I remembered the stones, how their buzzing always seemed to haunt my dreams. I remembered a woman, clutching tightly to me, while she sobbed and stared at a dark-haired gentleman. She told him that she loved him, that she would come back, but that she had to save me first; they kissed, before she and I turned back towards the stones, and fell through them. After what had seemed like hours, or, perhaps, days, strong arms lifted me, and I was staring up into the face of a bearded stranger with kind, silvery eyes.

"Aye, this wee lassie is a beauty," the man said.

"Roger, don't scare her," said a soothing voice, and a woman with red hair appeared in my line of vision, assisting my mother to her feet. "Did you get through all right, Alexandra?"

My mother turned, her green eyes flashing with worry, as she stumbled towards the man called Roger and tore me from his arms. "Sorry," she said, the word a quick one, almost as if she realized what she'd done.

The red-haired woman stepped forward, placing a placating hand upon her arm. "It's all right, really. We know you, and you know us, just not yet," she said gently, and, when she saw that I was looking at her, she smiled. "Hello, little one, I'm your Auntie Bree."

I lifted my hand to wave, as I'd been instructed to do numerous times throughout my short life, although the movement was feeble at best. I felt my mother's gaze upon me, filled with concern, as it likely had been, from the moment I was born, smaller than my brother. I weighed barely four pounds, while my twin, Hans, was close to nine. I was barely two years old, and, as my body violently shook with a cough that never seemed to leave me, nor the clammy skin, or the shallow, quick breathing that caused many people to stop and stare.

"We've got to get her in at A&E at Raigmore," Roger said, his tone firm.

Brianna placed an arm around my mother's shoulders, and guided her down the hill. "Your measurements came through in Mama and Da's letters, so Roger and I were able to get you and Henrietta some proper clothes," she said softly, her voice gentle, motherly.

"Where are Jem and Mandy?" my mother asked, her tone shaking.

"With Fiona and Ernie, dear friends of ours," Roger explained, tossing the words over his shoulder as he got to the edge of the hill, and opened the car door. He looked this way and that, up the road, in both directions. "No' one comes down the road very often... Why don't ye change now, Alexandra? Bree can hold up some flannels around ye fer yer modesty."

My mother nodded her head, reluctantly handing me over to Roger, who gently swayed this way and that, his arms steady and sure. My mother took the pants, jeans, casual blouse, and jumper, changing into these efficiently, before Brianna lowered the flannels around her. Socks and runners were also handed over, while my mother looked perplexingly at them, but nevertheless put them on, with Brianna showing her how to tie the laces. "Are you quite sure people wear things like this?" she asked.

Brianna gave her a soft smile. "Mama told me when you were born," she responded gently, "and yes, it is quite current. But, if it's too much for you," she continued, going into the back of the car again, and pulling out a pair of stockings and a knee-length, tartan skirt, "I picked out these as well, plus these," she said, showcasing a pair of brown, crinkle boots.

"Only the best from House of Fraser," Roger declared.

My mother gave him a weak smile.

A pale blue dress with tiers, lacy collar, and flowy skirt was pulled out from the back next, and I was hastily changed into it, along with a pair of white stockings, and black Mary Jane shoes. I was then subjected to hair brushing, as was my mother, who merely pulled her own hair back with an elastic band. She then let Brianna take over, who took two elastic bands and put my hair into what she called ponytails. Then, we were all bundled into the car, with Brianna showcasing a folder to my mother.

"Roger and I were able to get you documentation," she explained, running through it as Roger drove towards A&E, whatever that was. "We said that you're a single mother who's just escaped a cult, with no other children." She gave my mother a sympathetic expression. "I realize it's not a good idea to lie, but it's the best story we could come up with. Many cults don't permit access to medical care, and we can say that you left the cult because Henrietta kept getting worse." Her expression turned determined as she reached back, clutching at my mother's hand. "The doctors will know what they are doing, Alexandra, I promise."

The car continued along the road, passing various farms and the like, as well as forests, until we finally reached the beginning of what appeared to be modern civilization. There were shops of all varieties, a department store there, a drug store on the next block, and then came the car park for the large hospital. Roger said that he would park the car, while Brianna hurried my mother inside the place, me still wrapped tightly in her arms as we reached the reception desk.

"Hi," Brianna said, her voice shaking, as if the enormity of the situation had suddenly all just hit her. "This is my sister, Alexandra. She's... Her daughter's sick..."

The woman positioned behind the desk took one look at my mother, as well as me, before she paged a doctor. "Dr. Craig is on call now," she said, getting slowly to her feet. "Mary?" she called out, and a nurse hurried over, her eyes widening.

