“The…others? This place must be packed with paranormal activity.” Her eyes search the corners of my cottage, as if she might spy a ghost around any turn.
“Skye is soaked in the supernatural.”
“And just soaked,” she comments, eyes lingering on the fat raindrops now starting to land on the double-paned windows. “That person I saw… It seemed less like a person and more—” she works her lips back and forth as she thinks “—a shadow or a mist with hard edges.”
“Legend goes, the plague doctor haunts the cemetery up at your hall. The local kids like to do séances up in the graveyard come Halloween—”
“Did you just say a plague doctor haunts the graveyard at Leith?”
“Story says he wears the whole medieval getup, cloak and mask that looks like a big bird beak just for dramatic effect. I think it’s Keats messin’ with the high schoolers, myself.”
She watches me carefully before she speaks her next words. “Maybe he’s looking for more patients to help. Trauma leaves an impact that can be felt across time. Energy doesn’t just cease to exist, it’s transferred—a matter of physics.” She stops herself then. “Sorry, I shouldn’t bore you with that stuff. I dated a quantum physics major last year, and the conversations were interesting, to say the least.”
I bring the tea to my lips, my gaze never leaving hers before I finally swallow. “All of Scotland, and Skye especially, is active with the blood of our forefathers.”
She considers my words for a moment. “Do you mind if I quote you on that? I’m taking tons of notes this summer for my thesis on evolutionary biology within a historical context. I have to show proof of my research if this study abroad semester is going to count for my degree. I also have to meet with the town historian, but I can’t seem to get ahold of anyone—”
“The town historian?” I scoff. “Well, you’ve already found him.”
“You?” she asks.
“Hardly. Keats is the man you’re looking for. Old as dirt and never spent more than a few days away from this town in all the miserable years of his life.”
“Keats?” She scrunches her nose with surprise. “How do you know so much about him if you can’t stand him anyway?”
I kick back in my chair as I bring my teacup to my lips. “I should know a thing or two. He is my brother after all.”
Fable
“Why are you really here? And this time, drop the innocent history student gig.” Alder Maclean’s brooding demeanor changed to one of indignant arrogance. His throaty accent rolled around in my brain like warm lava, and the way his eyes tracked me over the small kitchen table made me uncomfortable in more ways than one.
My stomach churned with the way he watched me, like a cat in the final moments before it pounced on a songbird.
I studied his gaze, dark with an intensity I’d never seen in anyone else’s. His eyes seemed honest, true, and humble, if not a little scary. But I decided then I could trust him.
I twisted my fingers in my lap before I breathed out, “My grandmother’s sister went missing from Leith Hall when she was eighteen years old. I want to know why.”
Alder’s eyes rose. A prickle of fear raced down my neck. Had I made a mistake?
“Lot of stories like that around here.”
“Why?”
“Faraway places have a way of attracting that kind of thing.”
“Disappearances? Or storytelling?”
“Both.”
“Are they true?” I asked in a rush, feeling for the first time closer to the great-aunt I’d never known.
“Some.”
“And the others?”
“Figments of overactive minds, I suppose.” One dark eyebrow arched. “Or madness.”
“They all sound interesting to me, to be honest,” I admitted, taking the last sip of my tea and then setting the cup between us.
“Are you ready for the truth yet?”
“Yet?” I leaned back in my chair, smiling easily at my unexpected tea companion.
“All the answers you’re looking for are right beneath your fingertips.”
“Do you always speak in poetic riddles?”
“Wouldn’t be a good Scot if I didn’t, now would I, lass?” His accent thickened on his last word as his grin deepened.
“If you lay that Scottish charm on any thicker, I may be tempted to stay at Leith forever.”
“Wouldn’t mind the company. Keats is a terrible tea companion.”
A shiver spider-walked down my spine and left my fingers tingling with some sense of awareness that Alder had just used the very term I’d been thinking about us. I recovered from the uncanny sense of déjà vu and smiled back at him. “We are good tea companions, aren’t we?”
He nodded once, finished his tea, and then stood from his chair. “Well, lass, hate to cut this short, but it sounds as if you’ve got your work cut out for you up at Leith.”
“I was exploring the graveyard earlier. Do you think Keats would mind if I cleaned the stones a little? Some are so hard to read, and I’d like to know more about the people who lived here, especially when my great-aunt would have been here.”
The muscles in Alder’s broad back bunched, his hands working a tea towel over the kitchen counter as he cleaned an invisible spill. “Have to ask him yourself.”
“He’s a little scary,” I admitted.
“Aren’t we all?” came his reply. I watched him continue to wipe the counter before a soft grunt echoed around the kitchen. He stopped, tossing the towel over his shoulder and turning away to stalk into the tiny living area. He lingered at the single window that overlooked the loch. He was a giant in his own space, so out of place as he ducked to look out the low-hung window. In fact, looking at the distinguished line of his nose and the hard cut of his jaw, I thought he would look more at home in a big manor house like Leith than he did in this small thatch and lime-washed cottage.
“Do you go up there often?” I ventured closer to him. I was drawn to the inexplicable nature of him.
“Not if I can help it.”
“Why?”
“Said so earlier. Keats is a terrible tea companion.”
“But he’s your brother.”
“And?” Alder cut his eyes to mine. “If you knew even half of the story, you’d…” He shook his head. “You’d…” He struggled to find the words. “Well, you should know it. It’s all in the books.”
“The books?”
He nodded once, jaw clenching and unclenching with a seeming simmering anger before he slammed his hand against the window frame with a grunt. “Work to do. You can walk yourself back to Leith, aye?”
I nodded, wetness springing to my eyes. “I— Yes, of course.” I backed away from the man who only seemed to grow in stature as he stalked toward me, and it struck a new sense of fear in my veins.
He passed me, brushing my shoulder as he gritted out, “And mind ye not walk too close to the water this time, lass.”
Embarrassment warmed my cheeks as I followed Alder Maclean out of his cottage. I vowed then that all of Scotland could catch fire and burn and I still wouldn’t venture this close to the loch and his cottage again.