasers don’t react well to earth shattering news,” 

Claire shook her head. “No. We will.” She swallowed. “When the time is right.”

Brianna studied her for a moment, then sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Jesus, Mama.” She shook her head again, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally muttered, “This family gets weirder by the day.”

Claire and Brianna locked eyes, the sheer absurdity of it all hanging thick in the air between them. Neither spoke for a moment, both just staring at each other, expressions caught somewhere between shock and wonder, grief and bewilderment.And then—just like that—Brianna snorted. Claire blinked, startled, before an incredulous laugh bubbled up in her chest.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Brianna groaned, shaking her head even as laughter spilled from her lips. “Only our family, Mama. Only us .”

Claire pressed a hand to her forehead, shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle her own laughter. “I know. I know .” But it was impossible to stop. It wasn’t really funny—not at all—but it was either laugh or cry, and at the moment, laughter was winning out.

***

“S he reminds me of William,” Frances told Jane as they readied for bed.She sat on the little wooden stool Mr. Fraser had carved for them himself—sturdy, rough-edged, but made with care. Her small fingers worked through her wet, tangled hair, still damp from Germain’s antics earlier in the day. He had declared war with the washbasin, and she had been his unfortunate casualty. His behavior, already wild, had only grown worse since his cousin had arrived from Boston. A terrible influence, Frances thought—but not without a certain thrilling energy,  “I do miss him…. don’t you miss him Janey?”

Jane  didn’t answer right away.She was lying on the straw-stuffed mattress, staring up at the roof with her arms crossed beneath her head. Her hair, nearly dry now, curled slightly where it clung to her cheeks. The candlelight flickered against her skin, casting long shadows over her too calm face.Jane had been quieter since they’d come to stay with the Frasers. Life outside the brothel was—different. Stillness, once a luxury, now felt foreign. There were no demands in the dark hours, no footsteps down hallways, no doors creaking open with expectation. Jane, used to always being needed, now lay untouched by time, by duty… by anyone. It unnerved her.She often stayed awake long after Frances drifted off, her eyes open and unblinking. Mistress Fraser said it was natural, even expected, after nearly dying. That silence could be part of healing. But Frances had begun to wonder… if something more had changed.If some part of Jane hadn’t made it back.

Frances turned on the stool, watching her sister in the dim light. “Do you ever think,” she said cautiously, “that maybe… a bit of you stayed behind? That night, when William and his father found you?

Jane blinked slowly. Her jaw twitched, but she said nothing.

“I just… I think about how you used to hum when you brushed my hair. Or when we did the washing. Or when you were sewing.” Frances lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around the brush. “You haven’t done that in a long time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick, breathing, alive. Outside, the wind pressed against the windowpanes like a hand trying to get in.

Then Jane spoke, voice hoarse with something she didn’t want to name. “I don’t know if I stayed behind, Franny,” she said, eyes still fixed on the beams above. “But sometimes I think… maybe I’m not all here either.” 

She shifted with effort, the straw mattress rustling beneath her, and propped herself up on the thin pillows. The movement was slow, deliberate, like someone carrying a weight far heavier than their frame.

“I keep seeing Mother,” she said after a moment, her voice even lower than before.

Jane’s mouth twitched into a tight line. “Like a ghost. Or a… a fetch. That’s what Mister Fraser calls them.” Her eyes, dark and glassy, finally flicked toward her sister. “She’s not always clear. Sometimes I see her standing in corners. Or in the garden. Just watching.”

Frances swallowed, hard. “Have you… have you spoken to her?”

Jane shook her head. “She never says anything. She just looks. Like she’s waiting.”

“For what?” Frances whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jane murmured. “But I think… I think she’s waiting for me.”

Frances felt something twist in her chest—an ache she couldn’t name. Jane’s words left a hollow space between them, as if someone had opened a window in her heart and let the warmth out. She hated that emptiness. Hated the way Jane sounded like she was already halfway to the other side.So she tried to fill the silence with something brighter, something familiar.

“Well,” Frances said, puffing up her chest and dropping her voice into a theatrical lilt, “tell Mama to hold her horses you’ll not be joining her after all,”

It was a phrase only their mother used—an odd little saying from another life, one that always made their father snort with amusement and say, “ You’ve got the strangest tongue, woman.” She had dozens of sayings like that. Barking up the wrong tree. Close, but no cigar. Spill the beans. Some Frances didn’t understand even now, but the sound of them lived in her bones. She had Jane write them all down once, and Fanny memorized them. Those silly, tangled idioms were scraps of memory she clung to—right alongside the golden hue of their mother’s eyes and the warmth of her smile, the kind that could mend a scraped knee or a frightened heart with just a glance.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Frances wondered if she had said the wrong thing.And then—Jane laughed. Not a hollow, polite laugh. A real laugh. It burst from her like a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, sharp and bright and lovely. Her shoulders shook. She covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes sparkled, and for a moment, she looked like herself again. Like the Jane Frances remembered.

“Oh God,” Jane said between giggles, wiping at her eyes. “She really did say that all the time.”

“Every time we were ready before she was,” Franny said with a small smile tugging at her lips. “She’d wave a hand and say, ‘Hold your horses, Fanny-girl.’ Like we had a stable full of them just waitin’ outside.”

Jane chuckled, the sound a little more real this time, less like it hurt to come out. “No one ever knew what she meant with those sayings of hers,” she said, voice soft with amusement and ache. Then she leaned back into the pillow, the candlelight painting her features in golden hues. Her smile lingered like a shadow of the past come to visit. “I miss her,” she murmured, barely more than breath.

“Me too,” Frances whispered, her voice catching. She stared down at her hands for a moment, then added, “Do you think… once she’s done visiting you, she’ll visit me?”

Jane turned her head on the pillow to look at her sister. There was something tender in her gaze now, something clear. “The next time I see her,” she said quietly, “I’ll tell her to visit you, if you’d like.” 

Frances didn’t answer right away. She got up from her little stool and padded over to the narrow bed, slipping beneath the covers beside her sister. It was a comfort they rarely allowed themselves anymore, but tonight felt like it needed it. The kind of night where silence wrapped tight around the windows and old memories wandered too close.

She nestled against Jane’s shoulder, voice muffled slightly. “Do you think she’s with Papa?” A beat passed. “Neither of us have ever seen him.”

“I think they’re together,” Jane said, remembering how mismatched they seemed. Papa with his quietness and Mama with her singing and her weird sayings. They’d look at each other sometimes-and just look-and Jane could remember feeling as if she was intruding on their love, “Papa is probably telling her to be patient and let us be,”

Frances sniffled and wiped hastily at her face, pretending the tears weren’t there. “I think they’re happy we’ve found the Frasers,” she whispered, voice trembling at the edges. “And I think Mama would like William. And Mistress Fraser. Especially the healing.”

“I think they would too Fanny,” 

Chapter Text

1770

“Y ou’re taking them to the talking stones?” Edmund Pocock’s voice cracked in disbelief as he struggled to maintain his composure. The leather reins slipped slightly through his gloved fingers, and he hastily readjusted his grip, patting the glossy neck of the black mare to soothe both the horse and, perhaps, himself. He craned his neck to look at his wife, eyebrows knitting together in concern.

Faith sat perched on the wagon bench beside him, her profile outlined by the soft, slanting afternoon light. She looked to be standing on the precipice of exasperation—a familiar and strangely beloved sight. Edmund took a certain pleasure in watching it overtake her, the flush blooming up her pale neck to her cheeks, not unlike the heated pink that sometimes rose when they managed rare, stolen hours away from the prying eyes of their two daughters.At the moment, however, the only intimacy between them was practical: Faith was wrestling their youngest, little Fanny, into a more comfortable position across her lap, the child’s chubby legs draping awkwardly over the swell of Faith’s belly. Edmund’s gaze lingered there for a moment, softening. Their third child—Faith was so certain it would be a son. Edmund, quietly amused, suspected it would be another girl, just as bright and mischievous as the first two.

“I have told you,” Faith said, her voice tight with the effort of keeping her temper, “I need to know if the girls share my gift.” She huffed, shifting Fanny’s weight slightly and brushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead. “And the stones,” she added with a sharp glance at him, “do not talk so much as they scream .”

Edmund suppressed a shudder, and not entirely from the crisp spring air. He had heard the old tales, as every child raised on the moors had—stones that wept, that cried out under the weight of heaven’s judgment, that could shatter a man’s reason if he lingered too long. He was no coward, but even so, he preferred to keep a respectful distance from such places. That Faith, his careful, brilliant Faith, would tread so close to them—and take their daughters, no less—was enough to set his teeth on edge.

He knew, though he scarcely liked to dwell upon it, that Faith was a traveler. She had told him as much in the early days of their courtship, when he was young enough to believe love could render any peculiarity charming. She had regaled him with wild tales of distant eras and unfathomable machines—carriages that moved without horses, great metal contraptions that flew through the air like monstrous birds. Edmund had laughed at the time, charmed by her strange fancies, taking them as the harmless imaginings of an intelligent woman confined too long to the narrow strictures of their age.

But with years, and with the subtle proofs that accumulated too plainly to be denied, he had come to understand: she spoke truth. Such a gift—if gift it could be called—did not come without cost. Faith had spoken, in rare and serious moods, of a man she had called only le maître , a Frenchman who had trained her in the secret arts of what she named la lumière bleue —the blue light, a force that defied the natural laws Edmund had been raised to revere. She had warned him, in that same quiet tone, that the gift might pass down like the color of one's eyes or the curve of a mouth—that their children, too, might bear the mark of it.He prayed it would not be so. Better, he thought, that they remain innocent of such knowledge, untouched by the peril and loneliness that he sensed clung to his wife like a second skin

“Papa,” Frances called out, her voice bright as a silver bell. She tilted her head in that cat-like manner of hers, the way she always did when something curious caught her fancy. Her hair—so like his own, light as ripe wheat and curled into wild little ringlets—bounced with each movement.It still amused him, sometimes, how their eldest had taken so entirely after Faith: dark-haired, solemn-eyed, with an uncanny way of seeing through a man. Yet here in their younger daughter he found a mirror of himself, and it warmed some tender place in him he scarcely knew he had. It made him wonder, not without a boyish flicker of excitement, what the new babe would look like—whether another reflection of his blood, or another wild spark of Faith's hidden world.

​​“Stones, stones…,” Frances sang in a lilting little voice, clapping her small hands together.

“Aye, we’re going to see some stones,” Edmund said, his voice gruff with affection. He reached down to hoist the wriggling toddler from her mother's lap, intending to set her against his hip where she could better see the passing hedgerows and fields.But he paused mid-reach, his hands hanging useless in the air.

Faith’s mouth had opened in a silent cry, her face going terribly pale. Her hands clutched her swelling belly, fingers digging into the heavy folds of her gown. A soft, pained sound escaped her throat—a sound that struck Edmund harder than any blow could have done.For a moment, the world seemed to still: the horses' hooves slowed, the wagon wheels creaked in protest, the sky overhead seemed to lean in close, heavy with an unseen weight.

“Faith?” he said, sharply now, all the good humor of a moment ago gone. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs as he caught her trembling hand in his.

“The babe—” she managed, before another wave of pain overtook her, and her head bowed low over her belly.

Panic, cold and unrelenting, surged through him, numbing his fingers and sharpening his thoughts to a brutal clarity.

They were still miles from the village—miles from any midwife or healer who could lend aid. And the stones—those ancient, silent watchers—loomed ahead, stark and gray against the soft green swell of the next rise. Their grim silhouettes seemed to lean closer with every heartbeat, as though the earth itself were bracing for what was to come.Edmund moved swiftly and silently, scanning the field until he found their elder daughter. Jane, with her auburn curls—Faith’s curls—tumbling loose in the spring breeze, was kneeling in the grass, carefully gathering a handful of wildflowers. She looked up at the sound of his boots upon the path, her dark eyes wide.

She must have seen the gravity of his expression, for without a word she let the flowers fall from her hands and hurried to him. He scooped up little Frances, who had begun to fuss, and placed her into Jane’s outstretched arms. The child clung tightly to her sister, sensing without understanding the heavy fear that now hung over them all.

“The stones can wait,” Edmund muttered, half to himself, as he turned back to Faith. She was trying to sit upright, shaking her head, protesting in gasps broken by sharp cries of pain.

He silenced her gently, his hands steadying her trembling form. “Hush, love. Hush now.” He lifted her carefully into the back of the carriage, arranging the worn blankets to prop her against the wooden wall, her face pale and damp with sweat.

Jane stood at the foot of the carriage, clutching Frances to her narrow chest, her eyes—dark brown, so like his own—shining with barely-contained terror. She was only eight years old, still more child than maiden, and as much as Edmund longed to draw her close and whisper that all would be well, he knew he could not spare the time for false comforts.

He pressed his hand briefly against Jane’s cheek, grounding them both. "Sing that song,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “The one about the sea, Janey. By the Sea, you remember?"

Jane’s lip quivered, but she nodded bravely. She shifted Frances into the crook of her arm and began to sing in a thin, wavering voice, the old lullaby trembling through the air, a fragile thread of normalcy against the storm gathering around them.

Edmund snapped the reins, urging the horses into a hard trot, the carriage lurching forward as the stones watched silently from the ridge, and the sky deepened into a heavy, waiting gray.

***

Jane had loved bluebells.She would roam the fields barefoot, her russet curls tumbling loose about her face, gathering the wildflowers by the fistful until her hands were stained green from their stems. It was bluebells she had laid so carefully at Faith’s side after the babe—a son—had been lost. Such a simple offering from a child who did not yet understand the full weight of death.

But the sight of them had struck a chord in Edmund, whose childhood had been shaped by the stern hands and soft tales of a Scottish grandmother. Later, when he wept with her in the cold silence of their shuttered room, he told her—his voice raw—that bluebells belonged not to the living, but to the fair folk. To the unseen. To that other world that took as easily as it gave.Some whispered that bluebells grew thickest where the veil between the worlds was thin. That their faint, hidden chime—too soft for mortal ears—could summon the spirits of the dead, or lure the unwary child away forever.

Faith, in her younger, prouder years, would have scoffed at such tales. She did not scoff now.She had watched, heart splintering, as Edmund—so steady, so tender—ripped the bluebells from the floor beside her pallet. He had discarded them with a violence she had never before seen in him, flinging them into the fire as if they might yet drag her soul down into the earth. Little Jane had sobbed in confusion and horror, clutching her skirts, but Edmund had not relented.