"Pneumonia?" she guessed, locking eyes with my mother for a moment, before promptly taking me into her arms, gently all the while. "How has her breathing been?"

"Harsh, as if something's been caught perpetually in her throat," my mother responded, seemingly relieved that Brianna never left her side. "I know I should have brought her here earlier..."

"Why didn't ye?" Mary snapped, glaring at my mother.

"She was in a goddamned cult!" Brianna yelled, turning ferocious at someone who dared to talk negatively about her sister. "She took the first opportunity she could to escape. Many cults don't allow medical care, or did you know that? Don't go blaming her—she's been abused by them for God's sake! Check her back if you don't believe me—it's tantamount to torture what they put her through!"

My mother trembled from beside Brianna. "Bree, it's all right..."

"No, it is most certainly not all right," Brianna countered, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Her own mother shackled her in their basement and whipped her! If someone's own mother could do something like that, one of the two people in your life, from the beginning of it, that are supposed to love you unconditionally, how can you expect her to get out of there, even if her child is sick, on your schedule?"

Mary's lips thinned. "A mother's child should come before her—"

"And if the mother's safety is threatened, then so too is her child's," Brianna responded. "You don't know anything about my sister, or my niece, other than what we've decided to tell you. So, are you going to do your job as a medical professional, or are you going to play act as a judge or police officer today?"

Mary looked utterly shocked by the turn of events, and would have said more, were it not for a professional-looking man in a white coat coming down the well-lit corridor. "Oh, Dr. Craig," she said, turning her back upon my mother and Brianna, "we have a case of pneumonia, but the mother has just said that the child's breathing exhibits a blockage."

Dr. Craig stepped forward, looking concerned, as he gazed down at me for the first time. "Which one of ye is the mother?"

"I am," my mother answered softly. "Please, doctor, will she be all right?"

Dr. Craig began to examine me. "I'll certainly do everything I can... What is her name?"

"Henrietta," my mother replied. "Henrietta Hathaway."

Dr. Craig nodded. "And her age?"

My mother swallowed. "She's two."

Dr. Craig felt my forehead, his eyes widening. "This child has a fever," he declared, and used his stethoscope on me, his brows twitching. "Her heart rate is much too rapid... Can ye breathe fer me, leannán?"

I tried my best to do as the doctor said, but it proved too difficult. "Hurts," I whispered, touching my chest and throat, before I trembled. "Cold..."

"She's turning blue!" Dr. Craig proclaimed, taking me from Mary, and rushing me down the corridor at breakneck speed.

My diagnosis was soon given—ARDS, otherwise known as acute respiratory distress syndrome, which Dr. Craig later informed my mother would have killed me, had she not brought me in when she had. My mother had fainted upon the realization that I would be administered exogenous surfactants, and, upon awakening, the doctors informed her that she was pregnant again. As I lay in my hospital bed, once my mother was given a clean bill of health—dehydration and malnutrition from an eighteenth-century diet notwithstanding—I watched as she spoke with Roger and Brianna.

"I can't take her back, not until she's had her treatment," Mama said softly.

Brianna nodded. "No, of course you can't."

"Did the doctors say when ye would be able to leave?" Roger asked.

"Weeks or months, they're not sure," Mama admitted, sounding discouraged. She turned towards me, and I quickly pretended to be asleep. "I know that people can travel when they're pregnant, but there is the possibility..."

"That yer new bairn willnae be able tae travel, and take after their da," Roger said, finishing my mother's thought.

"And you wouldn't want to leave a newborn here; the social services council could try and step in to take them," Brianna said, sounding worried. She bit her lip, considering it for a moment. "I would never suggest abandoning your child, Alexandra, but it wouldn't truly be abandonment if her aunt and uncle took care of her..."

My mother's eyes widened. "What are you saying?"

Roger sighed. "We're saying that ye saved Henrietta, but ye also need tae consider the bairn yer expecting," he replied amicably.

"We would be more than happy to keep Henrietta safe," Brianna said softly. "In the meantime, you can focus on getting back to John, and keeping the rest of your children safe. Two hundred years separate the two of you, Alexandra; I've seen what that does to people."

My mother looked saddened at Brianna's words. "Mama?" she guessed.

"Yes," Brianna responded. "She had to wait twenty years, and that was only because she thought Da was dead. We know that John is alive; well, at least, in your time," she amended, grimacing slightly at my mother's panicked expression.

"Go to him," Roger said.

My mother dragged her hands through her hair. "We need to come up with a plan first," she said at last. "You mentioned the social services. What do they do?"

