He clutches his heart. “Ouch.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, why are you here? I told you not to come up the mountain. I said I’d come to you.”
The look he gives me is appraising. “Aye. And then you didn’t show up. It might not have been set in stone, but you’ve always come before when you’ve said you would. So, I was concerned.” He gives me a sour smile. “You could try being a little grateful. I just climbed up half a mile of mountain and trekked ten miles around a loch to make sure you weren’t dead.”
I don’t mean to glance at his twisted leg, but I do, and he sees it. We both blush.
“Well, thank you,” I mutter, without meeting his eyes. “I’m fine. One of the nets needed replacing, that’s all.” I hesitate. “You should probably go. You know my father doesn’t like villagers coming up here, nosing in his business.”
Ren laughs.
“I’m not nosing in your da’s business. I’m nosing in yours. Besides, how do you think I found you? He told me where you’d be.”
For a moment I’m speechless, fingers of alarm tightening around my throat. “You went to the cottage? My cottage? You spoke to him?” I manage to choke out. “Ren, do you ever listen to anything I say?”
“Yes. Every word. But sometimes after I’ve listened, I choose to ignore you. I call it ‘free will’.”
“Seriously—”
Ren holds out his hands to calm me. “He didn’t seem to mind. He offered me tea.”
My jaw drops.
“I said I was in a hurry, but maybe next time.” Ren grins, exposing pointed canines that give him a wolfish look. I turn away, trying to reel my temper in.
Wolfish is the perfect way to describe Ren: all sharp cheekbones and watchful eyes. Rangy, canny, a bit unkempt. And, above all, not one to turn your back on, because he’ll be behind you before you know it. As if to prove me right, his arm slips around my shoulder; he’s got closer while I’ve not been paying attention.
“Don’t be mad,” he coaxes, pulling me against him, his too-long hair tickling the top of my ear. “He really didn’t seem angry.”
I push him away and fold my own arms over my chest. “How would you know?”
“I know what angry men look like. You’ve seen the type that court my mam.”
There’s a twist in his voice, but his expression is still amused, mouth curving upwards, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that makes him look older than seventeen.
“Can I help?” He nods to the cart behind me. “Make up for disturbing your peace?”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask.
“Night shift. I’m all yours until dark.” He grins suggestively.
“Stop it.”
Ren shrugs lazily. “I’m serious. Let me help.”
I hesitate, then nod. It’ll go faster with both of us and the damage is done, my da already knows he’s here; I might as well benefit from it. “All right. You see the posts along the side of the shore there?” I point to them. “There are loops at the top and bottom of the net. They need to be threaded on to the posts, both ends. We’ll keep the nets on land while we do that. You stay here, and I’ll go far. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Ren slips off his satchel and places it carefully beneath the tree while I fold my earasaid and drape it over the cart handles. He helps me carry the net and unroll it, and we begin hooking it to the poles. We work in silence, setting a good rhythm of lifting, threading and then threading again, working in tandem until a short while later we’re heaving the centre of the net on to the last pole.
He’s kept up with me the whole time, matching my pace, and – annoyingly – he barely seems worse the wear for it. The underarms and back of my blouse are soaked with sweat, and I know without looking my face is bright red, but he looks as though he’s just woken from a refreshing nap; there’s barely a hint of pink in his cheeks. I suppose working in the mill keeps you fit.
He straightens and pushes his hair out of his eyes.
“You need a haircut,” I tell him.
“Are you offering?”
I pull a small switchblade from my pocket. “Aye, come here.”
He laughs, sweeping his hair back, and nods towards the net. “Now into the water?” he asks.
“Coward,” I mutter, catching his grin as we push the bottom of the net into the loch. It sinks down, bubbles rising. And then they stop, half of the net still above the surface.
We take a moment to get our breath back, looking out over the glassy loch.
“It’s low,” Ren says, nodding at the waterline. “Look, you could almost walk out to the mountain, there.”