Jane never gathered bluebells again.

And that, somehow, broke Faith even further than the small linen-wrapped bundle she had kissed goodbye.

A sharp sting startled her from the memory. "Ouch—are ye alright, miss?" Marsali asked, her voice low with concern as she folded the bed linens. 

Faith wiped at her cheeks, not even realizing the tears had begun to fall. "I was only thinking of my children," she said, her voice a whisper stretched thin with sorrow.

And silently, like a prayer, she named them:

Alexander Edmund. Jane Eleanora. Claire Elizabeth. Frances Ellen

She forced herself to remember the name her husband had chosen for their lost son.

She had been fevered, broken with grief, barely conscious when they laid the tiny body to rest.

Marsali hesitated, smoothing the linen with unnecessary care. "Fergus has arranged transport in the morning," she said after a moment, her voice tight, tinged with something like understanding. A tone Faith recognized instinctively—the echo of a woman who had also known what it was to be separated from a child, “and knowing the Frasers…,” There it was—the pause, the searching look. The same one her husband had worn at dinner, eyes flickering over Faith’s face, trying to find something familiar. Some truth or shadow. “yer daughters will be looked after just fine,” 

"Oh?" Faith managed, wiping hastily at the remnants of tears that still burned hot on her cheeks. She forced a smile, the kind one gave to well-meaning strangers

"Aye," Marsali said, firmer now, settling herself in the way a woman did when she meant to speak truth into another’s bones. "Jamie is my stepfather, but I think of him as my Da. He’s fierce and protective, the way a true father should be. And Claire Fraser—"Here, Marsali’s voice softened even further, as if invoking a name woven with awe and grief and something older still, "—Claire Fraser is the best healer I've ever known. If there’s breath left in a body, she'll find it. Yer daughters will be sound of heart and mind when ye see them again."

Faith pressed a trembling hand to her chest, willing her shuddering heart to calm. She tried to anchor herself in one small comfort—that Jane and Frances, at least, had fallen into the care of good people.

“May I call you Faith?” Marsali asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.

Faith let out a breath, the ghost of a laugh escaping her. “As you have just witnessed me weeping like a madwoman, I do not see why you should be denied the liberty,” she said, attempting a smile. But it felt brittle, stretched over too many broken places.

"Yer eyes... they’re so unique. Golden, almost hawk-like. They remind me of—" she stopped, swallowing hard, a visible struggle passing through her. "Of Claire Fraser’s."

Faith stilled.Her eyes had always been remarked upon. They gleamed strangely against the pale cast of her skin and the ink-dark fall of her hair. A color like old whiskey, Edmund had murmured once, still half-lost in the heady tangling of newlywed mornings. A precious thing, he'd said, something to drown in.

"Do they?" Faith asked, the words carefully measured. She wasn’t sure why it mattered, why her features were being called into question at all,"I have rarely seen anyone with my hue."

It was the truth. In all her travels— both those sanctioned by maps and ships and those that bent the rules of time itself—she had yet to meet another soul who carried that molten glint in their gaze.

Marsali hesitated, her hands tightening into the fabric she was supposed to be folding.

"Do ye… I am not..." she faltered, swallowing visibly, "did ye ken the Frasers? Is that name familiar to ye?"

Faith’s brow furrowed slightly at the strangeness of the question. There was a peculiar hunger in Marsali’s gaze, a desperate, searching hope that made Faith's skin prickle in unease.

"Outside of them caring for my daughters..." she said slowly, apologetically, "I'm sorry, but no."

The words hung between them, heavy and unsatisfying. Marsali’s face fell in a way she could not quite hide, though she covered the lapse quickly, bowing her head as if the linens demanded her full attention. Faith watched her carefully, feeling the shift in the air, like a string pulled taut between them.Somehow, she knew that the conversation was not over. That Marsali had seen something in her—something she herself could not quite name—and was not willing to let it go so easily.But for tonight, at least, the question would be allowed to drift away unanswered, like the sound of distant bells in the wind.

Sleep eluded her, but the thought of starting her journey to Jane and Frances eased the weight of her exhaustion. Fergus had arranged the travel with an elderly couple, their deeply wrinkled faces carrying the wisdom of many years. They seemed kindly enough, offering her warm smiles and quiet conversation in the dim light of the evening. Before she left, Fergus had bid her farewell in the French fashion, kissing each of her cheeks in turn before pulling her into a tight embrace, as if he were parting from a close friend. It was a gesture so rare, so full of warmth, that it left her feeling unsteady for the first time in ages.It wasn’t that Fergus was unattractive—he certainly was—but it was something more subtle that had affected her. The lack of human touch, the absence of connection that came from simple, unspoken comfort, was what had truly struck her. Time travel had a strange way of distorting the sense of time, of making the past and present blur together into something difficult to untangle. How many years had it actually been since she’d felt a touch like that?

She had bid farewell to her husband, thinking of their last intimate night together, even as she sat in the cramped confines of the wagon. That moment had been in September of 1772, a memory that seemed vivid and close, yet distant at the same time. The memory brought a flush to her cheeks, even now, alone in the quiet of the night. But in truth, to her, it had been two years—a span of two full years—since she had left him. Two years in this strange, unrelenting march of time, yet it felt like an eternity had passed.

She had not entertained even the thought of a dalliance on her last trip. Master Raymond had assured her that she would be able to return to the very moment she had left, a promise that, at the time, had provided a sense of false comfort. Faith had clung to that assurance, imagining that the moment she stepped through time, she would be safely back in Edmund’s arms, as though nothing had changed. But now, she was trapped in a strange in-between, where he was lost to her, yet not entirely lost—*not yet*. The passage of time had already begun to feel like a cruel trick, twisting the certainty she had once relied on into something unrecognizable. Focus on your girls, her mind reminded her firmly. North Carolina. The Frasers. The words anchored her, pulling her thoughts back to her present reality, where there was work to be done, people who needed her. Edmund’s absence, though deeply painful, had to be set aside. She had responsibilities—there were lives to protect, decisions to make. Her girls needed her strength now more than ever. She could not afford to be consumed by what she could not change at that moment.

And yet, Fergus had also told her to deliver a message to Mrs. Fraser. *Something strange,* he had whispered into her ear, his voice low and reverent. *L'Hôpital des Anges.* The words had sounded almost sacred, as if they carried a weight she couldn’t quite fathom. "The Hospital of Angels," he had translated quietly though he need not to, as though sharing a secret with the air itself. Mrs. Fraser would know it, he had said. But now, as she sat alone in the quiet darkness, with nothing but her thoughts for company, she found herself turning over the cryptic message in her mind, desperately trying to make sense of it. 

What could it mean? Why would Fergus, of all people, want her to pass along such a peculiar phrase? The uncertainty gnawed at her, but there was little time to process it. The moment to act had already passed, and now all she could do was think, over and over, about the strange request. Mrs. Fraser would know it, he had said. But she could not fathom how or why. Even as the stillness wrapped around her, she could not shake the feeling that this message, cryptic as it was, would come to matter more than she could anticipate. Rover Cripes. Faith could hardly believe what she was about to do. By nature, she had never been a snoop—curious, yes, but not the type to eavesdrop at doors or linger in places where she wasn’t supposed to be. Yet here she was, her body heavy with exhaustion, unable to find rest in the stillness of the night. With a sigh, she reached into the bag that Fergus had left for her. Inside, there were sealed letters—letters meant for the Frasers. She knew, deep down, that this was wholly wrong, that it went against every sense of propriety and respect she had ever known. But the more rational part of her mind was far too tired to win out against the weariness that settled deep in her bones. Her hands, almost betraying her, moved quickly to break the seal, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the first letter to her eyes.

The smooth, creamy paper crinkled beneath her touch as she unfolded it, the weight of the moment settling in. Don’t do this, a voice in her head whispered, but her eyes, almost of their own accord, began to skim over the elegant, looping script. The letters were a blend of French and English, seamlessly intertwined, and as she read, she felt the familiar sting of guilt, but it was quickly overpowered by the insatiable pull of curiosity. The words danced before her, each one weaving into the next, forming a story that seemed both foreign and intimate at once.

The name L'Hôpital des Anges appeared again and again, its significance growing as she read further. She had only heard that phrase in passing before—murmured by Fergus, whispered with reverence, and now it felt like an echo of something much larger, something she was only just beginning to understand. The letters told the story of Faith Fraser, of her connection to the mysterious hospital, and the secrets that lay buried beneath the surface. Her fingers moved quickly over the page, each word revealing a piece of the puzzle, and with each sentence, the weight of the revelation pressed down on her.

Faith Fraser lives, milord, milady. She has your eyes, milady, and your curls, but her determination to reunite with her filles reminds me of your spirit, milord.

Faith’s breath caught in her throat. The words were like a revelation, so powerful they nearly took the air from her lungs. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Faith Fraser lives.

Chapter Text

The letter burned in her pocket. Its words engraved into the sockets of her eyes.
Faith Fraser lives, milord, milady. She has your eyes, milady, and your curls, but her determination to reunite with her filles reminds me of your spirit, milord. Faith Fraser lives.

The phrase looped in her mind, louder than the creak of the wagon wheels, louder than the wind in the trees, louder than her own breath. It shouldn’t have meant so much—just a letter, just a name. But the words struck something deep, something old and buried.

She has your eyes…

She looked away from the moonlight, afraid it might catch the tremble in her hands. The name had once belonged to a ghost. Or a memory. Or perhaps something still living, waiting, always waiting.

Faith Fraser.

It tasted unfamiliar on her tongue and yet heavy in her chest, like a name worn long ago, or meant for someone she had once been. Or could have been. She did not know. Not exactly.

She had read the letter only once, but it had imprinted itself behind her eyes like starlight glimpsed through fog. Every stroke of Fergus’s hand had carried weight— care . And knowing. Too much knowing, perhaps.

She pressed the letter flat against her palm inside her pocket, as though it might anchor her to the present.

She did not speak the name aloud. Not yet. As if doing so might summon something she wasn’t ready to face. The name rang like a bell, one she had heard before—somewhere between a dream and a prayer.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the timing. The road. The Ridge.

Something in her bones told her she was being drawn back to where it had all begun. Or where it might begin again.

She has your curls…

She touched a strand of hair that had slipped loose in the wind. Curled and wild, it caught the light like flame. A stranger’s compliment, years ago, had once compared it to her mother’s. But which mother? The one who bore her? Or the ones she found across lifetimes?

That part didn’t matter now. What mattered was that someone—a girl, a woman, a daughter—was searching. And something deep inside her, something she had learned not to question, whispered that they were connected.Perhaps that was the reason she had come this far. Why she had left the safety of quiet years behind. Why, despite the cost, she kept going.She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the wagon guide her forward.She didn’t know what she would find at Fraser’s Ridge. Only that it called to her. That the name in the letter did not frighten her.Faith Fraser lives.She breathed it in—not as a revelation, but as a remembering.

And as the trees thickened around her and the road narrowed to a thread, she whispered one word into the night.

“Soon.”

***

“A t least I’m not afraid," Jane said, though the words caught in her throat the moment they left her lips. Almost immediately, she regretted them.

William Ransom had always possessed the uncanny ability to get under her skin. The polished veneer of civility he’d worn upon his abrupt arrival at the Ridge had faded quickly, revealing the same maddening presence she remembered all too well.He had insisted—more than once—that he was no longer a redcoat, that he’d resigned his commission. But the title clung to him like the scent of gunpowder, never quite washed away.He stood now, brush stilled in his hand, beside the dappled gray horse, his knuckles white against the bristles. A muscle ticked in his jaw.That Fraser anger—hot, quick, and nearly impossible to smother—flared in his eyes, and Jane felt its heat rise to meet her own.

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” 

She folded her arms tightly across her chest, a barrier of flesh and bone against the rising tide of his frustration. His eyes flicked downward—just for a second—but it was enough. They landed on the bandages still wrapped around her wrists, pale cotton now fraying at the edges. Healing, yes, but healing slowly. The silence hung there, brittle.

“ Audaces fortuna iuvat? ” she asked, the Latin crisp on her tongue.

The phrase— fortune favors the bold —was one she’d said to him once before, in a moment of shared daring, when the world felt like it might open up to something more than pain. And for a breath, it worked again. His anger stumbled. Confusion flitted across his features like a shadow passing over glass. But then the storm returned, quieter now, more dangerous.His nostrils flared, jaw clenched. He didn’t speak. Not yet. He was too tired from his journey.

Jane studied him, unflinching. She’d only ever seen his father—his real father—in this state once. There had been an altercation on the Ridge, something to do with a dispute over land and an accident no one had meant to happen. A little girl, not even Fanny’s age, had been caught in the fray and hurt. Badly. Jane remembered how Mr. Fraser had gone still—not yelling, not flailing, but still. A stillness that was terrifying. Like watching a fire hold its breath before it devoured something.

“What?” William demanded, his voice too sharp, too quick, the way people spoke when they were afraid of the answer.

“You just remind me-

“ “Don’t,” he snapped, the word bitten off like it tasted bitter—like something foul he hadn’t meant to say aloud. He turned back to the horse, movements stiff and mechanical, as if he were holding himself together by force of will alone. Too rigid. Too deliberate. Like a man made of rope pulled too tight, fraying at the edges.

“Damn the resemblance,” he muttered under his breath, the words not meant for her but too loud to ignore. As if he were trying to shake off a ghost that clung to his shadow. As if he hated how much of his father lived in his bones.

Jane’s brows drew together, and her voice gentled, even though her words pressed against shaky ground. “If you didn’t come here to seek out your family,” she said, carefully, “then why did you come at all?”

“As I said,” William began, voice tight, measured like a soldier on the verge of breaking rank, “I came to see if you and Frances had settled. And to see how Mother Claire was healing.”

He said it like a duty. Like a list of tasks to justify his presence. But his eyes gave him away. Beneath the anger, beneath the pride, there was something else—something unsure, something aching . He’d practiced that answer, maybe even believed it, but it didn’t hold water. Not completely. He did that a lot.Jane didn’t speak right away. She studied him—truly looked at him. At the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his fingers kept flexing near the reins like they couldn’t quite find rest. At the words he hadn’t said.