In the end, a solicitor was procured, and my mother signed her parental rights temporarily away to Roger and Brianna. She said goodbye to me, and presumably returned to my father, older sister, and twin brother, in the eighteenth century. I, meanwhile, continued with my treatment, and was ordered to return to the hospital every month to administer a new dose. In the interim, I spent lots of time at Lallybroch with Uncle Roger, as well as my newly acquired cousins, Jemmy and Mandy, who seemed to like me, although I didn't understand very much at all.

I spent the rest of the year getting well and, shortly after my third birthday, was placed in a preschool program alongside Mandy, underneath my new nickname of Heather. Mandy, who was a year older than I was, thought herself quite mature at four, and made sure to show and tell me everything I needed to know. The program was a positively lovely experience, one which I took as a challenge, and never came up short.

Brianna had another baby, whom she and Roger named David, and was called Davy, which made more things shuffle within the ancestral Fraser and Murray family home. A nursery was established for Davy, while Jemmy was given his own room, and Mandy and I shared a bedroom. I was doing well in school, which was taught in both English and Gaelic, so I became bilingual by the time I was four years old, and in my final year of preschool.

I started at Central Primary School, which also provided me with Latin education, one year after Mandy, on schedule once I had turned five, and thrived in the environment. No one poked fun at me for living with my aunt and uncle, and, I even made my first outside-the-family friend, Tessa Craig, the daughter of the doctor who had saved my life. Tessa and I would frequently go round for tea, either at Lallybroch or the Craig family home; Tessa's mother, Amelia Craig, a successful architect, was British, and took great pride in her heritage.

"Ma says ye're welcome anytime," Tessa informed me happily.

Tessa was also permitted to keep me company on the hospital ward, whenever I went in for my various treatments. Uncle Roger and Auntie Bree had explained to my head teacher what my medical conditions were, and Dr. Craig backed them up. As such, every Friday afternoon, I would be excused an hour early from school, and Uncle Roger would take me to hospital. I would get some assignments earlier, or more time on others, due to my condition, but, other than that, everything was normal.

At the age of eleven, I was accepted into Inverness Royal Academy, alongside Tessa, Jemmy, and Mandy. I thrived in the new environment as I continued to grow older, taking on various activities to keep up my stamina. I discovered that I seemed to be a natural athlete, taking fencing classes, martial arts, and Taekwondo. Yoga also proved beneficial, and helped me in keeping myself centered and my breathing under control. Athletics soon proved a favorite class of mine in secondary school, and I excelled in languages, something that Auntie Bree told me that my mother had done well in as well.

"What languages could she speak?" I asked when I was around thirteen.

"From what we've been told, she could speak English, French, Latin, Gaelic, Ancient Greek, German, Italian, and Polish," Auntie Bree responded.

I made sure I took the languages on offer at Inverness Royal Academy, which were French, German, and Spanish. I was already fluent in English and Gaelic, but soon discovered that I would have to learn Italian, Ancient Greek, and Polish on my own time. I picked up an Italian class in my spare time when I was fourteen, using my pocket money to subsidize it, and, when I was fifteen, took an Ancient Greek class as well. I joined the school's Judo club as well, with Tessa, in an effort to spend more time with her, deciding to forgo Polish as a language, not really knowing if and when I would ever need it.

"Ye could look into kickboxing," Uncle Roger mentioned when I was sixteen.

"Or maybe some self-defense courses," Auntie Bree put in.

I took both that year, with my doctors pleased that I had nearly completed my treatment regimen for ARDS, instead putting me on some medication to ensure that there was no continued fluid build-up in my lungs. They guessed that, if I kept on it for two years, I could be treated completely, but I decided not to hold my breath. I went for a run every morning around Lallybroch before school, and spent my nights weight-lifting, doing pull-ups, or sit-ups. I had time management on my side, always making time for my school work, and would spend my weekends doing homework or spending time with Tessa.

"All this makes it seem like ye want tae join the service," Tessa remarked.

I bit the inside of my cheek and remained silent; although the United Kingdom was definitely a progressive nation, I had learned quickly that they weren't prepared to allow women to have roles within combat in the armed forces. It was a bitter blow, given all the preparation I'd been doing, but I considered alternatives. Time was running out in my time at Inverness Royal Academy, and I'd been doing my best to dodge questions about where I intended to pursue higher education. I could hardly tell them the truth, any of them; they would think I was stark-raving mad and send me straight to a psychiatric ward.

When I turned seventeen, Uncle Roger and Auntie Bree sat me down and asked me what I wanted for my birthday.

"I want to learn how to shoot," I answered.

