by Anne Renwick
“I require fine suture materials,” Mrs. McQuiston informed the proprietor as she set her black bag upon the counter. “A jar of skin salve. And three needles, size eight, nine, and ten.”
A finger lifted. “A moment.” He crossed to a multi-drawered wooden chest and returned with a selection of fine, curved surgical needles to spread them out upon a blue-velvet cloth. “You might also find this useful,” he said, adding a paper packet. “A new suture material. Sharksilk. Absorbable. Finer than any catgut I can provide and likely to work well with the number ten.”
“I’ll take them all,” she said, counting out several coins as the man wrapped everything in brown paper.
Alec coughed and stepped forward from behind a stuffed… dodo?
The shopkeeper looked up sharply, his lips pulling downward as he took in Alec’s shipwrecked appearance. “May I help you… sir?”
Time to cast a lure to see if she would bite. He pulled the surgical eyeglasses from his pocket and set them upon the counter directly within the woman’s view. “I’m looking for a replacement lens, a catadioptric dialyte.”
She inhaled, a soft gasp of air rushing past her parted lips. Her hands fluttered, flashing a network of unusual scars, before she tucked them into the folds of her skirts. Still, caught on his hook, she didn’t collect her purchases and depart.
Eyes wide and fingers twitching, the proprietor took in the details of the deceptively simple eyeglasses. He all but drooled. “Might I, sir?”
Logan would strangle Alec for allowing a civilian to see, much less examine, this particular prototype, but to produce a more interesting object from one of his many pockets would violate military law. “Of course,” Alec said, waving a casual hand at the device as if dismissing its value.
Mrs. McQuiston eyed him with obvious suspicion. Did she think him a thief, pawning stolen goods? “That would be the wrong kind of lens, Mister…?”
“Dr. McCullough.” He gave a brief bow.
Her mouth pursed, unconvinced. “If that device is in your possession, legally, you ought to know it requires a microlens filled with an electroreactive fluid that remains viscous at room temperature.”
Curious. An electric thrill ran over his skin. Not only did her words indicate extensive training, but she knew something of the research conducted behind the locked doors of Glaister Institute. Moreover, she sought to challenge him with a condescending recitation of obscure details. His opinion of her soared. This woman was no self-styled healer, yet somehow she’d escaped the facility’s notice.
They would have to become better acquainted.
He drank in every detail of her appearance, hunting for clues as to how he might accomplish just that, for there was no doubt in his mind that she knew something.
Her dress and her cloak were of wool in demure shades of gray, unadorned by fripperies such as ribbons or lace. But resting upon the counter were bright blue fingerless gloves knitted with an intricate pattern. A woman who took pains not to attract attention, allowing herself only the smallest of indulgences. What other personal extravagance of color might all the gray conceal? Red silk stockings beneath practical petticoats padded for warmth?
He shoved such inappropriate speculation aside. He ought not be toying with such thoughts about another man’s wife. There were some lines he wouldn’t cross.
Instead, he would have to appeal to her mind. But how?
Alec grinned. “I rather thought my odds of finding such a lens on this island were low.”
“So low as to be negligible.”
“Which is why I asked for a catadioptric dialyte lens.” Leaning an elbow onto the counter, he waved a hand in the air. “They find their way into establishments such as these all over Britain. But you are correct, it is less than ideal. Can you think of an attainable yet suitable replacement?”
“A Meikine lens might serve.” She tipped her head, her eyes bright with intelligence beneath arching brows. Her gaze skimmed over his unwashed form, reevaluating first impressions. “If one cannot be found here, the ferry travels to Ullapool daily. How desperate are you?”
“Growing more so by the day.” He winked, unable to turn off the charm despite his appearance. “Without the lens, it’s next to impossible to discern the fine mesh beneath a cephalopod skin graft. Not that the fishing nets have lifted much of particular interest thus far.”
She blinked, confused. “What kind of doctor did you say you were?”
“I didn’t.” His lips twitched. “The usual kind. My patients are almost always human.”
“Wouldn’t both squid and octopus tissue be incompatible with human flesh?”