“That why you’ve been sleeping in the barn instead of the big house?” she asked gently, tilting her head. “Because it’s easier to pretend you’re just passing through, not trying to belong to something you’re afraid of?”

“I don’t…” William’s voice caught in his throat, and he drew in a sharp breath through flared nostrils, the air slicing through clenched teeth, “They’re not my family,” he said, each word cold and deliberate, like stones thrown into deep water. “Blood, perhaps—but not family.”

He turned sharply, his shoulders taut, jaw grinding as if holding back something far larger than his words. Anger flickered in his eyes, not wild but controlled, calculated, like a man who’d had time to rehearse his resentment.

“Mac—” he stopped himself, lips curling as if even saying the name tasted foul. “ James Fraser lied to me. They all did. My whole damn life, I was raised in the shadow of honor and duty and truth —and it turns out none of it meant anything.”

His voice cracked on the last word, not with emotion, but exhaustion. Like a man who’d spent too many nights trying to make sense of a world that wouldn’t give him answers.Jane didn’t interrupt. She just watched him, her expression unreadable but not unkind.

“They took everything I thought I knew,” William continued, lower now, but no less bitter. “Twisted it. Hid it. And now I’m expected to stand here and… what? Shake hands with the man who let me grow up a lie? Break bread with the people who whispered truths behind closed doors?”

He exhaled, shaking his head, gaze distant. “I didn’t come here for reconciliation. I came to make sure you and Frances were safe. That was all.”

But even as he said it, there was something hollow in the words. As though he were trying to convince himself more than her.Jane’s eyes narrowed, her spine straightening as she stepped toward him, no longer soft or cautious.

“Safe?” she echoed, voice rising just enough to sting. “You think that’s all we needed from you? A quick check-in like we’re some parcel to be delivered and forgotten?”

William flinched—not visibly, but enough that Jane saw it. She pressed on.

“Don’t give me that noble horse-shite, William. You didn’t ride all this way because of duty. You could’ve sent word, sent someone else. But you came yourself. Because some part of you wanted to see them. Even if you hate it. Even if you can’t admit it….Frances and I are just some convenient excuse,”

Part of her wanted him to deny it. He turned from her, hands tightening into fists at his sides, the muscle in his jaw flexing. He did not utter a protest. 

William’s eyes blazed now, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, simmering. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

“Don’t I?” Jane shot back. “You think I haven’t lived with lies? That I haven’t had to claw my way toward the truth with no one to trust and nothing to hold on to? You think Frances and I landed here because life was kind to us?”

Her voice cracked, not with weakness, but force. “We survived lies. So forgive me if I have little patience for you sulking in the barn because your perfect world wasn’t as perfect as you thought.”

William stepped forward suddenly, erasing the space between them. It wasn’t a threat—not physically—but something in the movement was charged. Unspoken. The last time they had stood this close, she’d tried to seduce him before the storm of battle, kissed him as if it were the end of the world.Now, it felt like something else entirely. Not lust. Not comfort. Just two broken truths crashing against each other.

“And pray tell,” he asked, his voice a low challenge, “what lies have you survived?”

Jane let out a hollow, bitter laugh—no humor in it, just a breath of exhaustion made sound.

“Just after we arrived…” she began, licking her lips, her voice rough from memory. “Where my parents swore we’d be happier. Safer.”Her gaze went distant, not seeing William anymore. Not really.

“My mum—my mother —woke Frances and me in the middle of the night. Said she wanted to show us something. Took us up to the roof. Told us to look at the sky. At the dancing lights.”

Jane’s voice faltered for a heartbeat, like the memory pulled too tight around her ribs. “She said they were angels. That if you waved, they’d take you to heaven.”

Her arms wrapped loosely around herself, as if trying to hold the ghost of that night at bay, “She sang to us. Just a little song. And she said she was leaving—but not forever. Just…” Jane’s voice softened, and she slipped into her mother’s long-lost accent with aching precision, “‘ juste pour un petit moment .’”

The words hung between them, delicate and devastating.

“She never came back,” Jane finished, the final syllables dropping like ash.

For a long moment, the only sound in the barn was the restless shuffling of the horse behind them and the hush of the wind pressing against the wood.Jane didn’t cry. Not now. She had done enough of that in attics and alleys and empty beds. But her voice trembled with the weight of something older than grief—abandonment, raw and remembered.

“And our Papa…” Jane’s voice softened, but the edge of hurt remained, sharp as a splinter beneath the skin. “He was never the same after she left. He stopped singing. Stopped smiling.”

Her eyes were far away again, somewhere no one could reach.“He promised us he wouldn’t go. Swore it, hand to heart. Said he’d stay with us, no matter what.” She swallowed hard. “And then one day, he tells me he’s going out—just to fetch something, just a moment—and he goes , too.”

Her voice cracked on that last word, the betrayal still fresh in her throat after all this time. “He said he'd be right back. But he never came back either.”

A heavy silence followed. It wasn't a silence of sympathy—it was thicker, full of tension and unshed truths.William shifted slightly, jaw clenched, hands knotted at his sides. He was quiet a beat too long, and when he finally spoke, his voice was tight, the words too carefully measured.

“As terrible as that is…” he began, his tone clipped, distant. “And you have my condolences…”

Jane’s eyes snapped to his, narrowing.

“…your parents didn’t lie to you.”

There it was. Cold and brutal.

“They left you, yes. And I won’t diminish that. But they didn’t build your life on falsehoods. They didn’t smile to your face and tell you one story while keeping the truth buried like a rotting thing under the floorboards.”

He stepped away from her then, just a little, the air between them charged now with something volatile. His voice dropped, quieter but no less sharp, “They didn’t pretend to be someone they weren’t. They didn’t make you live a lie,”

Jane’s head tilted, just slightly, and her eyes narrowed to slits. The grief vanished behind something hotter, fiercer. Her voice, when it came, cut like flint striking steel.

“Oh, please ,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like you’re the only one who’s ever been lied to. They lied. They said they were coming back,”

William opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“You want to talk about lies? My parents didn’t just leave. They left two children with nothing but a sack of half-truths and fairy tales about angels in the sky. They didn’t tell us where they were going. They didn’t tell us what was coming. They just vanished and left us to scrape through the dirt and beg for scraps of kindness from people who looked the other way.”

She stepped toward him now, meeting him toe-to-toe, her voice rising like a storm gaining force.

“And when we ran out of options, do you know what truth we were handed?” Her hand trembled at her side, but she didn’t flinch, “I had to sell myself ,”

William’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t stop.

“So don’t you dare look me in the eye and tell me that being lied to by people who loved you is worse than being lied to and  left behind with no one. Don’t talk to me about truth like it’s some bloody birthright you were robbed of. You had parents. A home. A name that meant something.”

Her voice cracked—just once—then steadied again.

“I would’ve killed for lies like yours.”

The barn was deathly still, the only sound the wind rattling the wood outside and the shallow rise and fall of both their breaths. She had killed. She meant it.

William’s face twisted, not just with anger—but with something older, more wounded. His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, like thunder rumbling just before it cracks the sky.

“Don’t you dare pity me,” he hissed.

“I’m not,” Jane shot back. “I’m furious with you.”

“You think I give a damn about your fury?” he exploded, stepping closer again, his hands clenched at his sides. “You think I wanted any of this? That I asked to be born into a lie? That I wanted to look my father— the man who raised me —in the eye and find that he never told me who I was? That I wanted to see my reflection in the face of someone who had the gall to say he loved me and never once told me the truth?”

His voice cracked on “loved,” and he turned away from her so abruptly that it felt like the air itself had been cleaved in two. The pain in his voice was raw, but it didn’t stop the words from coming— words that had been buried deep beneath pride and bitterness .

“What they did was wrong. Misguided. But done for love,” Jane said and cut him off before he could intercept, ““And I’d be overjoyed,” she continued, her gaze hardening, “to learn that Frances and I have one more blood relative out there—one more family member to cling to—than to stand here and listen to you blame your pain on the people who made choices in the name of love.”

William’s eyes burned with an intensity that matched her own, but there was something else there now—something wounded, raw beneath the surface. His voice was thick with frustration, but his words were sharp, aimed straight at the core of her beliefs.

“If your mum or Papa arrived tomorrow here,” he demanded, his gaze never wavering, “with a flimsy excuse for why they left you—told you some sweet story about how they were ‘sorry’ or that they had to go—tell me true, Jane, would you be rejoiced ?”

The air between them thickened, the challenge hanging in the space like a dare. His fists were clenched, and his jaw was set with a mixture of defiance and pain. It was almost as if he needed her to admit it, to show that she, too, could see how impossible it was to accept lies from those you loved.

“Because I swear,” he continued, voice rising just slightly, “if they came back and said it was all for ‘love,’ that they didn’t mean to hurt you, I can’t imagine how you’d forgive them, after all this time . How you’d just—welcome them with open arms and say, ‘it’s all right, it was done for love.’”

His words bit at her, but Jane didn’t flinch. Instead, she met his gaze, her eyes burning with the weight of the question.

“Tell me,” he pressed, voice hoarse, a mixture of accusation and pain. “You’d forgive them, wouldn’t you? You’d embrace them, even if the answers didn’t make sense? After everything you’ve been through?”

Jane’s lips parted, her breath quickening as the words she wanted to say pressed against her chest. They felt trapped inside her, half-formed, wanting to escape, but not knowing how to shape them into something she could speak aloud. She opened her mouth to snap back, to tell him that she would forgive them—after all, that was what she wanted to believe, wasn’t it? She had always been too quick to anger, holding onto every hurt, every betrayal, no matter how small. The only person who had ever been immune to her wrath was Fanny.Fanny, the little sister who still had a piece of their mother’s softness in her, who could still see the world with a tenderness Jane had lost long ago.

But this was different. This was them . Her parents. The ones who had left her and Frances behind without a word, without an explanation.She wanted to say that she’d embrace them, that she’d find a way to forgive them, but could she? Could she really look at them after everything—after all the anger she had bottled up, after all the fear she’d carried alone—and say, I forgive you ?

“No,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, but her words were firm. “I would not forgive them, not at first. I wouldn’t forget what they did, what they chose to do, no matter how much they said it was for me. But…,” she paused, her throat tightening as she tried to find the words, the truth that had been buried for so long. “But I wouldn’t push them away, either. I don’t think I could. Not forever. Because in the end, I’m not sure what else is left but to try and understand why they did what they did.”

Her fingers clenched at her sides, her heart aching as she realized that she was still trying to piece together what it meant to forgive. To heal. To move forward when part of her still wanted to rage against it all.

William looked too triumphant for her liking.Jane rolled her eyes, unwilling to let him have this small victory. She squared her shoulders, biting back the urge to lash out at him, to tell him how little she cared for his triumph. Instead, she took a deep breath, her voice steady but sharp.

"My parents leaving left me and Frances destitute," she said, her words cold and deliberate, letting the weight of them settle between them, “Your parents—what, six of them now?—did the same thing, but you? You were the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere. Legally, at least. You lived a life of lace and privilege, hidden behind those titles and fancy estates."

Her words were biting, and they tasted like salt on a wound. She couldn’t help herself. The anger, the resentment, the unfairness of it all—how could he stand there, with his fine clothes and endless inheritance, and lecture her about family ?

"It seems harmless to me," she added, her voice sharp and laced with bitterness, the words coming out before she could stop them.

“Mother Claire…” William’s voice was suddenly cold and commanding, the words silencing Jane before she could even gather her next thought.

For the briefest of moments, Jane froze, caught off guard by the use of the familiar title. Mistress Fraser’s presence was always steadying, but now there was something different in her expression. Something sharp, something that made Jane’s stomach churn uneasily.The older woman’s lips curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze was calculating, searching—almost as if she were weighing Jane’s very soul. The smile, though gentle, felt like a mask, an act. It unsettled Jane more than she wanted to admit.

Jane’s mouth went dry. Mistress Fraser was a woman that commanded respect, but Jane couldn’t shake the feeling that the confrontation she was in the middle of wasn’t just about her and William anymore. She glanced at the older woman, wondering if there was a deeper disappointment hiding behind those eyes. Would she be upset with her? 

Despite his belly-aching, William had a true claim on the Ridge just as he did in England. He was as much a Fraser by blood as anyone in this house, his lineage unshakeable, no matter how bitterly he fought against it. Jane and Frances, on the other hand, were still outsiders in a world where bloodlines mattered. They had been welcomed here, yes, but it was at the Frasers’ pleasure, not by right or inheritance.As the weight of that truth settled over her like a heavy cloak, Jane’s mind raced, torn between the fierce defiance she’d fought so hard to hold on to and the growing, insidious sense that she had overstepped—especially in front of someone she respected so deeply. Mistress Fraser had always been a steadying presence, a foundation in this house of shifting allegiances and torn loyalties. But now, faced with the calm authority of the woman who had been like a mother to so many, Jane couldn’t help but feel small. She shouldn’t have gone this far, she thought, guilt lacing her anger.

““Perhaps we should all step back for a moment,” she suggested, her tone not harsh, but undeniably commanding. It was a subtle shift in the air, as if the entire room recognized the unspoken power of her words. “Tempers are high, and sometimes the heat of a moment like this blinds us to the things that should be said… and heard.”

Her eyes flickered briefly over Jane’s shoulder, then back to William, who had fallen silent at the interruption, his expression unreadable. The shift was almost imperceptible, but Jane caught it—the way Mistress Fraser’s gaze softened, but only for a heartbeat. As if she could feel the tension in the room but knew better than to push it further.

"The hour is also late," Mistress Fraser continued, her voice gentle now, but with a quiet firmness that still held sway. “Perhaps rest will give us the clarity to approach this again in the morning.” She addressed William, “is the barn warm enough William?”

“Yes, quite Mother Claire. Good night Jane,”

***

“D o you really think the angels are a fairytale?" Frances’ quiet question, so soft in the still darkness of their room, made Jane’s breath catch in her throat. It was simple, innocent even, but the way it lingered in the air between them felt like a raw, open wound.

“You were listening?" Jane’s voice came out sharper than she intended, a forced lightness masking the vulnerability that threatened to spill out. She sat up in bed, pushing her tangled hair out of her face, trying to regain some semblance of control over the flood of emotions threatening to break free. "Oh, Fanny…" Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. "I wasn’t… I was just angry."