I received lessons from my uncle and aunt themselves, and both seemed pleased that I wanted to learn such a thing. They told me about Frank Randall, the man who had raised Auntie Bree, who had taught her how to shoot as a teenager. They also taught me how to chop wood, as both deemed it a necessary skill, which I ate right up. When Jem came home from St. Andrews, and Mandy from Edinburgh, both were duly impressed. Davy, of course, wanted to learn both, but he was pressured to wait at least another year, as Uncle Roger and Auntie Bree were notoriously protective of their youngest child.

I got my inheritance in March, three months before I graduated from Inverness Royal Academy, upon the occasion of my eighteenth birthday. I obtained a passport, as I no longer needed permission from Uncle Roger and Auntie Brianna, which I was now relieved to have, as it confirmed my identity even more. I went to the local airport and purchased a one-way ticket to Norfolk, Virginia, via Heathrow Airport in England. The airport would then provide me with a shuttle service to the Outer Banks, in North Carolina, where I would go through the standing stones, and somehow, some way, get there in time for the Battle of Yorktown in 1781.

My plan seemed simple enough—I would buy the best wig I could possibly get my hands on, find out the best method of chest binding, and procure some period appropriate clothing. Money was not an object, thankfully, and I had plenty of ways to obtain information. I made lists about what I would need to purchase, and was relieved that there were plenty of things lurking around in the attic at Lallybroch. I took a couple of Auntie Bree's old dresses, just in case, and hid them at the back of my accumulated belongings. Then, I took Uncle Roger's clothes, had them professionally washed, and then took them to the tailor's for measurements. I explained that I was attending drama school, and wanted to look the part; the tailor believed me, also congratulating me, and did the work I set out for them.

After doing more digging, I commissioned a local seamstress to make me a genuine Continental Army costume from the 1780s, which they took to with gusto. I paid them extra to work quickly, and they ended up putting aside several other projects to get mine done. I also hunted through antique stores for other things, finding a period-appropriate rifle, which could easily be hidden in my belongings from airport security, and also found all the old coins I could get my hands on so that I had a means of financially supporting myself. The best part came when Tessa, who had been accepted into the University of Aberdeen for forensic science, agreed to help me forge documents and identification pieces for me in the past, so that it didn't look like I'd merely shown up out of nowhere.

I remembered sitting her down when I was fifteen, ultimately telling her the truth about my mother, and showing her documentation that Uncle Roger and Auntie Bree had given me about my family history. It had taken some time to get used to, but Tessa had never disbelieved me; she was, truly, my best friend, and seemed to believe me, thankfully. It had been a relief to know that I wouldn't lose her over this.

"Ye've got tae pick a name," Tessa told me, as we worked long into the night. "Some names were unisex back in the day, but ye can hardly walk around saying yer name is Henrietta or Heather; people will think ye've gone mad."

I laughed aloud at that. "I suppose I could take a page out of the Marquis de Lafyette's book and say my name is Henri, but then I'd have to put on an accent..."

Tessa smirked. "Ye already sound American... Spending time with yer Auntie Bree certainly worked wonders in that regard..."

I shook my head; it was true, I was the only one of the children my aunt and uncle had raised to inherit Brianna MacKenzie's American accent. "Henry should be fine, but then there's the surname to worry about... They'll think it's odd if I say I'm a MacKenzie, because I hardly sound Scottish..."

"My ma's maiden name was Ashworth," Tessa said after a few moments of thinking it over with a soft expression. "Plenty of people in the original Thirteen Colonies had English surnames. Ye wouldnae be so out of place with it."

So, it was decided—Heather Hathaway became Henry Ashworth, and my documentation and wardrobe proved it. I sensed that my aunt and uncle knew what I was planning, and while they made casual comments about the benefits of a university education, they never stopped me from spending some of my inheritance on whatever I wanted. Tessa gave me a ride to the airport in the morning the day my flight left, taking a page out of Grandmama Claire's book and packing plenty of medicine, which Tessa assisted me in pilfering from the hospital. Thankfully, I would change plans directly at Heathrow, with no waiting around, in case I lost my nerve.

I left a note for Auntie Bree and Uncle Roger, telling them of my plans, but leaving out just enough details so that they wouldn't be able to find me; at least, not right away. I just didn't want them to stop me, now that I was eighteen, and, according to society, a fully-fledged adult. Yes, they had seemed disappointed come September when I hadn't gone off to university, but I knew that I had been training my teenage years for this, just as much as completing my secondary education, and the timing had come.