“Yes, I would expect just that. Yet eight-legged creatures can stir up quite a bit of trouble.”
“Can they?” A question, yet her voice grew rigid, informing him their exchange was at an end. Telling, for he’d expected her to press him for more information.
“Er.” The proprietor’s eyes bounced between them. “If that’s all, Mrs. McQuiston, I’ll have a look in the back for that lens mentioned.”
“Of course.” Slipping on her gloves, she lifted her parcels and directed a parting question at the shopkeeper. “Will you and your wife be present at the wedding tonight?”
“We wouldn’t dream of missing such an event,” the man replied. “We’ll be there to witness your sister’s vows.”
With a sharp nod aimed in Alec’s direction, Mrs. McQuiston took her leave.
In a moment, he would make his excuses. Time to dig his razor and a bar of soap from the depths of his rucksack. He had a wedding to crash.
~~~
A safe distance from the gently lapping waves, Isa placed one worn black slipper beside another. Darkness approached as the Finn community gathered upon the sand. Among them Maren and Uncle Gregor stood, holding a small child. She let her gaze skim past the family without acknowledgement. It wasn’t their marriage or the fifteen-year age gap between them that set Isa’s teeth on edge, but rather the manner in which both had betrayed her.
Ignoring the first twinges of a headache, she tugged and pulled at the lacing that ran through the eyelets of her skirt, lifting the hemline so that its ruffled edge fluttered about her knees. Scandalously high by British standards, but a perfect length for standing in the surf. She tied a secure knot, then straightened to take a deep breath as salt spray misted her face.
Beside her, Nina stood, barefoot, her hands clasped tightly about a beautiful seashell-studded bouquet. “Thank goodness.” Her sister exhaled a sigh of relief. “I wasn’t certain Mrs. Carr would come.”
“Truly? She’d miss her own son’s wedding?”
Nina frowned and looked down at the sand. “She objects to the public venue and worries her grandchildren might be born with red hair.”
Ah. Now she understood. Their family was not Finn enough and no amount of tradition or ceremony could repair the tainted blood that flowed through the veins of their mother and her offspring.
The Carr children had all been surgically altered at the earliest possible age, the better to blend with others here in Stornoway, the island’s largest town where the ferry connected them with Ullapool on the mainland and Scottish strangers walked among them daily. But that didn’t mean Mrs. Carr wanted Scottish blood to enter her family’s bloodline.
The Finn people struggled to maintain their tight-knit community while adjusting to the demands and temptations of modern life. Over time, a number of local traditions—particularly those that took place in a more public arena—had faded. This particular stretch of sand hadn’t held a traditional Finn wedding ceremony since she was knee-high to a gull.
Jona’s decision to marry Isa’s sister in a public ceremony was tantamount to open rebellion.
“Just look at her heavy, full-length skirts and ankle boots,” Nina said. “Her pinched face. Who knows what threat Jona held over her, but at least she came. Oh! I almost forgot.” Isa’s sister caught her wrist in a quick grip and her eyes flas
hed. “Be warned, she’s of a mind to throw you and Elias together.”
Involuntarily, her gaze flicked across the beach. There, hovering on the edge of the gathering, slouched Elias and, indeed, his eyes were trained upon her. She quickly looked away.
A solid, dependable fisherman, he was neither old nor young, ugly nor handsome. After a lingering illness, his wife had passed away. As Mrs. Carr had made her disapproval of Isa’s lifestyle, traveling from Finn community to community while living alone on her houseboat, well known, she would be keen to match Elias and her, anchoring her firmly back into their community. In this particular case, Isa’s mother would do everything to assist Mrs. Carr.
Her mother stood behind her brother, Danel, as he touched a torch to a pile of driftwood. Growing flames threw sparks into the air, and an elder raised her hands to the sky, chanting in the ancient language. Letting the awe of tradition wash over her, Isa followed her sister to stand as her attendant beside the bonfire.
A wide smile spread across Nina’s face as Jona stepped forward to place a crown of seaweed upon his bride’s head. Beneath the ethereal light of the moon, they made their vows. Any worry Isa might have had for her sister melted away when she saw how Jona looked at her. As if she’d hung the stars. This was a love match.