Frances didn’t respond right away. The silence between them felt thick, like the air before a storm. Jane felt a lump in her throat, and for a moment, she regretted speaking so carelessly. But then, Frances’ soft voice broke the quiet.

Jane’s heart twisted at the thought. She hadn’t meant to distance herself from her sister. She hadn’t meant to shut off the part of herself that used to remember their parents with fondness, before all the pain, before the loss had made everything seem so complicated. She shifted, pulling her little sister closer, the weight of her arm around Frances' shoulders a small, familiar comfort.

“I told you I’ve been seeing Mom,” Jane murmured, her voice soft, more vulnerable than she’d meant it to be. "Though she hasn’t visited in a while .. but we can talk about them more, if you want."

Frances nestled closer, her head resting against Jane’s shoulder, and Jane could feel the quiet shift in the room—the tension easing, even if just slightly. Frances didn’t need words right now. She never had. Jane felt the weight of her sister’s presence, of the love between them, even in the darkness of the night, when everything else felt so uncertain.

“"Tell me the story about how Mama and Papa met."

Frances’ voice was quiet, but Jane could feel the weight behind the question—soft, innocent curiosity mixed with something else. She knew it wasn’t just a simple request for a bedtime tale. It was the yearning for something lost, something they both never truly had a chance to keep. The story used to be a common request but not in a long while.

Jane felt hollow but she told it anyway, “Papa was visiting his Gran…..he was stationed in the Highlands-

“Where Mr. Fraser is from!” 

““Indeed,” Jane replied. She wished she could remember precisely where Papa’s Gran had lived, but so much had been lost to time. The names Mr. Fraser mentioned when they’d arrived never quite clicked with her memories. “Mama,” Jane continued, her voice softening as she found herself lost in the recollection, “Mama was running after a pony she accidentally let loose.”

She could almost hear the sound of Fanny’s delighted giggle from the darkness, even without the candlelight to cast shadows around them. The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a blanket, and Jane could feel the pull of the memory taking shape in her mind. "She knocked him on his arse," Jane said with a small laugh, though it was bittersweet. "Papa always said his whole backside was bruised, but it was worth it. He said he fell in love right then and there."

“Did he?” Frances asked, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with wonder.

Jane smiled softly, imagining her mother’s teasing expression. "Mama always said he wasn’t being serious. She thought he was just trying to make her laugh. She was very stubborn, you know.” Jane paused, lost in thought for a moment, her mind drifting to that time when love seemed so simple, so full of promise. She remembered how her mother’s laughter had filled their small cottage. And then Jane remembered something, “the pony’s name was Francis,”

There was a beat of silence before Frances stopped fidgeting, “ I’m named after a horse? ” she asked, scandalized.

Jane couldn’t help herself—she laughed outright this time, a full, warm sound that softened the heaviness of the past few days. She wrapped an arm around Frances and pulled her a little closer under the blanket. “ Not quite, ” she said through her chuckles, her voice gentler now. “The pony was a boy horse, and your name is spelled the girl’s way. Mama just… liked the sound of it. She said the name reminded her of something brave and gentle. That’s what the pony was, and that’s what she hoped you’d be.” Jane brushed a curl from her sister’s forehead, her voice softening even more. “And you are, Fanny. You’re both of those things.”

Frances didn’t say anything at first, just snuggled closer into her side, her voice muffled against Jane’s sleeve. “What are you named for?”

Jane hesitated for a moment, surprised by the question. No one had asked her that in years—not since Mama was around to explain it with her usual flourish. “For Papa’s gran,” she said finally, her fingers gently tracing circles against the blanket. “Her name was Jane. His mother’s name was Eleanora. He used to say she had the sharpest mind in three counties and a temper to match it.”

Frances giggled at that. “Sounds familiar.”

Jane smirked. “Hush, you.”

A comfortable silence settled over the room, but it was no longer heavy with grief. The air felt lighter now—softer, reflective, tender. Jane stared up at the ceiling beams, letting her thoughts drift like the flickering shadows cast by the fire. She thought of her Papa, of Mama, of her childhood. They were memories wrapped in both warmth and pain, but now, sitting here with Frances, they didn’t feel quite so sharp. Time had worn them down into something manageable, something that no longer consumed her in quite the same way.

“I like your name,” Frances murmured after a beat, already half-asleep. “Even if you don’t have a horse story.”

Jane smiled to herself. “Thanks, Fanny.”

“Do you believe Mr. Fraser?” Fanny suddenly asked, her voice small and hesitant, as if she were testing the waters. “That he’d never make us sell ourselves?”

Jane felt her body grow cold. She hadn’t engaged in that practice not since William and Captain Harkness. The temptation had been there. It had been her life since she was ten, and it felt apart of her, and more so than just a way to make money. 

“You never will,” she finally said, her voice firm, but there was a tremor in it, a depth of something unspoken that made her throat tighten

Fanny’s dark eyes met Jane’s, and Jane saw the shadow of understanding there. Fanny had known more than anyone could guess about Jane’s past, about the things she’d been forced to do to survive. Fanny also remembered, clearly, the night Captain Harkness had died. The murder of Harkness. Jane didn’t regret it—not for a second. But sometimes, when the silence was thick, when her hands were still, she would stare at them and remember what she had done. The blood. The violence. The way Harkness’s life had left him in a cold, unnatural stillness.

“You’re not going to either,” Fanny said with a ferocity far greater than her twelve years.

***

Faith  learned long ago how to move without being seen. How to quiet her steps, how to keep her breath low, her presence smaller than the trees. It was instinct now—more animal than human. A gift honed in strange places, in other lifetimes. So when she heard the voices up ahead, she didn’t move toward them, not at first. She crouched low beneath the brush, the damp scent of moss and pine clinging to her skirt.She had learned before Master Raymond. He had complimented her upon it. The thought of the Frenchman burned her insides. She was so close, and he’d been the ranch to tear her from her daughters. 

The air on the Ridge hummed with something thick and watchful. The way the trees leaned in. The way the light filtered golden through their leaves. It was different from her dreams where she traveled to Jane—but not by much.

The voices grew louder. Two of them. Arguing.A young woman and a man, tangled in something more than just a disagreement. The kind of heat that wasn’t entirely anger. She knew that sound. The edge in the girl’s voice, the tension bristling under every word the man said.

“I told you…,” the man began.

Jane had a better view of him. He was young but tall and built sturdily. Something about him, and his too upright posture told her that he was a soldier or someone with good manners. The intense facial expressions told her that he had not quite managed to grasp control of his emotions. She could not see the woman from where she stood but could hear that they were entangled in a bit more than a disagreement.  The kind of heat that wasn’t entirely anger. She knew that sound. The edge in the girl’s voice, the tension bristling under every word the man said.Silence.

The woman in the woods didn’t breathe.She pressed deeper into the earth, heart caught somewhere between hope and terror, the sharp scent of pine and leaf mold rising like incense around her. Then came a rustle ahead—just a shift of weight, a sharp movement—and through a narrow gap in the foliage, she saw them.The girl stood rigid, fists clenched tight at her sides. Her auburn  hair tumbled wild and uncombed around her shoulders, catching the sunlight like smoke. Her eyes—brilliant, unblinking—held a fury too large for her frame. Across from her stood the man, broad and upright, his mouth tight, his jaw locked with something unspoken and unresolved.The woman in the brush didn’t need to hear the words. The tension strung between them was visible, almost tangible. It was the heat of a fight that wasn’t really a fight at all—not yet. Not unless one of them broke.

They were so young.Too young to carry the weight they bore. Too young to stand like that, as if the world had already turned its back on them and they were preparing to do the same in return.The kind of young that made her heart ache.The kind of young that still believed in the lie of certainty.

Even though she had “seen” Jane in her travels, the image was blurred in them.She’d tried to memorize the eyes, the mouth, the curve of her jaw. To hold onto something definite. She had tried—every time—to see if there were bandages on the wrists. But in the waking world, the girl— Jane, if this was her Jane—kept her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Guardedd. Faith tried to see if there were bandages upon the wrists but Jane, if she was her Jane, had her arms folded across her chest.the way she tilted her chin. The way she stood, like the earth owed her nothing and she expected even less. It made something inside her pulse in recognition.

Faith wanted this to be Jane. She wanted her travels both over the ocean and through time to be over. More than anything, she wanted both of her girls in her arms, where she could beg their forgiveness and try to explain that she had never meant to be gone for so long. 

And then—without warning—his head jerked toward the trees.Straight toward her.The breath she’d been holding turned to iron in her lungs.

“Friend of yours?” the young man asked.

His gaze locked on the underbrush where she crouched. The girl scoffed before positioning herself to also look.

The girl scoffed. “Friend of mine? What are you talking about?” But even as she said it, she turned to look in the same direction. Her brows knit, “Wait… you can see her too?”

The young man turned to give his companion an incredulous look, “what in god’s name do you mean  you can see her too ?”

Then the girl took a slow step forward, breath catching in her throat as she squinted past the sun-dappled leaves. Something in her expression cracked. The armor she wore slipped—just slightly—and a note of something else entered her voice.

“…Mom?”

Chapter Text

The first thing that perturbed William about Jane’s mother was not that she appeared to have returned from the grave or emerged from some netherworld, but rather her astonishing resemblance to Mother Claire. Jane’s mother stood among the moss-laden oaks, tall and spare of frame, her dark hair unbound, stirring faintly in the greenish light that sifted through the canopy. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and bruised fern, mingled with the faint sweetness of decaying leaves. And her eyes—God above, those eyes—were precisely the same golden-brown, wide and luminous, their shape near identical, set in the same pallid countenance that looked almost spectral in the gloom. Even her stature struck him—she was tall, taller than any woman he had known, her presence uncanny in its familiarity.

“Jane?” The voice was both jubilant and trembling, carrying across the hush of the glade as though each syllable cost her dearly. She stepped forward with visible effort, her boots pressing into the sodden carpet of leaves. Her breath came in small, ragged clouds in the chill air, and tears spilled freely over her wan cheeks, glinting like drops of amber in the shifting shadows.

Jane’s mouth fell open, yet no words emerged. She shook her head slowly, blinking as though she might banish the vision by sheer force of will. William felt a peculiar tightness in his chest. What had she asked him only moments before? Wait—can you see her? Was it possible she believed herself unhinged? But no—this figure was no phantom. She crushed the leaves beneath her tread and stirred the very air with her nearness.

“You are dead,” Jane whispered, her voice flat and cold as a winter blade.

“I am not. I swear it—I am not,” the woman insisted, and it was then, as she lifted her tear-streaked face more fully into the wan light, that William discerned the refinement in her speech—the unmistakable tones of a polished English accent.

And then she stepped too close, nearly brushing against Jane. Jane recoiled as though struck, turned abruptly, and wiped at her eyes with the back of her sleeve in a furious gesture. Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and strode away, her boots crackling through the damp litter of leaves as she disappeared into the trees.

“Jane?” William called after her, though he thought he heard her voice, thin and strained, drift back to him: Do not follow me.

He found himself caught in an awkward paralysis, torn between Jane, who was plainly angry and bewildered, and her mother, who looked as though she might crumple to the earth at any moment. He judged that Jane would scarcely welcome his pursuit. Better, perhaps, to see her mother safely conveyed to the house on the Ridge and then to enlist Francis to go after her sister. It was as sound a course as any in so mad a circumstance.

He inclined his head to the woman and spoke as steadily as he could. “William Ransom, madam.”

Jane’s mother blinked at him, her expression rather owlish, before she tucked a stray curl behind her ear with a trembling hand. “Faith…Faith Pocock,” she said at last, her voice hoarse.

He bowed again, for decorum seemed the only sensible refuge. “Your servant, madam. Might I escort you to the main house—to Mr. and Mrs. Fraser?”

“No,” she replied at once, urgency flashing in her damp eyes. “I must…I ought to go after her.”

“I…” William stepped forward, placing himself squarely in her path. “I shall see that her sister goes to her. You need not concern yourself—”

“Francis?” Faith whispered, as though tasting the name after a long and bitter absence. She turned, glancing wildly about the clearing. “Is she near?”

William attempted a gentler tone. “Mrs. Pocock, I do not mean to sound impertinent, but I believe both your daughters thought you dead until this very hour. I think it best you come to the house, so that Francis may be forewarned, and I shall then go to fetch Jane.”

Faith’s mouth tightened; in that moment, her resemblance to Jane was so striking he felt a pang. “No,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I fear,” he murmured, shifting his stance to bar her way, “I must insist.”

William found Francis in the company of his—his sister. It was still a confounding notion, that he should possess more family than he knew what to do with. His step-grandmother had been quite correct—Scots did indeed breed like rabbits. He cleared his throat, and the pair turned from the canvas propped against a fallen log. Brianna looked delighted, plainly assuming he had at last come to seek her out, and Francis, too, seemed glad of his presence.

He tried to return her smile—truly he did—but the words lodged like a stone in his throat. He must tell her that her mother had seemingly risen from the dead. And indeed, both her daughters had inherited Mrs. Pocock’s formidable tenacity—she would hear nothing of being escorted anywhere before she had seen her younger child. So, Mrs. Pocock waited now just beyond the door, clutching her shawl in white-knuckled hands.

Time was of the essence. He did not believe Jane would stoop to harm herself again—she was safe upon the Ridge, and she had sworn she would not leave Francis—but the thought of her wandering alone in such distress made his insides twist painfully.

“Francis,” he began, addressing her with what composure he could muster, striving to ignore Brianna’s fixed, curious stare. “I am not quite certain how to go about this delicately…”

At this, one of Brianna’s red brows climbed nearly to her hairline.William cleared his throat. “But—your mother is here.”

“My mother?”

“Faith?” Brianna uttered the name in a tone of quiet reverence.

William turned sharply to regard her, his brows knitting. How in God’s name would she know that name? But Mrs. Pocock, it seemed, could restrain herself no longer. She appeared in the doorway, her shoulders shaking, tears springing afresh to her cheeks as though some invisible dam had broken within her.

“Francis,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with longing. “My sweet Francis…my baby.”

She opened her arms, plainly yearning to gather her daughter in them, though Francis did not move. She merely stared, wide-eyed, as if she scarcely dared believe her senses. If William’s reckoning was correct—and it nearly always was—Francis had been scarcely five years of age when her mother had died, or disappeared, as it now appeared was the truth. She could possess but a handful of true memories of the trembling woman who stood before them.