I hugged Tessa for what would likely be the last time, before I boarded my plane, after I'd had my period-appropriate suitcase checked at baggage reclaim. I had splurged for first class accommodation, as it was my first, and potentially last, flight. I watched, once takeoff happened, the ground disappearing from below me, and let out a small sigh. I had a hotel booked once I arrived in the Outer Banks from Norfolk, Virginia, so that I could change into period appropriate clothing, as well as set my wig, and chest, to rights. The White Doe Inn Bed & Breakfast was to be my accommodation for the night, as close to the stones as possible, so that I wouldn't have a long walk to them the following day.

The couple who owned the inn were very kind to me, ensuring that I had everything I needed, although I was only staying the one night. I told them that I had been brought up in Inverness by my aunt and uncle, and they were very interested to hear about my childhood and early adulthood in Scotland. I told them about Lallybroch, and how it had, once upon a time, belonged to the ancestors of my aunt's family. I mentioned the renovations that my aunt and uncle had done on the place, as well as the portions they'd decided to keep original. I stayed in the room for the night, and left before breakfast the following morning, with a handwritten note, letting them know that I was thankful for them with everything in me.

I had obtained an opal that nearly fit into the palm of my hand, knowing that, as it symbolized hope and wonder, I would be able to find success in my journey. I had left behind my modern clothes at the inn, with instructions for them to be laundered and donated, to the couple, the Roberts, along with the correct fee for the laundering. I had checked the tide schedule in the weeks leading up to my intended departure, and discovered that, in both 1998 and 1781, the beach was destined not to be flooded.

I could hear the buzzing from the moment I arrived at the beach, and the series of standing stones came into view. I held my bag close to my side, knowing that I couldn't let it go, even for a moment, else I would risk losing it. I had done everything I could to keep my wig in place, and, with the opal growing heavier in my hand, focused on the stone that I knew to be the portal, and stepped towards it, heart entering my throat.

The headache was not something I would like to contend with, but, thankfully, I had packed some pain killers, along with my medication. I swallowed these, alongside my water, upon arrival in 1781, and looked around. The area was much the same, and now I had to get a horse to the next town, and possibly a series of them, in order to get safely to Yorktown, Virginia. As I was traveling as a man and not a woman, this would prove beneficial. I had also managed to perfect lowering my voice a bit, so that I appeared plenty mature for the undertaking I was about to attempt to accomplish.

Hopefully, I would be able to cover thirty miles in one day, depending upon the horses, which would put me in Yorktown in approximately five days' time. I knew that I would have to spend a bit of money at some inns along the way, but I had planned for that, as well as packed away plenty of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and deodorant, although I hoped beyond hope that no one would see me using them. Bathing, I imagined, would prove to be an issue, given that I had no male form to speak of, and such things were hard to make up.

Inns seemed to be scattered throughout the towns I'd journeyed into, but I was grateful for a warm meal and a soft bed. It didn't help that some of the barmaids looked my way, thinking that I was a young man, but I was, nevertheless, polite to them. I was thankful for Uncle Roger and Auntie Bree's suggestion that I take up horse riding at the age of twelve, which definitely proved beneficial in the long run, now that I was on this arduous journey. On the fifth day, I arrived at the battlefield, which was experiencing a lull, thankfully, so I was able to present myself to the general in charge of the unit.

Of course, things would have been easier if I had expected the obvious.

"The general is in that tent there," said one of the other soldiers, pointing me in the proper direction of it.

I nodded at him. "Thank you," I responded, tipping my hat to him, and made my way over to it directly, moving the flap out of the way. "General?"

The man turned around, and I very nearly staggered backwards. "Are ye all right?" he asked me, catching me before I fell. "Not ill, are ye?"

"No," I squeaked, before clearing my throat. "I mean, no," I continued, more firmly, and eased my arm out of his hold. "I'm here to join, sir."

The general nodded. "Yer papers," he ordered.

I handed them over quickly.

"No military service, but ye certainly have been preparing fer it," he said, his voice sounding appreciative. "Most impressive... Ye were raised in Scotland?"

"Fostered out to my aunt and uncle," I said, nodding my head. "Never picked up the accent, but I was educated in both English and Gaelic, so I've no problem understanding either."

"And ye also speak French, Latin, Ancient Greek, Italian, and Spanish," the general continued, looking over my education. "Top marks in each of yer classes once ye completed yer studies at yer local academy. "One would think ye were in line for a dukedom."

I stood tall; despite my five-feet-eleven frame, this man had at least four inches on me. "I prided myself on my ability to keep up with my studies, sir. Learning, I believe, is beneficial, whether you intend to pursue the military, medicine, the law... It does not matter. Education can never be taken away from you."

