Feeling compelled to search this glen, Torin slid down the steep bank and walked in the shallow currents. He followed its winding path, his eyes peeling the rocks and dangling roots for a hidden door. Water was seeping into his boots when he unexpectedly came upon a bothy built on the stony bank. It was small and rugged, almost unnoticeable if one didn’t look closely, built of woven branches and vines. A hole in its mossy roof let out puffs of smoke.

He stopped in the river, uncertain as to who occupied it. The hair rose on his arms the longer he regarded the bothy, as if this place was holy ground where spirits gathered. He cautiously moved forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, and knocked on the driftwood door.

“Come in,” a voice beckoned him, smooth and melodic. A young woman’s voice.

When Torin pushed the door, it creaked inward, but he remained on the threshold. He had never seen a spirit manifested. He had only ever heard their whispers on the wind, and felt their warmth in the fire, and breathed their fragrance in the grass, and drunk their generosity in the water from the loch. So he didn’t know what to expect as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

“Are you afraid?” the woman said with a laugh. He still couldn’t see her in the shadows. “Come inside. I’m not a spirit, if that’s what you fear.”

He cautiously entered the bothy, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the mossy lintel.

There was a small peat fire burning in a ring of stones. A tiny table held a collection of books, a cauldron of parritch, and a bowl of blackberries. A shelf was crowded with carved figurines. A basket of branches sat beside a rocking chair, and in the chair was a woman, ancient and silver haired, her gnarled hands whittling a slender piece of wood.

Torin stared at her, confused, but her eyes remained on her work. The confident whisking of her knife and the wood shavings that fell with her motions. It almost looked as if she was carving a reflection of him . . .

“Ah, it is the esteemed Captain of the East Guard,” the woman said, glancing at him and recognizing his plaid and crest. Again, her voice was young and vibrant. “You were not expecting me to look like this, were you?”

He was silent, disturbed.

“Old and weathered, you would call me,” she continued, “with a voice that does not match how I appear.”

“Who are you?” Torin asked.

She finally ceased her whittling, piercing him with a set of watery blue eyes. “You wouldn’t know me. I don’t belong in your time, captain. That is why my body has aged, but my voice has not.”

“Then what time are you from? How did you come to live on this river?”