“Mom?” Francis breathed at last, her voice thin as a thread.

“It is me, poppet,” Faith crooned, and before another word could be spoken, she began to sing in a wavering, tender voice a song William had never heard before. From the gentle cadence and the way both Francis and Brianna reacted—Brianna pressing a hand to her mouth, Francis blinking as though struck—it was plain the song held some significance beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside!
I do like to be beside the sea!
Oh, I do like to stroll along the Prom, Prom, Prom,
Where the brass bands play,
Tiddely-om-pom-pom!”

When her voice fell silent, the glade itself seemed to hold its breath.

“Mummy,” Francis murmured, the word breaking loose as though torn from some hidden chamber in her heart. And then, with a choked cry, she flew across the threshold and flung herself into her mother’s waiting arms.

It was a reunion of such private magnitude that William felt himself a trespasser merely to witness it. He tried to avert his gaze—indeed, he wished to offer them the dignity of their moment—but found himself unable to look away, transfixed by the sight of such fierce maternal love.It had been many long years since he had been the recipient of an embrace like that. He realized, with a faint, hollow ache, that he had almost forgotten the peculiar tenderness with which a woman loved her child—so different in every way from how a father loved a child, especially one being shaped to be a soldier. 

“Oh you look so much like your Papa,” Mrs. Pocock was kneeling now, holding onto Francis’ wrist with one hand and the other was tenderly cupping her face, “but you are so much more beautiful than he is,” 

“We thought you were dead,” Francis sobbed out. 

“I know my poppet…,” Mrs. Pocock was crying again her voice becoming hitched, “I know….but I’m not…and I’ll explain once we find your sister,”

Francis blinked coming out of the reunion stupor, “ find my sister?” 

“She walked off,” William interrupted, “she probably could not have gotten far and she probably will only respond to you Francis,” 

“Right,” Francis muttered and she wiped at her tears, “let’s go find her,”

***

As they walked deeper into the forest that ringed Fraser’s Ridge, Brianna found she could not keep her eyes from straying to the woman beside her. Every time she looked, her heart gave a small, bewildered lurch.

Faith.The name alone was enough to make her throat tighten. Mama had spoken of the baby she had lost—her first daughter—more than once in those late-night confidences by the hearth. The child she had buried alone, whom she had mourned all her life. And now here she was—wasn’t she?—walking at Brianna’s side, the very image of Claire in the lines of her cheek and the slope of her brow. It was even more striking in profile: the same clear brow, the same strong chin, the same fine bones that seemed carved from something delicate and unyielding at once.But when Brianna looked harder, searching for the flame-haired trace of Jamie, she found none. No bold line of the Fraser jaw, no gleam of copper in the dark hair. She told herself that might mean nothing—genetics were capricious, and her own children hardly looked alike as it was.

Faith must have felt the weight of her stare, for she turned to meet Brianna’s gaze with wide, questioning eyes the color of old whisky. Brianna’s hand tightened reflexively around the stock of her rifle, grounding herself in the familiar heft of it. She could not afford distraction—not when Jane was out there, lost and God knew what state she might be in.

Still, her thoughts circled back with relentless insistence. If this woman truly was her sister—if somehow the child who had died in France  had not died after all—what did that mean for all of them? For Mama, for her? For the tangle of history and accident and impossible miracles that had already woven their lives together across centuries? Brianna felt guilty that her parents were unaware of Faith’s appearance. Faith had been stubborn and set on finding Jane. In her clipped English accent she had said, go tell the Frasers but I’m going to look for my daughter now .

A chill breeze threaded through the trees, stirring the high branches and sending a scattering of old leaves across the path. Brianna drew in a steadying breath, the cold air bracing in her lungs. She had seen many wonders since she’d stepped through the stones—some beautiful, some terrible—but nothing had unsettled her quite like the thought that Faith might be alive and walking beside her now.

She shifted her rifle to her other hand, feeling the smooth, worn wood settle against her palm, and forced her mind back to the business at hand. They had to find Jane first. Whatever reunions or reckonings awaited them, they could wait until the girl was safe.A gust of wind rattled the branches overhead, scattering pale leaves across the path as they emerged from the trees. There, near the riverbank, a solitary figure was bent over the water. Her hair—a darker auburn than Brianna’s own—spilled loose around her face, whipping about in the late afternoon breeze. She was humming, low and tuneless, as if the rest of the world did not exist or could be willed away by sheer stubbornness.

“Janey? Janey!”

Francis’s voice rang out clear and urgent as she broke from Brianna’s side, striding down the slope without a moment’s hesitation.Mrs. Pocock halted a few paces behind, her hands pressed flat over her mouth, staring at her daughters with a look of stricken wonder. She said something under her breath—too soft for Brianna to hear—then fell silent again, her gaze fixed on Jane’s bowed head.Brianna lingered back a moment, feeling her heart thudding in her chest. She glanced sidelong at Faith—at Mrs. Pocock—and tried to reconcile the tenderness on the woman’s face with the gnawing question that would not leave her be.

Why have you been gone from your girls so long?

She had no right to ask it, no claim to that grief. Time itself was a treacherous thing, she knew that better than most. And yet, looking at Jane’s slender shoulders shaking as Francis called her name, Brianna felt the question rise up all the same—quiet but relentless. She could see it plainly in Faith’s face—so transparent it might have been glass, a trait she knew too well, for Claire had the same unguarded countenance when her heart was laid bare. All the pain, the guilt, the fierce love blazed there for any to read. She loved her daughters—of that Brianna was certain, knew it in her bones with a conviction she could not have explained. But still—how did a mother vanish so long from her children’s lives? What power could drag her away, if not the stones themselves?Did it involve time travel? Was that why her eyes looked so old and sorrowful in the wan afternoon light?

“It’s her…” Francis’s voice was trembling, pitched high with a bewildered joy. She was tugging Jane by the arm, heedless of her sister’s stiff resistance. “She sang the song—the one she used to sing us before bed. Our mother—she’s returned to us!”

Jane did not look up. Her voice, when it came, was low and stripped of all pretense, raw as an open wound. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

A hush fell in the clearing, the breeze lifting the ends of Jane’s hair and stirring the hem of her skirts around her boots. Somewhere upriver, a bird called once—sharp, forlorn—and fell silent again.

Faith’s gaze flickered to Brianna and William, taking them in as if seeing them for the first time. To her, they must have been strangers—two unknown witnesses to her shame and her hope. Brianna felt that look like a weight pressing between her ribs. She could tell, in that instant, that Faith would not answer while they stood there watching, would not lay bare her story to anyone but her daughters.How strange, Brianna thought, that you look at me and see a stranger. If only she dared speak the truth aloud— I’m your sister, she wanted to tell her. That’s our half-brother. He looks just like our Da. I do too. But you—you look like our mother.

She did not voice it. Instead, she stood very still, feeling the chill creeping through the damp air and settling into her bones. The river slipped past in a hushed current, silver and cold as memory. For a moment, she closed her eyes, and the thought came unbidden:

If time is so cruel as to steal us from one another, perhaps it is also merciful enough to give us back.

When she opened her eyes again, Jane was staring at her mother with a look so raw she could scarce bear to witness it—something between hatred and longing, tangled so tightly together no blade could cut them apart. Francis hovered at her sister’s shoulder, clutching her hand as though she feared Jane might vanish into the trees if she let go.

““Why don’t we go up to the big house?” Brianna said at last, cutting across the tension before it could harden into something unmovable. Her voice sounded too bright to her own ears, too much like someone trying to pretend they did not feel the crack in the world under their feet. “There’s honey and fresh bread—and whiskey, if anyone could stand a drop. My parents will be…” She faltered, the word astonished rising to her tongue unbidden. But that would never do. It would sound too much like an accusation, or worse, a confession.

She tried to shape her mouth into a warm smile, though it felt brittle. “…pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Pocock.”

Faith looked at her then, properly looked, as if searching her face for something she could not name. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak, to acknowledge something unspoken between them—but her gaze skittered away, settling instead on the river’s dark, glinting surface.

“I—I should remain with my daughters,” Faith murmured, her voice low and uncertain. She lifted a trembling hand to brush a strand of hair from Jane’s cheek, though Jane did not lean into the touch. “If it is all the same to you.”

Brianna felt the words she longed to say gather like a storm behind her teeth: I’m your sister. You knew my mother. You must have— But the look on Faith’s face—guarded, weary, and half-wild—warned her that no truth she could offer would be welcomed just now.

Instead, she inclined her head, feeling a hollow ache open beneath her ribs.

“As you wish,” she said quietly. “You are most welcome here, all the same.”

For a moment, no one moved. The breeze lifted again, stirring the edges of Faith’s shawl and carrying the faint, damp scent of river moss across the clearing. It felt to Brianna that they all stood poised on the edge of something vast—some revelation she could not yet name—and that when it came, nothing would ever be the same.

***

I am not your Faith.

The words pressed against her throat like a scream she dared not loose. Every time Brianna Fraser’s dark blue eyes fixed upon her, searching, hopeful,it made her chest ache, she had to fight the urge to turn and flee back into the trees.

The letter from Fergus—sweet, earnest Fergus—burned in the pocket of her gown like a brand. He had written to say he was overjoyed she had been found, that she was returned at last to her family. Returned. As though she were some lost parcel mislaid in the post, come home at last to those who loved her. But she was not their Faith. She was not the Fraser’s lost child.  She was born in another century entirely, an adult before the Great War ever darkened the world—and whatever else she had become since, she had never been the woman these people imagined her to be.And her concerns—God help her—were not for the Frasers’ sentiments, or their confusion, or their questions. All her heart was bent upon was her daughters.

If only Brianna and William would leave her to herself long enough—just a few moments of privacy—to speak the truths she should have confessed years ago. The truths that had weighed on her heart like a millstone every day she had wandered alone, searching for a way back to them.

Once, she had tried to bring the girls to the stones near Drumossie Moor, desperate to see if either could hear the singing. To see if the gift—or curse—had passed to them as it had to her. But then the baby had come early, silent and cold in her arms, and grief had swallowed every other purpose she might have claimed. After that, there was never another chance. Edmund—dear Edmund—had not understood why she looked so often to the hills, why she sometimes woke screaming with the sense she had lost more than one child.

And then Raymond’s summons had come. She had obeyed—she had always stupidly obeyed—and what was meant to be a few months had turned into years upon years, until the shape of her daughters’ faces had begun to fade in her mind. He had promised she would return to shortly after she left. 

Now here she was at last, standing on this green ridge at the edge of the world, watching Jane’s mouth tighten around her hurt and Francis’s eyes spill over with love and bewilderment. Her girls. Her own.And she knew—God, she knew—how it would sound if she tried to tell them the truth. That she had walked across centuries. That she had been forced to leave them, not for lack of love but because she had no choice. That she had never stopped looking for the way home.

It would sound mad. She scarcely believed it herself, even after all this time. And with William’s solemn eyes upon her, and Brianna’s searching gaze that seemed to know too much already, she felt the last of her fragile composure begin to fray.Still, she pressed her hand over the pocket where Fergus’s letter lay, and lifted her chin, willing her voice to remain steady when she spoke.

I must have a moment alone with them, she thought. Just one moment. And then perhaps—God willing—some small part of this can be set right.

“Please,” she said at last, hearing the rasp of desperation in her own voice as she turned to face them—Brianna, tall and watchful, and William, so solemn he might have been carved from stone. She felt her hands trembling and clasped them tightly together before her skirts to conceal the shame of it. “I beg you both…I only need a moment with my daughters.”

She saw at once the effect of her words on Jane. The girl’s eyes flashed up, dark and wounded, her mouth drawn tight as a wound pulled by coarse stitching.

“Why?” Jane demanded, her voice low but sharp as a blade. “What is so secretive—or so shameful—that you must banish them from their own land just to speak?”

Oh, Janey… The name rose to her lips, thick with longing. Her little girl, who had once wept for her in the night. Her little girl, who had grown into a woman without her. Once upon a time, those dark eyes used to look upon her mother with reverence and the deepest love. It broke Faith’s heart now to see them.

“Janey—” Francis tried to soothe her, her small hand reaching for her sister’s sleeve, but Jane recoiled, her arms locking tight around herself as if to hold the world at bay.

For a moment, silence pressed in so thick she could scarcely draw breath. The trees seemed to lean closer, listening. She felt the letter from Fergus—a stranger who thought himself her kin—burn hot against her breast. She had never felt so foreign to herself as she did standing here under this Carolina sky, between her past and all she had lost.

“I understand,” Brianna said, and the gentleness in her voice nearly undid her. Faith pressed her lips together to keep from weeping. “We will leave you to your talk.”

She watched as Brianna turned to William, who inclined his head with grave courtesy. She felt a pang of gratitude so fierce it left her unsteady.

“If you follow the path back along the river,” Brianna continued, her voice clearer now, “you’ll see a fork in the trail. Keep to the left—there’s a small footbridge, and beyond that, the clearing. My parents’ house is at the top of the rise. You cannot mistake it.”

Jane would not look up. She only stared at the ground, her shoulders locked, her face shuttered against any kindness.

God forgive me, Faith  thought, for everything I left undone.

She did not know how to say any of what needed saying. That the stones had taken her further and longer than she ever meant. That Raymond’s summons had not been a request, but a command she could not refuse. That she had loved them—loved them beyond words—and had never meant to leave them behind to grow up alone.

Brianna inclined her head a final time, her expression unreadable, and turned away, her rifle shifting against her shoulder as she walked. William followed without a word, though he looked back once with an expression Faith could not quite decipher—something between pity and caution.

And then they were gone, their footfalls dwindling on the path. The hush returned, deeper than before.

Faith  drew a slow breath and let her hands fall open at her sides. She looked at her daughters—Jane stiff and angry, Francis soft-eyed and bewildered—and felt her heart twist in her chest.

At last, she found her voice.

“There is so much you must hear,” she whispered, though her throat felt raw and scraped hollow. “And I do not know if you will believe a word of it.”

Jane did not lift her gaze, but Francis’s breath caught audibly, a small sound like a sob swallowed back.

“Then perhaps,” Jane said, her voice flat as river stone, “you should begin with where you have been.”

Faith looked from one to the other—Francis’s soft mouth trembling, Jane’s eyes fixed stubbornly on the soil—and for the first time in years, she felt truly afraid. Not of what she had seen in war or what she had endured crossing centuries, but of what her daughters might think when they heard the truth.