The general's eyes snapped upwards and met mine, something seemingly passing through them, as if he was seeing me for the first time. "What did ye say yer name was, lad?"

"I didn't; my apologizes, general," I responded, promptly sticking out my hand, and mentally crossing my fingers that I sounded convincing. "My name is Henry, sir. Henry Elliot Lysander Ashworth."

The general put out his own hand, shaking mine. "Welcome, then, Sergeant Ashworth," he said with a smile, and I nearly squeaked again at the higher-rank, not expecting anything other than Corporal Ashworth, but kept my mouth shut, and handed over a musket, which I recognized from many a painting. "I am General Fraser."

My eyes very nearly left my sockets as I struggled temporarily to get a good grip upon the sizeable weapon. "General Fraser?" I whispered. "Do you mean to tell me that you're General James Fraser?"

General Fraser blinked. "Aye, most of my friends call me 'Jamie'," he said, cocking his head to one side as he stared at me. "Do I know ye?"

"No," I said firmly, pulling my hand from his. "You don't."

"Jamie," said a kind voice from behind me, and an Englishwoman bustled into the tent from behind, walking up and towards him.

"Sassenach, ever since ye were shot, I said to stay away from the battlefield—"

"And I ignored you, given that you resigned, and are now back as a general," the woman responded, taking note of me for the first time, her eyebrows raising. "Oh, hello. I'm Claire, General Fraser's wife," she said, putting out her hand.

"That's Dr. Fraser to ye, Sergeant Ashworth," General Fraser told me firmly, while I shook the woman's hand.

"Jamie, for God's sake," Claire said indulgently to him, shaking her head, and peering at me closely. "Funny, you look so like our daughter..."

I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Yes, well," I said, looking away, "I had best get settled in, shouldn't I?"

"Get the way of the land while ye still can," General Fraser told me. "The Redcoats gave us a fierce battle earlier, but they should leave off until tomorrow."

I nodded my head. "Thank you, General Fraser," I said, nodding my head at him, before I turned to Claire. "Pleasure meeting you, Dr. Fraser." I turned on my heel and left the tent, listening to Auntie Bree's parents whispering about something or other, as I made my way out of the tent and towards the trees beyond.

I was hopeful that the woods would prove to be a quite refuge, for I was in desperate need of relieving myself, and such a thing could not be accomplished with several other soldiers milling around me. Hell, I'd been nearly so desperate that I'd almost whipped out my rifle and dragged Claire into the woods to stand guard for me. Of course, that certainly wouldn't have made me any friends in the long run, and I wanted to see battle so much that I could practically taste it, just upon the tip of my tongue.

I ventured into the woods, inhaling the familiar scent of pine, and was temporarily transported back to Christmastime at Lallybroch. There was always a sizeable spruce in the living room, plenty of decorations, along with plenty of presents for Jem, Mandy, Davy, and me. Jem's were always wrapped in golden paper, while Mandy's were in lilac, Davy's in cornflower, and mine in jade. I allowed myself a moment to reminisce as I searched for a decent clearing, far enough away for safety purposes, but close enough that I could find my way back to camp afterwards.

Finally, I found the perfect location, and set to work pulling down my trousers and hose, and doing my best to angle myself appropriately. There was plenty of moss upon the ground, which would serve as a decent substitute for toilet paper, and saw a clear stream beyond where I could at least attempt at washing my hands. There seemed to be lavender growing along its banks, which I could use to rub into my hands to get any untoward smells off, as I angled my ankles and stuck out my posterior to get the proper aim going.

Once I'd cleaned myself with the moss, I yanked my trousers and hose up and situated them, before venturing towards the lake and cleaning my hands as best I could. A twig snapping close by startled me, however, and, as I shook my hands dry to the best of my ability, I turned around to see a Redcoat lurking close by. The uniform really stuck out on a clear day, I realized, so if they were attempting a sneaky attack, it wouldn't go easy for them.

I made a grab for my musket and tucked it underneath my arm as the young man stepped closer to me; he was attractive, that was for sure and certain, and appeared to be a year or two older than I was. "I was merely relieving myself," I told him firmly, as he inched closer. "I'll just be on my way, then."

"The creek belongs to Britain," replied the young man, narrowing his eyes, his English accent on point, and, clearly, he came from a well-bred household.

I merely raised my eyebrows. "Apologies. I only joined my company today. It will not happen again, I assure you," I said, and moved to leave.

The young man continued stepping forward, drawing his hanger sword, stationed at his waist, and held it aloft. "No," he said, although his tone was cold, "I don't believe it will."

I drew my own sword, setting aside my musket, as I always did my best to play fair. "You don't have to do this," I told him.