He points over to the right, where the shallows of the marsh expose parts of the loch bed, leaving a boggy trail out towards the mountainside. Along it is a dark line that marks where the water used to reach. The surface now is far below, and Ren frowns at it.
“Have you told your da—” he says.
“Of course I have.” I cut him off. I told my father what was happening before the waterline had even dropped to the first notch on the poles that measure the depth. “Besides, he isn’t blind.” I nod towards the nearest one, three nicks visible in its side, showing how just much the loch has fallen. “He can see for himself.”
As I stare at those marks, my stomach clenches. Because I know my da can see what’s happening, but he’s not doing anything about it. And he should be. It’s his job. It’s the only reason we haven’t been run out of the village yet.
My father is the Naomhfhuil – the caretaker of the loch. A Douglas has been the Naomhfhuil of Ormscaula since the village was just four wattle-and-daub huts with delusions of grandeur, centuries before the earthquake and the merging of the lochs. It’s more than a job, it’s his calling – his sacred duty – to care for the loch: to read it, and tend it, and guard it. To let the villagers know when it’s in trouble. Except right now it is, and he hasn’t. And from what I can tell, he doesn’t plan to.
Which is a big problem, because these days Ormscaula revolves around one thing – Stewart’s Paper Mill. And Stewart’s Paper Mill is powered by the river that comes from our loch.
“Is your father not worried?” Ren asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Surely this doesn’t bode well for the mill? You know what Giles is like.”
I scowl, because I know exactly what he’s like. Cross Giles Stewart and you might suddenly find your or your family’s hours are cut at the mill, or that folk won’t buy milk or eggs from your farm, or drink in your tavern. Where he goes, others follow, if only to keep him onside. It’s cold in Ormscaula if Giles Stewart isn’t your pal; I speak from experience. But there’s nothing I, nor anyone else, can do about it.
Ormscaula is too small to need a mayor – we only see the mailman and the priest once or twice a year – but that hasn’t stopped Giles styling himself lord and master of the place. And who’s going to challenge him when it’s his mill and his money that pays everyone?
Except me and my da. And there’s no love lost between Da and Giles as it is; they’re old enemies. So if Giles finds out my father has been keeping something this big from him, he’ll come for us. Heavens know he’s been waiting long enough for a chance.
“He’s planning to expand, once summer comes. If the loch gets any lower…” Ren looks at me with questioning eyes.
“Since when do you care about Giles Stewart?” I say lightly. Ren is no gossip. But if he mentions the loch level to someone, even in passing, and it gets back to Giles, he’ll be straight up here to see for himself. And I can’t have that. Not now. “I didn’t think you liked working there anyway. Surely you’d be happy if it had to close for a bit?”
Ren’s expression darkens.
“Aye. You know me,” he says, a sharp note in his voice. “Any excuse not to put in a good day’s grind. Work-shy and feckless, like all my kind.”
“What? I didn’t mean… Ren…”
He walks back to the tree, lowering himself carefully down be
side his satchel and opening it, his mouth pinched tight, and I stare after him, confused.
The thing is, I do know him. And I know what it’s like when everyone has an opinion about you. I’m the daughter of Lachlan Douglas, a man everyone despises because Giles Stewart told them they ought to. So I’m disliked and distrusted by association. And Ren is Murren Ross, a slatternly Sassenach for a dam, and no idea who his sire is.
We’re bad apples, he and I. Fallen clean at the roots of the trees that grew us.
I hadn’t thought that bothered him, before now.
“I was joking,” I say softly. “I know you’re not… I know you.”
He pulls out a canteen of water and takes a long swig, then holds it out to me without meeting my eye.
Recognizing it as a gesture of forgiveness, I flop down beside him and take it, grateful for the cool, clear water. When he pulls out a packet of sandwiches and hands one to me wordlessly, I almost hug him.
Even in my ravenous state I take the time to taste them properly. Thin slices of marsh lamb and redcurrant jelly, stuffed into doorstep-thick slices of crusty bread that are slathered with so much salted butter I can see my teeth marks in it. I chew happily and the pair of us pass his canteen back and forth between mouthfuls, until it’s empty and the sandwiches are just crumbs.