She drew a shuddering breath, tasting the damp green of the river air on her tongue. The scent of moss and leaf mould wrapped around her, as if the land itself were listening.

“I did not die,” she began, though the words felt small against the weight of all she must explain. “Though I know you were told I did. I was taken—summoned, rather—by a man you will never have heard named. Raymond.”

At that, Jane did look up, suspicion etched into every line of her face. “Summoned?”

Faith nodded slowly, her hands opening and closing at her sides. “He…he was a healer, and more than that. He knew things no other soul did—things about time, about how it can…shift beneath your feet.”

Francis’s eyes went round as coins, but she said nothing, only pressed her fingers to her mouth.

Her voice broke then, and she pressed a fist to her lips until she could master it. “I never meant to leave you but I was  called, and I could not refuse.”

“What does that mean?” Jane’s voice had grown hoarse, ragged at the edges. “Called by whom? For what purpose?”

Faith shut her eyes, feeling the damp river air cling to her lashes. The murmuring water filled the silence like the breath of some patient, ancient thing that had witnessed all her sins.

“By Raymond,” she said at last, her voice scarcely more than a thread. “For reasons I did not fully comprehend then—and cannot claim to fully grasp even now. He said it was to set right something that had been broken. And God help me, I believed him.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed. When she forced herself to meet Jane’s eyes, the pain she saw there struck her like a blow to the breast.

“I meant to be gone a little while. Weeks…perhaps a month or two. But time—time is not a straight road, Janey. It is a labyrinth, a great twisting passage with no map. I lost my way.”

“What do you mean lost your way ?” Jane’s voice rose, sharpened by grief. Her hands balled at her sides, knuckles white. “Papa and Francis and I were waiting for you in Philadelphia. You could not find your way back to a damned city? And when Papa was gone—” Her voice cracked, though she pressed on doggedly. “When Papa died, you still couldn’t come find us?”

Faith shook her head helplessly, feeling words scatter like frightened birds from her mind. She opened her mouth but nothing came.

Jane’s lip curled, though her voice wavered. “And all the years we waited—were they nothing to you? Were we nothing?”

“No.” The word came out broken. Faith pressed her hand to her breast as if to steady the ache. “Not nothing. Never nothing. You were everything to me. I thought of you each day I drew breath. I tried—God knows I tried—to return. But I was… I was lost in time.”

Jane let out a rough sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“What?” Francis whispered, her small voice breaking the hush like a fragile branch.

Faith drew a long, shuddering breath. Her tears were sliding down her cheeks unchecked now. She reached out, cupping Francis’s soft, bewildered face in her palm, feeling the warmth of her living daughter after so many cold years alone.

“I am your mother,” she whispered fiercely. “Always, in all things, your mother. But…” She turned to Jane, who kept herself just out of reach, her arms folded tight as armor. “But I will always be sorry for having been gone so long.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together to keep it from breaking altogether. “I am not—I am not the woman you think I am.”

Francis stepped closer, her hand brushing against the worn fabric of Faith’s sleeve, tentative as a child who fears the answer. “Then who are you truly?”

Faith looked at her youngest daughter, and in that moment she felt her heart splinter clean in two.

“My name…” She swallowed, tasting the old bitterness of it. How many years had it been since she dared speak it aloud? The syllables felt foreign in her mouth. “My name is Julia Beauchamp,” she said, her voice low but steady as the current behind her.

The silence that followed was vast, pressing at her ears. Even the birds had stilled.

“My birth name was Julia Moriston. I was born…, in another century—a world you cannot imagine. I came here before you were ever born.” Her tears blurred the sight of them, her beautiful girls. “I tried—God above knows I tried—to make a life. To be worthy of you.”

Her voice caught. She let her hand fall, feeling suddenly as though she were made of nothing but sorrow and old regrets.

“And I failed you,” she whispered. “I failed you both.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The hush was so complete she could hear the river licking over the stones, the small hollow sound of Francis’s breath catching in her throat.Then Jane’s mouth twisted into something that was not quite a smile. Her voice was thin and scalding with contempt.

“Oh, is that all?” she said lightly, though her eyes glittered with tears she would not let fall. “You were merely… lost in time ?” She gave a short, brittle laugh. “And pray, what century were you born in, Mother? Or—Julia—or whoever you are?”

Julia looked at her eldest daughter—so tall, so fierce, so heartbreakingly wounded—and knew there was no easy salve she could offer. Still, she made herself speak the truth.

“I was born in the year of our Lord 1896,” she said quietly. “In Edinburgh. I was a grown woman before the last war in Europe.”

Jane stared, her mouth falling open, though no words came at once. Francis looked from one to the other as if she might be sick.

“I know,” Julia went on, her voice hoarse, “how it sounds. I know you must think me mad. I would think the same in your place.”

“You are mad,” Jane hissed, stepping back as though her mother’s very presence repelled her. “Or you think me such a fool I would believe any story you spin to excuse your abandonment.”

“I do not think you a fool,” Julia whispered. “I think you my child. And I know I have hurt you beyond any measure I can ever set right.”

Jane wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, furious to discover she was crying. “You expect me to stand here and believe you are some—some fairy-tale creature, stepping through centuries as you please? That you did not simply find something better than your family and never looked back?”

“No,” Julia said, her voice breaking at last. “No, Jane, no—listen to me—”

“I have listened,” Jane spat. “I listened every night you did not come home. Every day I watched Papa fade. Every day I saw Francis cry for you. And you were gone. ”

Francis pressed her hand to her mouth, her small shoulders shaking.

Julia tried to step closer, but Jane raised her hand in warning. “Do not touch me. Do you know what I had to do while you were froclicking- excuse me-lost in another time?” Jane was seething, “I had to sell myself to keep Francis and I in clothing and food. I became a whore….oh and a murderess,” 

Jane shook her head slowly, her tears falling freely now. She could scarcely believe either fate had befallen her daughter.

“You should have stayed dead,” she said, her voice raw. “That would have been kinder.”

Julia felt something inside her splinter so completely she knew it would never mend. She bowed her head, unable to look at either of them for fear she would fall to her knees and wail like a creature bereft of its soul.She had dreamed so long of this moment—of their faces, their forgiveness, their arms around her.But time, she thought numbly, was no merciful thing. It gave back only what it had first ruined.

A/n: Dun dun DUNNN
This was always my plan for "Faith"

Chapter Text

Julia stood rooted, the cool forest air heavy around her, but her mind was far away—dragged back to another time, another life entirely. She could still feel the trembling in her bones from those nights in London, when the air was rent with explosions and the sky was aflame with searchlights and incendiaries.

She remembered running through the darkened streets, clutching her coat tight against the chill and the dust, the acrid scent of smoke burning her throat. She had looked up then, just as now, and seen the zeppelins—gleaming, ominous shadows drifting silently above the city, their metal frames glowing eerily in the moonlight. The ringing in her ears after those raids had been deafening, but it was nothing compared to the sound she could hear now—the sharp, slicing words of her daughter, Jane.

“You should have stayed dead.”

The cruel phrase echoed in her mind, relentless and shattering, drowning out the gentle rustle of the trees and the murmuring river nearby. Jane’s voice was a blade cutting through her soul, sharper than any bombshell had ever been.Behind her, Francis stood trembling, eyes wide and confused, torn between fear and longing. Julia could feel the child’s hesitation, the fragile hope that still flickered in her gaze, desperate to believe but unsure how.Julia closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath, the dampness of the forest floor rising to meet her nostrils—the scent of moss, wet bark, and earth mingling with the distant, smoky residue of memories she could not shake. The coolness settled deep in her bones, matching the cold weight pressing on her heart.She wanted to reach out to Jane, to hold her and beg forgiveness, but Jane had already stalked off, her footsteps crunching sharply on the fallen leaves. The distance between them felt insurmountable—more than just a few paces, but years of silence and sorrow.

Francis stood a few steps away, her face pale and uncertain, her eyes wide as if struggling to make sense of a dream slipping through her fingers. Yet, unlike Jane, she had not fled. There was something fragile in her posture—a hesitant openness that gave Julia a flicker of hope.

Slowly, almost reverently, Julia reached out her trembling hand and brushed a stray blonde curl from Francis’s forehead, tucking it carefully behind her ear. The child did not pull away.

Her skin was cool beneath Julia’s fingertips, and for a moment, the chaotic world around them fell silent.

“Francis,” Julia whispered, voice thick with emotion, “my sweet child.”

The girl remained motionless, as though rooted to the earth itself, but Julia could feel the tremor in her breath, the faint quiver of uncertainty in her limbs.

Drawing Francis gently toward her, Julia wrapped her arms around the slender frame, holding her close against the chill of the forest air. The faint scent of pine and damp leaves mingled with the soft, warm presence of her daughter—real and trembling in her arms.

“I am so sorry,” Julia murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “For the years lost, for the silence, for the pain I caused you both. Please believe me when I say I never stopped searching—for you, for Jane.”

Francis’s hands found Julia’s waist, tentative but steadying. The child did not speak, but her quiet presence was answer enough.Julia’s heart tightened, the weight of decades pressing down, and she pressed her cheek to Francis’s hair, swallowing a sob.“Let me be here now,” she begged softly, “if only for a while.”

The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the rustling leaves whispering their ancient secrets as shafts of fading sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting long shadows across the soft moss and damp earth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the faint tang of lingering dew, yet despite the serene beauty, there was a tension that crackled invisibly between them—two fractured souls reaching across the yawning gulf of time and pain.

Julia’s hands trembled slightly as she cradled Francis’s face, her thumbs tracing the delicate curve of her daughter’s cheek. The girl’s wide eyes searched hers, filled with a fragile mixture of wonder, confusion, and cautious hope.

“Are you… were you really born in 1896?” Francis asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though uttering the date aloud might shatter the fragile bond forming between them.

Julia swallowed hard, her throat tight with the weight of all the years lost and the truths so long buried. “Yes,” she said simply, her voice steady despite the storm raging within. “I was born in Edinburgh, in the year 1896 but I was raised in London,”

For a moment, the forest seemed to grow still, the only sound the soft sigh of wind through the branches. Julia’s mind flickered back to Edmund—the man who had loved her despite the impossibility of her tale. He had believed her. Not at once, no. It had taken him nearly a year, until she had surprised him one evening with details she could not possibly have known—facts from books she’d studied, histories they’d learned in school, things no woman of the eighteenth century could have imagined.

They had made a quiet pact, Edmund and she: to wait until the girls were older before revealing the full truth. They had trusted that, when the time came, Jane and Francis would understand—and believe—because Edmund was strong and steady, a man of unwavering character. If only that had been enough.Julia’s breath hitched as she met Francis’s gaze, pleading silently that her daughter could find the strength to accept her story, to accept her.

“It sounds… impossible,” Francis murmured, her voice trembling slightly, betraying both doubt and a desperate hope that it might somehow be true. “How am I to believe such a thing? How can you prove it?”

Julia’s throat tightened. She wanted to reach out and shatter the barriers between them, to offer some irrefutable proof that could bridge the gulf of disbelief—but she had nothing tangible. No letters from the future, no relics to show. Only her story, fragile and raw, and the hope that time itself might eventually bear witness.

“I wish I had proof,” Julia said softly, her fingers tightening briefly on Francis’s cheek, “something beyond words to show you. But all I have are the years I’ve carried in my heart—the memories of a life no one else knows but me.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you yet,” Francis admitted, her voice faltering, “but I want to. I want to believe you.”

Julia’s heart lifted, fragile hope blossoming amidst the shadows of doubt. She could scarcely breathe as relief and quiet joy mingled in her trembling voice. “That is all I ask,” she said softly, “give me time.”

Francis’s brow furrowed, her face scrunching as if recalling something buried deep in memory. “You used to,” she said slowly, “when you said your prayers for your children…”

Julia’s breath caught. Could Francis truly remember those distant nights? Those whispered pleas barely spoken aloud in a different century?

Each evening, before sleep claimed her, she had prayed: “Lord, I pray that you would protect my children—Claire Elizabeth, Jane Eleanora, Francis Ellen, and Alexander Edmund—from temptation and evil, and that they would always choose the path of righteousness.”

She had fallen out of that practice over the years, consumed entirely by the desperate need to return to her living daughters, Jane and Francis.But Raymond—cold and unyielding—had promised her she would see them again as they were. Promised her the cruel lie that time’s hand could be turned.

Alexander Edmund, born still and silent; a loss that had hollowed her soul.And Claire—her firstborn, the daughter she had carried in 1918 before the cruel tides of fate and time had torn them apart.The name hovered between them, fragile and almost forbidden.

“There was a name,” Francis whispered uncertainly, “another sister…”

Julia’s throat tightened. She met her daughter’s eyes and, with a voice barely more than a breath, said, “Claire.”

The word was a thread connecting past to present, a fragile bridge across decades of pain and silenceJulia knew she had never told her daughters the full truth about Claire—her first child, left behind in a time that was no longer hers to reach. She remembered Claire at five years old—gangly limbs and a mop of unruly curls, restless and impatient beyond her years.She had loved her with all her being.Henry, her first husband, had been her steadfast anchor in that time, a beacon of hope and love. It was for them she had longed to return. At least at first.

When Julia first awoke in the past, her memory was a fractured haze. Edmund’s grandmother had found her unconscious near the stones, dressed in the strangest garb anyone had ever seen.

“In the strangest garb, ye ken?” Julia could still hear Jane MacGregor’s Highlands lilt, soft and curious as she had spoken. How Jane had believed Julia to be a faerie at first, but soon realized she was cold and in desperate need of care. It was Jane who had named her Faith when Julia could not remember her own name.Memories returned slowly at first, but by the time she had fallen in love with Jane MacGregor’s grandson, Edmund Pocock, Julia knew she had a husband and a daughter waiting for her somewhere in the folds of time.But the stones would not let her travel home. She had tried, countless times.When Raymond had found her, he spoke of gemstones and steering—of tasks to be fulfilled in the 1940s, a decade she had yet to reach when she fell through in 1923.In 1946, she obeyed his commands but could not let go of her search for any news of Henry or her Claire.