Her smile faltered.
Had Anton ever looked at her in such a way? Their courtship had been brief. Only three meetings before he’d presented her with a ring. She’d accepted his proposal the very minute he agreed to allow her to become his assistant, to pursue further medical education in Glasgow. As the most senior member of the family, Uncle Gregor had overseen all the legal paperwork prior to their marriage, arranging a brief ceremony held in a church before a stern minister.
Would she ever marry again? Possibly. Somehow she didn’t think it very likely.
She blinked and realized the ceremony drew to a close.
Her heart twisted as Maren stepped forward, handing the elder her three-month-old daughter wrapped in a seal skin. The old woman carried the crying infant into the surf. Wet skirts swirled about her legs as she lifted the baby above the waves and began to chant.
A consecration to the sea. Gods whose names were all but forgotten were thanked. For peaking ears and joining fingers and toes. For slowing the breath and warming the skin. For transforming the Finnfolk so that they might harvest the bounty beyond the water’s edge. The child was dipped into the cold waters, then lifted once more to be named—Emma—and declared a daughter of the seal.
Isa wasn’t the only one who dashed away a tear or two. The old ways were beautiful, but dying, and this might be a sight never witnessed again.
“Oddest baptism I’ve ever observed,” a deep, male voice rumbled.
Startled from her thoughts, Isa spun on her toes and found herself eye to chest—Mother of Pearl, he was tall!—with the unkempt man from The Dragon and the Flea. Except the stained oilskins were gone, he’d shaved, and he no longer smelled like rancid fish. She caught herself leaning forward to find out if he smelled as pleasant now as he looked.
She stopped herself and presented him with a tight smile. “Do you always appear uninvited?” Dr. McCullough might be appropriately dressed, but he was certainly no Finn.
“Regularly.” His grin hitched up the corners of his lips, and he rocked backward on his heels, flicking a glance at her bare feet. “With such lovely bare ankles, what man could stay away?”
“It’s a private ceremony.” Her tone was clear: go away. Yet a traitorous heat sank into her cheeks.
Intelligent, blue eyes stared down at her, glinting as they reflected the light of the bonfire. A gust ruffled his overlong hair and a curving strand fell across his forehead. But for the jagged scar that ran from the corner of one eye across his cheekbone, he was uncommonly handsome. A fact she refused to acknowledge. “So I gathered,” he said. Not so much as a foot shifted.
The man was impossible. Behind her, voices rose offering their congratulations to the couple, to the parents.
Sighing heavily, she said, “It’s my sister’s wedding, and I need to join my family.” Whether she wished to or not. She glanced over her shoulder, relieved to find the happy couple at the center of attention. For once, no one took notice of her. If she wanted it to stay that way, Dr. McCullough needed to leave before Mrs. Carr turned her beady eyes in their direction. “You followed me. To the shop, and now you’ve followed me here. What is it you want?”
His smile faltered. “A conversation. No more.”
“I doubt that.” She turned away.
“Please.” He caught her elbow, the calloused pads of his fingertips catching on the raw silk of her sleeve.
Every nerve ending in her arm stood at attention. He was strong. That she could appreciate. But—considering they’d scarcely met—far, far too bold. Isa scowled.
He set her arm free, but made no apology. “Two deaths of an unusual nature—two that I am aware of so far—have been attributed to octopuses on this isle. Though dismissed by most as a gruesome yarn to which Scottish fishermen are prone, the tales are not entirely unsubstantiated. I have been charged with separating fact from fiction.”
All the blood drained from her face as various pieces began to fall into place. The picture forming in her mind was bone-chilling. Had there been more such deaths? Flitting from one community to the next, it was entirely possible she’d missed talk of other incidents.
He stepped closer. Too close. But she refused to cede her ground. “Ah, you do know something.” His voice dropped. “What must I do to convince you to speak with me?”