“That was great,” I say, after we’re finished. “Thanks, for sharing.”
Ren smiles. “No bother. I made them especially.”
Sure he did. More like he swiped them from someone not paying enough attention.
I glance at the satchel as he reaches back into it and pulls out a wedge of fruit cake, breaking it in two and offering me the larger chunk. “Did you bring my things?” I ask as I take it.
He looks out over the loch, chewing his own cake thoughtfully. “I couldn’t,” he says after he’s swallowed, giving me a sideways look. “Guess that means you’ll have to come to the village tomorrow.”
For a moment I think he’s joking again, because why else would he have walked up the mountain, with his leg, if not to bring me what I’d asked for? But when he doesn’t smirk, or wink, when he just keeps staring out over the calm surface of the water, I realize he’s serious.
“Right.” I try to hide my confusion and disappointment. I think rapidly about what I need to do in the next few days before the mail cart comes. “That’s fine. Maybe not tomorrow, though. It depends.” On my father and his mood. “Can you keep them until I come and find you?”
He smiles. “So long as no one else wants them. I’m joking!” he adds when he sees the look on my face. “They’re yours. I got them for you. So I suppose you should tell me what they’re for.”
I shrug. “I would have thought that was obvious.”
“Of course. But what are they for?”
I’m tired of this conversation. It’s far from the first time we’ve had it. “Ren, I’m not going to tell you. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever. So stop asking.”
The look he gives me is fierce, but I don’t back down. I’m very good at keeping secrets. Ren blinks first and turns towards the loch.
“Mist’s coming in,” he says, and when I follow his gaze I see he’s right.
Eddies of mist are gathering in the rushes at the edge, lending them a blurry quality. A fish surfaces, sending ripples out. The temperature seems to drop at the same time, and I rub my arms, suddenly chilled.
“You could tell me, you know.” Ren keeps his eyes on the water, his tone careless. I’m not fooled by it, especially when he continues. “You can trust me.”
“It’s not about trust. It’s just none of your business,” I say gently, pushing myself to my feet. “Come on, you’ve work to get to, and we don’t want to be on the mountain after dark. We think a rabid lugh destroyed the net. We shouldn’t hang around.” I offer him a hand but he ignores it, rising awkwardly, all his weight on his left leg.
Before we go, I check the water level one more time. I’m stunned when I realize it has dropped again, a full inch, in the hours since we’ve been there. Though I can’t see it from here, I turn east in the direction of the village, where I can picture the mill down by the river, the waterwheel turning relentlessly, sucking the loch water up, the vats steaming away as logs are pulped, turning the loch to cloud.
I’ll talk to my father again, I decide. Something has to be done.
“Look.” Ren points through the mist to a part of the loch we can’t normally reach, bordered by the mountain. “See that hole? I bet it leads to the otters’ dens.”
“Holts,” I murmur, correcting him. “Otter dens are called holts.”
I peer in the direction of his finger, narrowing my eyes to focus. Just visible above the waterline is a dark hollow in the side of the mountain.
“That’s surely too big to be the opening to a holt,” I say.
“It’ll be the waves eroding it now it’s surface level. The otters won’t like it. Maybe they sabotaged your net. In protest.”
I snort a laugh, and then fall silent and still. Otters are shy creatures. In a lifetime living by the loch I’ve never actually seen one, though I’ve found their tracks a few times. I’ve certainly never seen the loch so low the underwater entrance to their den is visible, if that’s what it is.
“Or…” His voice turns dramatic, sinister. “Maybe it was a loch monster that ruined it. Some horrible, ancient beastie emerging from the depths to wreak its revenge on Ormscaula.”
“Maybe,” I say, allowing myself a smile. There’s only one monster up here, and it doesn’t live in the loch. But I don’t say anything, and neither does Ren.