Her daughter should have been twenty-eight by then, her husband fifty-three. Yet when Julia sought her out, she found only Claire’s widower—a stern, hard-eyed man named Mr. Randall—who delivered the cruelest blow of all: Claire was dead.The words cut deeper than any blade ever could. A cold shiver passed through Julia’s bones, settling like ice in her chest. She knew, then, that she would carry the weight of leaving Claire behind—of abandoning her to a fate she could not change—for the rest of her days.

“Janey said she never knew her,” Francis murmured, bringing Julia back from the edge of her grief.

Julia blinked, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. She brushed a stray blonde curl from Francis’s face with trembling fingers, the soft silk a small comfort.

“She was from my time,” Julia whispered, the phrase strange and foreign in her own mouth— my time . What was time but a cruel and shifting thing?

Her voice faltered as she added, “My first child. Your half-sister.”

Francis’s eyes widened in stunned surprise. “You had a family… in another time?”

“Yes, I did,” Julia answered, watching the myriad thoughts flicker across her youngest daughter’s face—questions unspoken, disbelief mingled with hope.

She reached for Francis’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I will tell you more about her,” she promised, “but I don’t think I can bear it today, my darling.”

The weight of the unspoken stories pressed heavy between them, as the forest around seemed to hold its breath—leaves rustling faintly in the cool air, carrying whispers of lives torn apart by time’s relentless hand.

“Shall we go find Jane?”

The forest seemed to close quietly behind them, the mossy earth soft beneath their feet, the scent of damp pine and wildflowers mingling with the faint tang of smoke from distant hearths. Julia’s steps were slower now, weighed down by a tempest of memories and regrets that no amount of time or travel could soothe.

She cast a glance at Francis walking beside her—the girl’s bright eyes filled with unspoken questions, tentative hope, and the fragile burden of trust Julia was only beginning to earn. How much could she reveal? How much would Francis understand?

Julia’s thoughts drifted back to Claire—her sweet, unruly firstborn, left behind in a century she could barely touch anymore. She saw the child again, five years old, stumbling through muddy fields with curls tossed by the wind, laughing as only a child can, unburdened by the weight of loss that would soon follow.

How cruel the twist of fate, to snatch her away before she could hold her again, before she could shield her from the world’s harshness. And worse still, to learn that Claire had lived—and died—without her presence, without the comfort of a mother’s love to steady her.

Julia swallowed hard, the ache in her chest almost unbearable. She could still hear the faint echo of Raymond’s voice, cold and commanding, telling her she could return.

Yet here she was, forced to navigate the labyrinth of time and memory, caught between worlds and hearts she longed to mend.The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant rain, and Julia closed her eyes, drawing in the moment—anchoring herself to the present even as her soul stretched thin across decades. I will find a way, she vowed silently, to bring them all home—one way or another. As they neared the edge of the forest, the faint outlines of the Ridge’s cottages and smoke-wreathed chimneys appeared through the thinning trees, a reminder that life marched forward, no matter how fractured the past.

***

Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie was nearly breathless by the time she spotted the familiar figure bending over the edge of the meadow. Her long strides had eaten up the distance from the Big House, but the last stretch—uphill and overgrown—had left her lungs burning and her heart thundering in her chest.

There, half-hidden among the tall grasses and Queen Anne’s lace, was Claire.

She stood in a patch of sunlight, tall and willowy, her wild curls caught up in a loose knot that had already begun to unravel. She was entirely absorbed in the task before her, nimble fingers plucking tiny blossoms and fronds with a practiced grace, tucking them into the wide basket at her hip. A few stray curls clung to her damp temples, and a smear of green streaked her wrist where she’d brushed away a beetle.She looked so peaceful, so ordinary in her element, lost in the quiet rhythm of gathering herbs for tinctures and teas. But Brianna knew nothing about this moment was ordinary.Her ragged breaths gave her away.

Claire’s head snapped up, instinct already on high alert. Those sharp, golden-brown eyes scanned the horizon, narrowing the instant they locked on her daughter. She took in Brianna’s flushed face, the sheen of sweat at her brow, the trembling in her limbs.

“Bri?” she called, voice taut with concern. “Is everything alright?”

Brianna opened her mouth, but for a moment, no words came. More than alright, she wanted to say—but the enormity of what she carried in her chest had closed her throat. Her heart ached and soared at once. Her mother had already dropped the basket, forgotten in the grass, herbs scattering like spilled secrets.

Claire stepped forward, wiping her hands instinctively on her apron. “Sweetheart, what is it? Did something happen at the Ridge?”

Brianna gave a choked laugh, shaking her head even as her eyes filled. “No, Mama—nothing’s wrong.” Her voice broke. “It’s Faith. She’s come back.”

Claire froze, her breath catching as if the very air had turned to stone around her. For a heartbeat, there was nothing—no wind, no birdsong, no rustle of leaves. Only the two of them in that still, golden field.

“What did you say?” Claire’s voice was barely a whisper.

Brianna’s hands found her mother’s, gripping them tightly. Her words tumbled now, rushed and trembling. “She’s here. She’s alive, Mama. I saw her with my own eyes—heard her voice. She came for her daughters,” 

For a moment, Claire didn’t move. Her eyes searched Brianna’s face with a kind of wild hope, as though daring to believe might unravel her completely. And then, without a word, she crumpled forward into her daughter’s arms, her whole body trembling.

Brianna held her, anchoring her to the earth as the wind stirred around them once more, soft and cool and alive with the scent of crushed herbs and warm summer grass.

Claire's voice broke against Brianna’s shoulder, a single word, hoarse with wonder and sorrow and something like joy:

“Faith…”

“She looks just like you, Mama,” Brianna whispered, her voice thick. “Your coloring. Your eyes. Your wild curls. The way she moves—it’s like watching a ghost breathe.”

“Where is she?” 

“She wanted a moment with her girls,” 

“Take me to her,” she whispered. “If it’s truly her, Brianna… I need to see her with my own eyes.”

***

Julia Moriston Beauchamp Pocock was a coward.

The word echoed through her skull as she tugged the borrowed quilts higher, cocooning herself in their unfamiliar warmth. She had claimed exhaustion when Francis mentioned Mrs. Fraser , murmured some vague apology, and excused herself before the girl could say more. She was tired—her body ached from travel, her soul heavier still—but that wasn’t why she had fled.

Not truly.

She wasn’t the Frasers’ daughter. Not the child they had buried in grief and somehow begun to hope for again. Not the Faith Fergus had written about in that damn letter. His heart had been in the right place—she didn’t doubt that—but his hope had outpaced reality. And now it was galloping straight toward disaster.

Julia closed her eyes, but the dim flicker of candlelight still reached her through her lashes. It cast long, softened shadows over the small room, wrapping everything in deceptive comfort. This was a good house. A warm house. She had known many homes in her life, but few that felt quite so alive. The thought of losing it again—of losing them again—made her stomach twist.

Because that was what frightened her most. Not rejection. Not even the truth.

It was separation.She could still see the look in Jane’s eyes—sharp and stricken, torn between fury and recognition. And Francis… sweet Francis, who had not run. Who had stayed, trembling and uncertain, but open. Still open.Julia pressed her fist against her mouth, biting down against the sob that threatened to rise. She was not their Faith. And yet everything in her body had cried out at the sight of them, as if she were. As if time and blood and identity could be rewritten by love alone.

She had lived too many years with absence—to lose them now would be another kind of death.

From what she had gathered, both of the Frasers— Claire and her husband —were people of honor. They would not turn her away, not out of cruelty. They might even try to help. But Julia had seen the way the girl—Brianna, was it?—looked at her. With tears and awe and something like salvation. She couldn’t take that away. Not abruptly. Not cruelly.

She would have to tell the truth. Eventually.But gently. Carefully. With reverence for what they had lost, and for what she had never truly had.After all, she was a mother too.She had buried a son in the cold, silent earth. Had lost a daughter to the folds of time. She knew what it was to wake in the night reaching for a child who was no longer there. To whisper names into the dark and hear no answer but her own breaking heart.

The knock came gently at first, just after dawn.

“Mistress Pocock?”

Even through the thickness of the wooden door, she recognized the voice. Deep, with a Highland burr and the weight of something restrained behind it. Mr. Fraser .She sat up slowly, tugging the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her heart was already racing.

“Are ye—?”

His words were cut short as Julia opened the door, not quite prepared for what met her on the other side.Jamie Fraser stood like a statue hewn from earth and fire—broad-shouldered, towering, his hair an unruly mass of auburn curls caught in the morning light. His expression faltered the moment their eyes met.And then came the look.That look .

A full-body halt, as though something sacred had stepped across his path. His blue eyes—so like Brianna’s, and yet far older—scanned her face from brow to chin, down to her hands as they clenched the doorframe, and back up again. It wasn’t suspicion. It wasn’t calculation.It was reverence .

As if he were looking at something long-lost and holy. And his eyes? She had seen his eyes before, before she had met Brianna.

“Faith…” Jamie breathed, the word falling from his lips like a prayer that had finally been answered.

It hit her like a blow.She swallowed hard, throat tightening against the sudden sting in her eyes. God, how she wished she was. She wished more than anything that she could step into that name. Into that life. Into the arms of these people who looked at her with hope burning bright in the ashes of their grief.But she wasn’t Faith Fraser.She was Julia Moriston Beauchamp Pocock— time wanderer, mother of lost children, survivor of too many lifetimes.And yet…

She didn’t correct him.Not yet.Because his eyes were full of something she had not seen in years— belief .And she didn’t know how to take that away.Jamie had stepped inside, slow and careful, as if she might vanish if he moved too quickly. He said little at first—just offered her a cup of tea from the kitchen hearth and asked if she’d slept well. His voice was gentle, but his eyes never stopped watching her, full of awe and aching memory.She had barely touched the tea.She felt like an imposter in every breath.

He believed.He believed she was Faith.And she was letting him.The fire crackled softly between them. A breeze slipped through the open window, stirring the pages of a book left on the table. She stared at the movement like it might rescue her from her own deception.

“You look so like yer mother,” 

It was a bold statement to be made. It seemed Mr. and Mrs. Fraser was certain that she knew she was their Faith. She supposed, from the short glimpse, she had of Mrs. Fraser that there was something of a resemblance. But then again, both she and Mrs. Fraser was English, that could explain away some of it Julia supposed. 

“I ken ye must be overwhelmed,” Jamie said gently. “But if ye need time… we’ll give it. We’ve waited years already.”

That was the worst of it. His voice. So sure. So open.She was not the kind of woman to lie—but she wasn’t ready to tell the truth. Not when doing so meant tearing away the joy in his face. Not when the ghost of his daughter had just come home and sat beside him for tea.And then… the door opened.Julia turned her head—and time fractured.There, framed in morning light, stood Claire Fraser.Julia stared.

The resemblance struck her like lightning. Englishness was not the only thing they shared then. The same sharp cheekbones. The same riot of wild, dark curls, except hers were streaked with grey. Those golden brown eyes that resembled a hawk’s. Why did she look so damned much like Mrs. Fraser ? Julia rose hesitantly taking a step forward to further examine the resemblance.Claire took a cautious step forward, her gaze pinned on Julia like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, and her voice—when it came—was soft, tentative, hopeful.

“Faith?”

It wasn’t a question, not really.It was hope in its rawest form.

“Faith?”The name hovered between them like a breath—fragile, sacred, trembling with longing.Julia stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Time seemed to constrict around her, the crackle of the fire fading into nothing, the morning breeze stilling. Only Claire’s voice remained, echoing through the small room like a bell struck in a cathedral of grief.

Jamie had risen behind her, slowly, reverently, his gaze shifting between his wife and the woman he believed was their child. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. Everything in the way he looked at Claire—at Julia —was drenched in awe and disbelief.

Julia's heart pounded so loud it was all she could hear now. This is wrong. This is wrong. And yet she didn’t speak.She couldn’t.Claire stepped closer, slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a wild creature she feared might vanish wit one wrong move. Her hands twitched at her sides, aching to reach out, but unsure if they had the right. Her eyes—those fierce, searching eyes—scanned Julia’s face as if drinking in a dream she had not dared allow herself to imagine in years.

“You look…” Claire whispered, her voice frayed. “God, it’s you. I see you in Brianna. I see myself. But it’s you .”

Julia’s breath hitched.It felt like drowning in someone else’s grief.Every kind word, every tender glance, every ounce of belief Claire poured into her was a weight Julia could no longer carry.Her fingers trembled. Her throat burned.Jamie placed a hand gently on Claire’s back, steadying her. “Ye don’t have to say anything yet, lass,” he said to Julia, mistaking her stillness for trauma. “Take your time. It’s a great deal.”

Julia blinked, and tears slipped free without her permission. She hadn’t even felt them gathering. They just were —like everything else in this moment.A lie she hadn’t meant to live inside.She didn’t deserve their tenderness.Claire stepped closer, and now they were only a breath apart. The scent of her—clove, something sharp and herbal—hit Julia like a memory that wasn’t hers. She could see now the fine lines around Claire’s eyes, the silver threading her hair. She was beautiful. So strong.

So familiar .

“Faith,” Claire whispered again, a small, shattered smile trembling on her lips. “You came back.”

Julia couldn’t take it.She backed away a single step.And another.Claire’s face fell—just a flicker—but it was enough. Enough to break the dam. Julia's voice came hoarse, cracked wide open.

“I’m not her.”

Claire blinked, the light flickering behind her eyes.

“What?”

Julia shook her head, once, twice, as if she could shake off the grief that clung to her like a second skin. “I’m not your daughter. I never was.”

Jamie drew a sharp breath, but Julia’s gaze stayed locked on Claire’s.

“I never meant for this,” she said, voice shaking. “I never lied. I didn’t—Fergus assumed, and I didn’t know how to stop it. And once I saw them—Jane, Francis—I couldn’t bear the thought of being sent away again.”

Claire didn’t move.

“I lost children too,” Julia whispered. “A daughter. A son. One to time, one to death. And when I saw them… I thought maybe this was some cruel mercy. That I’d been given a second chance.”

She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips, trying to hold herself together, to trap the words inside before they scattered like leaves in a storm.

“But I’m not your Faith,” she said again, her voice softer now, threadbare with grief. “And I’m so sorry.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.It fell like snow—soft, suffocating, final. A hush that dulled the firelight and thickened the very air.Claire didn’t move. Not at first.She just stared, as if she could force the truth into a different shape by sheer will alone—as if, by looking hard enough, she could change what Julia had just said.But nothing changed.