"I don't believe you know whom you are speaking to," he countered. "I am Lieutenant Lord William Ellesmere," he declared.

I blinked, momentarily surprised, but didn't let it phase me; so, this meant that he was either an earl or a duke, so my summation that he was well-bred was correct. "Fascinating," I drawled back, not really thinking so at all. "So, clearly, you are of the belief that, because you are titled, you may treat people however they wish. How is that working out for you?"

William narrowed his eyes as he completed his stride over to me, before he lifted his sword, clearly annoyed. "You have yet to introduce yourself."

"I am Sergeant Henry Ashworth," I said levelly.

"Ah-ha! So I outrank you!" he declared, and swung his sword.

I dodged his attempts, quick on my feet, as the blades clashed in mid-air. "It does not matter who outranks who here," I countered, pivoting to the left. "What matters is what you stand for, and what the heart wants."

Something in William's eyes seemed to flash for a moment before he surged forward, which I permitted him to do, only to move at the last moment, which got his sword stuck directly into a tree trunk. "Heart does not matter in war," he growled, pulling at the grip, in an effort to release the blade.

"I find it matters in any given scenario," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

William caught me by surprise as he yanked out the blade, swung around, and sliced effortlessly through my uniform. His eyes widened as the blade cut into the first layer of my skin, staining it and the uniform itself—the jacket, the shirt beneath, and, to my horror, the bindings which held my breasts in place.

I shrieked, attempting to cover myself with the tattered remains, but it was far too late—this man had seen—

"Dear God, you're a woman!" he hissed, trembling with shock. "How on Earth...?" He looked around for a moment, before coming closer to me. "What in God's name were you thinking? A woman—!"

I immediately stood on my toes and covered his mouth with the palm of my hand which wasn't currently occupied in protecting my modesty. "Will you keep your voice down?" I demanded of him, although my voice trembled.

William huffed, removing his jacket and putting it around my shoulders. "Is that a wig?" he asked at last.

I sighed, rolling my eyes as I reached upwards and pulled it off, my nearly-black hair tumbling down, past my waist. "Are you happy now?" I asked sarcastically.

"No!" he cried out. "I would never wish to see a lady in distress. What is your name?"

I kept my eyes in their previously rolled position. "Why don't you use your imagination?"

"Just tell me your name," said William, obviously exasperated.

"Henrietta," I said, speaking through gritted teeth.

William nodded his head, clearly deciding to believe me, and yanked me back in the direction of where I'd left my gun. "It wouldn't do to leave it behind," he said pragmatically, and carried it for me, but he did return my hanger to its hilt, as well as his own. We ventured into the Continental camp, with several soldiers gripping onto their muskets, but William held up his hand. "This lady is in distress. I am merely escorting her here," he said.

The men lowered their weapons, but kept their eyes on William.

"My stepmother is the doctor here," William explained as he nodded towards what I assumed was the medical tent.

"You...?" I turned and looked up at him. "You're General Fraser's son?"

"Now it is time for you to keep your voice down," William countered, not looking at me, as he brought me into the tent.

"William?" Claire asked, looking up from her herb sorting, and her eyes widened once she caught sight of me. "What's happened?" she demanded, hurrying forward and peeling William's jacket off me. "William Clarence Henry George Ransom! What in God's name have you done to this poor girl?"

"She was masquerading as a man," William said, rolling his eyes. "We engaged in a sword fight over rightful ownership of the creek, and I..." He lowered his eyes. "I suppose I bested her in battle..."

"Never mind that," Claire said, easing me away from William and sitting me down on a stool, taking in my wound. When she noticed that William was still there, she gave him a hard, impatient look. "You may go now," she said, rather pointedly.

William looked shocked, but nevertheless exited the medical tent.

Claire pursed her lips. "These are so shallow, they won't require stitches, but they will scar, unfortunately," she said, nodding her head, before she took something out of her kit and proceeded to clean the wound with antiseptic, causing me to hiss.

"I suppose it would be better if I told you who I really am," I said at last.

Claire nodded. "Yes, that would be best, considering you lied about your identity to my husband with likely forged documents."

"The only thing forged on there was my name," I told her plainly. "It's a marvel that, even two hundred and some odd years from now, women still aren't allowed properly into the armed forces... Queen Elizabeth really should do something about that, although she is merely a figurehead..."

Claire stopped working for a moment. "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. You're from the future, aren't you?"

"Not originally; I was born in 1780, in London, at the home of my uncle," I told her. "However, I became ill as a child..."

Her gaze snapped onto mine. "Henrietta?" she breathed. "Is it you?"