She couldn’t. To do so would be to expose the Finn to outside scrutiny. That hadn’t ended well for her husband, and she certainly would not invite Dr. McCullough, with clear ties to the Glaister Institute, into their midst. “I have nothing to share,” she insisted, backing away.
A scream tore across the beach, slicing through the wind, freezing her where she stood. Words and phrases rippled through the gathering. “Larsa dead… washed ashore… attacked… happened again.” One word in particular made her blood run cold. Tentacle.
In that moment, choice was taken from her. Either she assisted this man or, given the look upon his face, he would insert himself—forcibly—into the Finn community. As a guide she could smooth the path and perhaps contain any resulting damage.
Dr. McCullough cleared his throat, his eyes searching through the crowd, as if deciding who else he might approach. “A third?”
“Fine,” she hissed. He had to be stopped from approaching the knot of people gathering about what must be Larsa’s corpse. “I will speak with you. But not here. Not now. Trust me, overt interference will cause more trouble than it’s worth.” She pushed at his arm, surprisingly muscular beneath his sleeve, urging him to hurry away. “You must go. Meet me by the quay at midnight.”
Chapter Five
LONG BEFORE THE MIDNIGHT hour arrived, Isa stood quayside, listening to the waves churn as the wind blew clouds across the moon, bringing a light rain that—with the late hour—kept those inclined to wander inside. The hooded, woolen cloak she wore provided a comforting measure of anonymity, concealing her rigid posture and her hands that tightly clasped the handle of her medical bag before her. Waiting, she stared out at the horizon to where cobalt sky met black water.
Unwise, meeting a strange man alone on a dark beach. She ought to have informed the elders of Dr. McCullough’s presence, of his interest in Larsa’s death. But Finn detested the scrutiny of outsiders and, with such a warning, they would have closed ranks, refusing to speak to him.
She’d seen Larsa’s body, albeit from a distance. The bite mark upon his shoulder, the hole in his chest, the tentacle, the lack of blood—all called to mind the man who had died before she could operate. And then there were the rumors. She’d questioned her brother who admitted to hearing whispers of Finn men disappearing from boats, only to be found w
eeks later washed up on beaches without a drop of blood left in their bodies.
A larger pattern was emerging and, given that it had attracted the attention of at least one Scottish physician, it was one she couldn’t ignore. At the store, he’d mentioned octopus skin grafts and fine mesh. Acid swirled in her stomach. What dreadful facts would he impart? How much should she share without revealing their unique physiology to an outsider? How would the Finn community react if—when—they realized she assisted a Scot?
“You think very loudly, Mrs. McQuiston.”
Dr. McCullough. The very tenor of his voice sent a tremor across her skin, an exceedingly unprofessional reaction to a fellow medical professional. Particularly in light of the topic they met to discuss.
“And what am I thinking?” she asked, taking a deep, steadying breath before turning around.
How long had he been standing there, watching her? A tremor ran through her. His hands were tucked into two of the many patch-like pockets sewn atop dark, loose-fitting trousers. The cut of his wool coat was loose, allowing for the unrestricted movement of his wide shoulders and muscular arms. A rucksack lay at his feet. Despite his casual stance, he was not a man to be trifled with.
A corner of his mouth hitched upward. “You are clearly contemplating how to take advantage of me.”
Was he flirting with her? Her mind rapped her knuckles as an unfamiliar warmth flooded her chest. She pursed her lips, refusing to allow his charm to worm its way past her good sense. “Is such a thing possible?”
He laughed. Laughed! “Perhaps. But only a few have dared to try.” He lifted his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder before holding out his elbow, as a gentleman did for a lady. “Allow me to escort you to the body. The more time that passes, the fewer answers it will provide us. After our examination, we shall discuss the findings.”
“Such inclusive words.” Isa narrowed her eyes at his elbow and took not one step. “But I have little confidence that you—a man—will treat me as an equal.” Allowing him access to Larsa’s remains was a risk. Should they be discovered, any repercussions would fall upon her head, while he could easily depart without sharing so much as a single piece of unique information. She scanned his many pockets. “Perhaps if you provide me with an item of collateral. Your surgical eyeglasses will suffice.”