The mist thickens, and the sun gets a little lower in the sky.
“Come on,” I say again. I put my earasaid back on and begin to walk, dragging the cart behind me.
The journey back is mostly silent, both of us lost in our thoughts, though every now and then one of us points out a falcon or a fish as the mist chases us all the way to the path down the mountain.
“Will you be all right going back alone?” I ask when we reach the fork that will take him on to Ormscaula and carry me back to my cottage in the opposite direction.
Ren gives me a look. “If I said no, would you offer to walk me home? Or invite me back to yours?” I am silent and he smiles. “I’ll be fine. Will you?”
In response I move my outer skirt aside, exposing the gun tucked into a holster. It’s one of a pair of flintlock pistols my father has, in addition to his two long guns, which I’m not allowed to use. The pistol is half-cocked already; I didn’t want to mess around with gunpowder and a bullet if a lugh did attack. Thankfully, I’m a good shot. And I have the switchblade in my pocket, just in case.
Ren doesn’t seem surprised by the gun. But then, why would he be, given what I’ve asked him to get for me?
“So that’s what you wanted the bullets for?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. “They’re going to be too small for that.”
I guess we’re not calling them things any more. I smooth my blouse down. “That’s not your concern.”
He looks as though he might say something else, but then throws his arms wide and turns, sauntering down the mountain path towards Ormscaula. I watch him until he’s out of sight, rounding the bend; the last thing I see is his hair, dyed red by the setting sun. Then I make for the sheds, dragging the cart with one hand, the other on the gun, before heading home.
FOUR
I open the door to the cottage and almost die of shock.
From the kitchen comes the sound of pans clanking. Someone else is in there, doing the work I’ve been doing since I was nine. And the smell. I know that smell. There are days and nights that I’ve craved it, would have done almost anything for it. For fluffy potatoes cooked in their own skins, swimming in cheese and herb cream, studded with crisp smoked bacon. Stunned, I lean against the door frame, mouth watering, mind whirring.
He’s cooking. My father is cooking.
That can’t be good.
I don’t go in
to the kitchen right away – instead, I go to his study to replace the gun in the lockbox, then to the washroom to clean myself up, taking the time to puzzle over why he’s suddenly cooking, but coming up with nothing to explain it. Back in my room I put on a fresh blouse and skirt, secreting the switchblade in a pocket before attempting to tame my wild curls into something resembling a braid. The string snaps as I try to knot it at the end of the plait, too old to cope with my mop any longer. I search for another bit, but quickly give up, tying a yellow scarf I find at the back of one of my drawers over my head instead.
When I finally go through to the kitchen, my father stands facing the stove. A knife glints in his hand, and I pause in the doorway, heart stuttering.
I swallow. Relax, I tell myself. He’s not gone to all the effort of cooking to kill you before dinner. If he’s going to do it, he’ll do it after.
Small comfort. Gallows humour.
“Smells good,” I say as I enter the kitchen. If he’s pretending this is normal, then so am I. “The new net is in place. I’ll check it in a couple of days. No sign of a lugh there.”
My father keeps his back to me but grunts in acknowledgement, and I light candles and gather plates and cutlery. He opens the oven door and pulls out a sizzling tray that fills the room with the scent of thyme and loss.
As he turns with it gripped in gloved hands, he glances at me and halts, startling so suddenly I’m afraid he’ll drop the food. But he recovers and carries it to the table as I pour a dark beer for him, setting the glass down at his place, and fetching water for myself.
“Is everything all right?” I dare. He’s still looking at me, his expression unreadable.
“Your hair…” I wait for the rest of the sentence, but instead he follows it up with: “Sit down. It’s ready.”
I look at the tray and see he’s cooked enough for three people, like he used to. Me, him. And Mam.
It hurts. For the first time in for ever I feel an old, familiar pain under my ribs, like someone has elbowed me sharply on the inside. Soul side. I close my eyes and breathe through my mouth, waiting for it to pass.
Hold Back the Tide Page 2