I nodded. "It's me," I told her, finding a smile somewhere, "Grandmama Claire. It's nice to finally meet you."

Claire shook her head, still clearly shocked. "After your mother time traveled too far back, she managed to find your father again," she whispered. "They're in Pennsylvania, at their home, in Philadelphia, with your older sister, Katya, your twin brother, Hans," she whispered.

I rolled my shoulders. "It would be complicated, now that I'm... Well, no longer a child in the eyes of the law," I said softly. "I'm eighteen."

Claire patted my cheek. "Jamie and I will find someone to get you out of here, and send you on to Philadelphia," she told me quietly.

And thus, I found myself in a carriage, occupied by my adopted half-brother, William, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere, who was instructed to bring me to Philadelphia himself. It would be seen as a reconciliation, as, he informed me, he had not seen our father in quite some time. He bore no ill will towards my mother, he assured me, but the revelation that he was Jamie Fraser's biological son was a less than stellar experience.

"It is not a day I wish to revisit anytime soon," he said bluntly.

"Thank goodness for the fichu," I said, in an effort to change the subject. "Wouldn't want to go into too much detail about the hideous scar under my collar bone."

William grimaced. "How many times do you wish me to apologize for that?"

I shrugged. "Once it is genuine, perhaps you may stop," I answered.

After ten days, we reached the house that our father, my mother, and our younger siblings called home, the carriage pulling to a stop directly in front of the house. I was wearing one of the dresses I'd pilfered from Auntie Bree, the pale pink actually looking somewhat attractive on me, although it was a color I seldom wore. The footmen attempted to bring me down from the carriage, but William pushed him out of the way and brought me down himself.

"You needn't be so rough," I chastised him.

William rolled his eyes. "It isn't as if he is a maiden in disguise."

I huffed at that. "I'm hardly a maiden," I told him.

William knocked at the door, and gave a smile to the plump woman who answered it. "Mrs. Figg," he said warmly.

"Oh, my dear lad," she said, cupping his cheeks happily. "You're home at last." She turned and regarded me, the same kindness in her eyes. "Hello, dear. Who do we have here?"

"Mrs. Figg, I heard the door," said a voice, and a gentleman of average height came into view, his eyes turning glassy when he caught sight of William. "William," he said softly.

William stepped inside the house, pulling me with him. "Papa," he said shortly, as the woman known as Mrs. Figg walked away.

I bit my lip, watching the exchange, until the man looked at me. "My lord," I said, curtsying to him, despite the notion that he was my father.

"William, you've brought a guest," the man said softly.

"Papa, this is..."

"John?" called another voice, and I very nearly gasped as my mother came into view, looking nearly identical to how I'd seen her, when she left me in the hospital, although now she was several months pregnant. "William," she breathed, stepping forward, but stopping short when she saw me. "Oh, dear Lord," she whispered.

"Papa, this is Henrietta Hathaway, a cousin of Alexandra's," William said, for this is the cover story he had been given.

My mother immediately took me by the arm and pulled me into the parlor, which was quite the feat given the advanced state of her pregnancy. She shut the door behind us and stared at me, eyes wide. "You stayed?" she whispered.

I nodded. "I did," I confirmed.

She sighed. "Are you still ill?"

"No," I answered. "Not completely. I have enough medicine to last me a year. I should be fine after that."

Slowly, she lifted her hand, cupping my cheek as her eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry I had to leave you," she whispered. "I didn't want to..."

"You didn't want to leave, but you couldn't stay," I told her. "I forgave you a long time ago, Mama, I have. I lived a good life. Uncle Roger and Auntie Bree were good to me, treating me as one of their own. I had everything I ever needed, as well as wanted. I wanted for nothing, Mama, and I was happy."

The door slowly opened behind us, and my mother turned towards her husband. "John," she said quietly, "Henrietta has returned to us."

My father's eyes were wide as he turned towards me, and, once the light hit his face properly, I knew there and then that he was the man who had taken us to the stones, sixteen years ago for me, but a matter of months for them. "Dear God in heaven," he breathed, approaching me, but stopped for a moment, catching a glimpse of something. He moved my fichu slightly, and my mother gasped.

"John!"

"Alexandra, she's been hurt," he told her, locking eyes with me. "Who did this to you?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter now."

John shook his head. "I happen to think it does," he told me firmly.

"John," my mother said firmly, stepping in between us, "please, not now. Henrietta is back with us, and she is safe. That's all that matters."

John sighed; this conversation clearly wasn't over. "For now," he allowed, as a lump rose in my throat, wondering what I was supposed to say next.