Abruptly he stands, heading to his study, closing the door behind him.
The moment I hear it click shut, my knees buckle and I hit the floor, the soup pot landing beside me with a gentle thud.
Sleep comes in snatches, punctuated by terrible dreams. In them I hear screaming, see carpets of blood creep towards my feet, my mother’s face mouthing words I can’t make out from beneath glassy waters. I wake between these nightmares and can hear my heart in my ears, as sweat cools on my skin. Each time is worse than the last, as though my brain is trying to outdo itself.
The worst, though, is the time I wake and realize I’m not alone. A thin shaft of light shines on the wall by my head, and soft breathing comes from the doorway behind me.
My father is there, watching me sleep. Just like he did that night.
Almost as soon as I realize it, the beam narrows and vanishes, the latch closing so quietly I wouldn’t have heard it if I wasn’t awake. A moment later I hear his bedroom door close, distinctive because it always sticks.
I don’t even attempt to go back to sleep. Instead I get up, throwing a shawl over my shoulders. I tiptoe to the bedroom door and lift the latch silently, sneaking to the kitchen to light a candle, before returning to my room and wedging my shawl between the bottom of the door and the floor to keep any telltale glow from giving me away. Then I sit at my desk and pull a sheaf of paper towards me. I open a jar of ink, dip my favourite pen in it and begin to write.
I compose two letters. Both are to Giles Stewart.
The first tells him the levels of the loch are falling rapidly. It details everything I can remember from the Naomhfhuil logs over the past few weeks, up until tonight, where I add that the bottom-feeding fish are beginning to come to the surface. I tell him in no uncertain terms that his mill is using too much water. He’ll care if his income and status is threatened, maybe. I can’t do more than try.
The second tells him that I lied about the night my mother vanished. That he was right all along; my father did kill her. I tell him everything I remember – the shots, the gun, my mother’s missing body. I don’t bother with apologies, excuses or explanations. They won’t matter to him, or to the sheriff he’ll have to pass it on to. They’ll just want facts, so that’s what I give them.
I seal both letters inside envelopes and hide them under my pillow. Then I lie back down and watch the candle burn all the way till dawn.
I’m still awake when my father leaves the cottage, not long after the sky has finally begun to lighten. Thanks to my sleepless night my head is full of wool, and I know from experience the only thing that will get me through the day is raiding my father’s stash of coffee. I brew a huge mugful, opening the window to let the aroma out. Then I lace it with obscene amounts of honey and carry it back to my room.
Closing the inner shutters over my window, I open the switchblade and dig it into the seam between the floorboards, levering the loose one up. Duncan should be almost at the village by now; he’ll stay overnight in the inn, hosted by Giles, and leave the next day with an extra, unexpected package – though he won’t know it. He’ll make his way down the mountain towards Balinkeld, where I’ll hop out and find a convenient barn or outbuilding to stay in overnight, before getting the stagecoach onwards to Thurso. Easy as you like.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be gone.
I unroll the canvas bag I made from scraps of old sail from the boats. It’s ugly but sturdy, and that’s all I need it to be. In go my two pretty dresses – I want to look like I belong in town, and I know from listening to the gossips in Maggie Wilson’s store that women down there wear a lot more lace than we do. I add my nicest everyday clothes, stockings and underwear too, all of it a mix of what I salvaged of my mother’s old clothes and what I could bear to buy from Maggie.
Next is my new, thick winter earasaid, lined with what Ren assures me is the finest lamb’s wool. It’s soft, so soft, and when I lay my head on it, I swoon with sleepiness. I hastily fold it and shove it in the bag, taking a hefty gulp of coffee after. No more of that, thank you.
I leave the boots where they are – I plan to wear them for the journey – but I pack my pens and ink with care, wrapping those and my jar of gold-leaf scraps in an old blouse. I also split the money up – only a fool would keep it together. I fill small bags, one for each boot, to tuck down beside my ankles, another to put in my underclothes, and I’ll attach a fourth to my belt.
Then I add the gun.
I lay it on top of the earasaid, reverently as a mother lays down a newborn. Finally, I reach for the bullets. Curious, I open the box. Six tiny rounds sit in a neat square. I asked for four, only wanted enough to fill the gun, but here’s a full set. Including the two bullets still in the gun, that’s eight deaths at my disposal. I take one out and hold it up. It’s as long as the first joint of my little finger, and just a little slimmer. The casing is silver, and so is the rounded surface of the actual bullet embedded at the tip. It looks so elegant. I shudder and put the bullet back in its place, then slip the box into a pocket I sewed especially into the bag.
There. I have everything I need.
Thanks to Ren.
I squash down thoughts of him, trying to bury my guilt beneath my fluttering heart. I close the bag, realizing it won’t fit back under the floorboards now that it’s full. I shove it under my bed instead, wishing I could do the same with my conscience. Ren’s the only person in Ormscaula to be a real friend to me in the last seven years and I held a gun to his head.
I need to apologize to him before I go. Today.
Screwing up my face, I drain the last of my coffee and push myself to my feet, throwing open my bedroom door.
Only to come face to face with my father.
My stomach drops. I don’t know how long he’s been out there, listening through the door. I wasn’t paying attention and now there will be a reckoning.
It’s only when he swears sharply, clearly as startled as I am, and I see the net clutched in his hands, that I understand why he’s there. A strange sense of déjà vu comes over me.
“Get dressed,” he commands. “I need you at the sheds. The net at the north shore wants replacing. Again.”
It’s not until the afternoon that I finally make it to the mountain path, my mood sour as early cherries as I head towards the village. My hands are sore from needle pricks and rope burns, and my nerves are shredded worse than the net. The only saving grace was that when I started to load the repaired net into the cart to take it north, he told me in dark tones he’d do it himself this time.
“I fitted it properly,” I’d insisted, outraged at the implication.
“Did I say you didn’t?” he’d said gruffly.
“No. What time will you be back for supper?” I’d asked.
“I don’t know. Likely not until late, if at all. Leave my supper in the warmer. Don’t come looking for me if I don’t come back,” he’d warned. “And keep your hands off my coffee.”
We’d walked back to the cottage together, where I’d waited until he was out of sight. He’d said not to go looking for him, but he didn’t say I was to stay in the house…
I repeat it like a magic spell as I make my way down to Ormscaula. I just need to find Ren and say I’m sorry. And goodbye, although he won’t know it.