Then, finally, Claire spoke.Her voice was low, tightly wound, as though it came from deep inside her chest. “Who are you?”

Julia felt her chest constrict. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her gaze flicked to Jamie, then back to Claire, and for the second time in what felt like both an eternity and the blink of a heartbeat, she answered.

“My true name is Julia…”

Her throat tightened. She looked away. “My husband… he used to call me Faith. For reasons that… that made sense to us.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed, the edges of her grief sharpening to something more precise. Controlled. Dangerous.

“What is your surname?”

The question landed like a crack of thunder in the stillness.

Julia flinched. “I—”

“What is your surname?” Claire said again, louder now. Her voice didn’t rise in anger, not yet, but it was taut with suspicion, with something rising that neither of them could stop.

“I hardly see how that’s relevant,” Julia murmured, her voice brittle.

But Claire was already moving—forward, fast, like a hawk in a dive.Her face had changed. The softness had vanished. Her golden-brown eyes—so like Julia’s—were dark with something almost feral now. “Is it Beauchamp?” she demanded. “Is your name Julia Moriston Beauchamp?”Time stopped again.

Julia’s breath left her in a sharp gasp—small, involuntary, damning.Claire stared at her, her chest rising and falling in tight, ragged motions, “Answer me.”

“Sassenach?” Mr. Fraser breathed out.

Julia couldn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Claire saw it in the way her jaw trembled, the way her eyes welled with tears that she didn’t bother to blink away.

“ Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, ” Claire whispered, staggering back a step like the air had been knocked from her lungs. “That’s my name. That’s my mother’s name.”

Julia’s vision blurred. Her legs felt boneless beneath her. Something in her chest cracked wide open, but still she didn’t moveJamie stirred behind his wife, slow to catch the meaning beneath the words. “Claire—” he began gently, but she silenced him with a raised hand, her eyes locked on Julia like she was something risen from the dead..

“Your mother’s name?” Julia repeated numbly. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears—thin, dry, as though she’d forgotten how to speak English. She could barely form the words. “Beauchamp?”

Claire nodded once, sharp and slow, her eyes never blinking. “Julia Moriston Beauchamp. My mother.”

The name struck like a bolt of lightning.And suddenly, everything inside Julia collapsed inward. No. No, it couldn’t be. Her daughter— her Claire —was supposed to be lost. Out of reach. A memory mourned, a soul prayed for night after night across decades and centuries. Gone.She had tried. God, she had tried to find her. She had walked through wars and wilderness, bargained with men like Raymond, pleaded with the stones themselves. And when she finally accepted that Claire was gone, that her firstborn had lived and died without her, it had hollowed her soul. Her husband had said she’d died. Mr. Frank Randall had said it over again and again that Claire was dead.But now—

She was here. Standing in front of her. Older. Wiser. With lines around her eyes and steel in her spine—but still unmistakably Claire. Her child. Her miracle. The child who grew to look just like Julia did. The baby she had kissed while listening to a record player, prayed over in a century she no longer belonged to.

Julia’s knees nearly gave out. She reached for the edge of the table, her hand trembling violently, “This can’t be,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

“Da…she’s…” Brianna began, her voice trembling, a warning lodged on the tip of her tongue. But it was too late. Jamie had already closed the distance, his hands steady and sure as he caught Julia Moriston Beauchamp Faith—whatever combination of names she carried, just before the woman's body collided with the cold, unyielding ground.

Brianna’s gaze flitted to her mother, who stood frozen, eyes distant, fixed on some invisible point far beyond the forest of the Ridge. She seemed absent, lost in a private storm, utterly unaware of the chaos around her. For a long, suspended heartbeat, Brianna had forgotten all about Francis.

Then, a small, trembling voice pierced through the haze:

“Mama?”

The single word, weak and fragile, yanked Brianna back from her shock. Her heart lurched as she realized the girl’s terror, her helplessness. And suddenly, everything, the fear, the panic, the desperate need to protect, flooded back with a force that left her breathless. Brianna stepped forward, hands trembling as she rested them on the girl’s bony shoulders, trying to coax her away, to steer her from the doorway. But Francis’s feet remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, as if they were welded to the floor.

“I’ll put her in yer ma’s surgery,” Jamie said, voice low but firm, indicating Julia cradled carefully in his arms. The girl stirred feebly, blinking up at him as if the world itself were heavy on her eyelids. “Ye stay here and keep an eye on yer mother. I’ll be right back.”

At the sound of Julia’s soft, fragile movements, Francis unrooted herself, almost reverently, and followed behind Jamie. She moved as though drawn by some invisible tether, compelled by the presence of the woman who had seemed lost forever.

One could scarcely blame her. To Francis, it was as though her mother had returned from the dead, stepping out of some impossible dream. Despite all the complicated threads tying Julia to Claire, Jane, and Francis, despite the tangled, almost impossible web of family obligations and histories, the twelve-year-old felt she had been given something she had longed for more than she realized: her mother, whole and present, standing before her.

With the absence of everyone else, it left Brianna to confront her mother. 

“Mama?” she said gently, “please say something,”

For a long, heavy moment, Claire seemed not to hear her. Her eyes were fixed somewhere beyond them, distant and unblinking, lost in a world that did not include the rustle of leaves or the soft stirrings of the forest around them.

The sounds of the animals, the chirping of birds, the scuttle of small creatures through the underbrush, the distant call of a fox, echoed strangely loudly in the quiet, each one amplified by the oppressive stillness between mother and daughter. Every creak of a branch, every whisper of wind seemed to magnify the impossible weight of the moment.

““Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she muttered, letting out a hysterical laugh that shook with relief, disbelief, grief and exhaustion all at once. There was no better term for it. 

***

All of her daughters seemed to be ignoring her. Or perhaps they were granting her the space she so desperately needed, Julia couldn’t decide which. Her mind wavered between frustration and gratitude, unable to settle on a single category. She had glimpsed Francis on the way to consciousness, her vision blurred by exhaustion and an overwhelming sense of guilt, but it had undoubtedly been Francis, her golden curls catching the light. Yet now her youngest had vanished, it seemed, and had not returned for some time.

Laid out on the cot in her oldest daughter’s surgery, Julia felt the weight of hours pressing down on her. The sun was now barely a sliver on the horizon, with night already claiming the eastern sky. Her body and legs felt as though they had been replaced with lead; every movement was impossible, every sensation heavy.

So her eyes took over, gathering what information they could from the world around her. They roamed over the shelves lined with jars of herbs and plants. Some she recognized immediately,common remedies she had known since childhood,but others required closer scrutiny. Their scents, shapes, and textures drew her in, and she found herself cataloging them silently, as though her mind could cling to some measure of control through observation alone.

Claire had grown up to become a doctor. Julia remembered the words of Claire’s husband, spoken with pride and a note of admiration. His name was Jamie. She had not yet learned his surname but already she knew that he carried a great love for Claire, and a great sadness that Julia was not their Faith. She knew all too well the notion of losing a child. Losing children. So she could forgive him.

“You need to eat something.” The voice was distinctively English, calm but carrying the quiet authority of a physician. It cut through Julia’s reverie like a bell, insistent and grounding.

Her oldest daughter bustled into the room, moving with the precise, efficient ease of someone who had long since mastered the routines of care. In her hands she carried a small bowl of meat broth, steam curling gently from its surface, carrying a rich, savory aroma that stirred something faintly familiar in Julia’s weary senses.

Without so much as a greeting, Claire set the bowl carefully on the table beside Julia, her movements deliberate and unhesitating. “You are clearly undernourished,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “Go on, eat.”

Julia’s lips parted, but no words came; instead, she simply stared at the broth, feeling simultaneously comforted and guilty. She was the mother despite the age difference , yet here was her daughter assuming the role of caretaker, her competence and authority a reminder of all the ways time had changed everything.Claire’s eyes met hers briefly, no flourish, no unnecessary sentimentality—just the steady expectation of a doctor and a daughter rolled into one. It was impossible to refuse. Julia picked up the spoon with trembling hands, the first small act of surrender since waking, and took a tentative sip of the warm, nourishing broth.

As Julia lifted the spoon to her lips, she savored each sip slowly—not out of hunger, but to stall time itself. Every swallow of the warm broth gave her an excuse to keep looking at her daughter. Her daughter.

How old was Claire now? It was impossible to calculate—time had become a labyrinth since Julia had fallen through it—yet the longer she stared, the more she saw not the physician standing before her, but the soft-cheeked infant she had once held. A lump rose in her throat, sharp and unexpected. The urge to weep nearly overtook her.

“I’m sorry,” Julia murmured at last, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She set down the spoon with trembling fingers. “I’m so sorry for not finding you.”

“There’s no—” Claire began, but the sentence faltered. Her voice, usually steady as a scalpel, quivered ever so slightly.

“I came back,” Julia pressed on, unable to bear the silence that might snatch the confession away. “I came back to your time—or what I thought was your time. The nineteen-forties. Your husband…” Her voice broke as the memory surfaced: a haggard man, smelling faintly of cologne and whiskey, his eyes haunted with loss. A professor. Not Jamie. Not the Highlander who now called her daughter mo chridhe.

“Yes,” Claire said quietly. A flicker of pain crossed her face—old grief, long buried but not forgotten.

“He told me you were gone,” Julia whispered. “That you had disappeared. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Claire cleared her throat and reached for the empty bowl. “Likewise,” she said, her voice softer now, gentled by shared sorrow rather than restrained by duty. She stood, the role of doctor reasserting itself as a shield, every movement precise, controlled. “Would you like me to brew you something to help you sleep?”

More than anything, Julia wanted to say yes. To sink into whatever potion Claire might prepare and let the exhaustion overwhelm her. Sleep—quiet, unbroken sleep—sounded like the only balm capable of easing the whirlwind in her mind. Valerian root? Passionflower? Chamomile? She tried to recall the jars she had glimpsed earlier on the shelves. Nothing she had observed suggested either root or blossom was present, but she trusted her daughter implicitly. Whatever Claire brewed would be potent and safe.Still, before surrendering to slumber, Julia had to know of her other daughters. The questions clawed at her throat, insistent, pressing.

“Has Jane returned?” she asked cautiously, careful to temper the urgency in her voice. She caught a subtle, involuntary flinch in Claire’s shoulder, a flicker of hesitation that set her heart thudding.

“Jane and Francis are upstairs,” Claire replied without meeting her eyes, her hands steady as she poured powdered herbs into a cup and stirred methodically. “They’re both asleep, as we all should be.”

Julia’s chest tightened at the words. As we all should be. The phrasing carried a careful balance of reassurance and finality, as though Claire were trying to shield her from more truths than she could yet bear. Julia wanted to reach out, to insist on seeing them, but she also understood the unspoken plea: patience. And so she let her eyes follow the movement of Claire’s hands, the ritual of care and control, and tried to anchor herself in that small, steady rhythm.

****

“Yer the only person I ken who would have a grandmother younger than them,” her husband said at last—half-joking, half-serious—as he sat back in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair in exasperation. The hour was late, the candles burned low, and Brianna had been trying—unsuccessfully—to unravel the impossibly tangled web they had found themselves in.

His tone held a wry amusement, but beneath it lay something else: genuine disbelief, and just the faintest edge of concern that perhaps the laws of kinship, time, and logic had all abandoned them entirely.

Brianna let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, rubbing at her temple. “I know,” she muttered helplessly, “believe me, I know. I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it. At this point, I’m just trying to keep track of who’s supposed to call who ‘mama.’”

Roger gave her a long look, affectionate, incredulous, resigned. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his boots, he muttered, “Christ, Bree… Only your family could make a miracle look like a mathematical catastrophe.”

“It is a mathematical catastrophe,” Brianna replied, dropping into the empty chair as if gravity itself had increased. She let her head fall back for a moment, exhaling in exhaustion. “And I’m an engineer. I’m trained to solve problems, to make sense of the numbers, but this?” She let out a humorless laugh. “My grandma—God, that sounds so weird even saying it, she’s time traveled multiple times. Went to the nineteen-forties. Lived there. Came back.  And now she’s my grandmother. Who’s younger than my mother. And possibly me.”

Roger blinked, his eyebrows lifting slowly, as though trying to recalculate the entire Fraser-Beauchamp family tree in his head and failing somewhere around the second paradox.

“So,” he said finally, voice tentative, “do ye want me to fetch the Bible, the history book, or the chalkboard?”

Brianna let her eyes fall shut as if the very act of looking at reality might make it worse. “All three,” she muttered. “And maybe a bottle of whisky. A big one.” She pressed her fingertips into her temples, massaging as though she could knead the MacKenzie-Fraser-Beauchump-Pocock family tree back into something resembling sanity. “And to think Jane and Frances are my mother’s half-sisters, which makes them my—”

“Yer half-aunties,” Roger supplied grimly as he reappeared, not with the bottle, but with a glass so generously poured it counted as an act of medical intervention rather than hospitality. “On the bright side, at least we ken now that William didnae bed his own niece.”

Brianna cracked one eye open, accepting the glass. “Small mercies,” she said dryly. “Though given this family’s track record, I’m not ruling out discovering another accidental incest scandal by Wednesday.”

“Let us pray not,” Roger muttered, crossing himself half in jest, half in genuine superstition. He sank into the chair opposite her, brows knit. “How is yer Ma handling all of this? I mean—aye, I met my Da when he tumbled through time by accident, but at least he didnae start a second family somewhere in the eighteenth century.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “That we know of.”

Brianna huffed a humorless laugh and took a long swallow of whisky. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, not caring a whit for propriety. “I don’t think it’s about her mother coming back,” she said finally. “My Mama always said she barely remembered either of her parents. She made peace a long time ago with the idea they were gone.” Her voice gentled, almost a whisper. “I think she’s trying to reconcile that Julia isn’t Faith.”

Roger’s expression sobered at once. “Ah. Christ.”

Brianna nodded, eyes glassy though she refused to blink. “It’s like… she’s looking at this woman who is flesh and blood,who lived,and at the same time, somewhere in her mind, she’s looking for a lost child. And every time Julia says something unexpected, or laughs differently, or has a memory that doesn’t match…” She swallowed. “It’s like losing Faith all over again. But this time there’s someone standing in front of her to remind her of it.”

Roger leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice soft with understanding. “So it’s not just confusion. It’s grief walking into the room wearing another woman’s face.”

Brianna looked down at her glass. “Exactly.”