‘Better for seeing you,’ Morag replied, her eyes twinkling. ‘Tell me, how’s the story coming along? Do you need any more inspiration?’
Merry didn’t – the story was taking shape almost effortlessly on her laptop – but it was obvious that the old woman was desperate for an opportunity to reminisce about the past and revisit her youth, and it felt like the least Merry could do to listen.
‘I am always open to inspiration,’ she told Morag, who waved to the young waitress making her way among the tables.
‘I’m going to take a short break,’ she said, when the girl hurried over. ‘Let me know if you need help.’
The girl glanced shyly at Merry and nodded. ‘Of course, Morag. Can I get you anything?’
The older woman asked for a pot of tea and led Merry over to an empty table in the window. ‘This used to be Giovanni’s favourite seat,’ she told Merry. ‘When the doors were closed for the evening, he’d sometimes set it up like a street restaurant in Rome, with candles and roses and suchlike. We’d sip red wine and pretend we were looking out at the Trevi Fountain.’
Merry smiled. ‘It sounds wonderful. So romantic.’
Morag sighed. ‘Och, he knew all about romance. For my birthday one year, he borrowed a car from my uncle and loaded it with blankets and a hamper and champagne so that we could have a midnight picnic under the Merry Dancers.’
‘The Merry Dancers?’ Merry repeated, frowning in thought. ‘Are they more standing stones?’
‘Goodness, no,’ the older woman said, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘Although I admit, that would have been romantic too. No, the Merry Dancers are what we call the aurora. You might know them as the Northern Lights.’
Of course, Merry thought. She’d read that the aurora could often be seen during the winter months on Orkney but somehow she’d forgotten. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she told Morag. ‘But weren’t you cold?’
Morag’s gaze clouded over as she visited the memory. ‘Not really – we had love to keep us warm.’ Her eyes sharpened as they came to rest on Merry once more. ‘And a lot of very thick blankets – because he might have been romantic, but my Giovanni was also practical. He thought of everything.’
Merry pictured the scene and smiled. ‘The perfect man.’
‘When he wanted to be,’ Morag agreed. ‘So, you’ve not been aurora-hunting yourself?’
‘No,’ Merry said. ‘It hadn’t even occurred to me.’
Morag sniffed. ‘It wouldn’t, I suppose, what with you being a Londoner and all. But I’m surprised Niall hasn’t suggested it.’ She gave Merry a sideways look. ‘Or Magnús.’
There was definite hint of subtext that Merry chose to ignore. ‘I’ll ask them. It sounds like an unmissable sight.’
‘It is,’ Morag confirmed, and leaned across the table, lowering her voice. ‘And if you’ve a handsome man by your side when you see them, so much the better.’
She winked and Merry couldn’t help laughing. Was everyone on Orkney an incorrigible matchmaker? ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Morag had plenty of other stories to share, but it was the image of the midnight picnic, spread beneath a blanket of ethereal dancing light that stuck in Merry’s mind as she drove home. She deposited her shopping in the bedroom and settled on the sofa, phone in hand. That she wanted to see the aurora for herself was a given, but who should she ask to take her? Both Niall and Magnús would be willing to help, she knew, and she liked them both immensely. But one was business and the other was – well – not exactly pleasure, but he did cause a shiver of excitement to ripple through her whenever she saw him. Not that she wanted anything to happen between them – she was still determined to keep her time on Orkney as uncomplicated as possible. But as she was sure Jess would remind her, that didn’t mean she had to live like a nun.
Reaching a decision, she messaged before she had time to change her mind.
* * *
It was another week before Magnús deemed the weather promising enough to go aurora-hunting. Merry didn’t mind; her head was so full of the book she was writing that she barely knew what day it was and had to read his message twice when it arrived because she’d forgotten she had even suggested it.
Tonight, at 10pm. Dress warmly and plan to be out until the early hours. Don’t forget your camera!
Stretching, Merry closed the lid of her laptop and went to dig out the thermals she’d bought in preparation. It would do her good to get out of the croft, she decided. Other than her ever-increasing runs with Sheila, she hadn’t left the cottage for days. She was on first-name terms with the Tesco delivery driver now, and whole days sometimes slipped past without her even noticing the hours go by. It was like old times, when the words had flowed from her fingers and onto the screen almost like witchcraft, and she felt something sing deep inside her as she watched the story grow.
She hadn’t told Jess about running into Nick Borrowdale, mostly because she anticipated her friend’s first question would be whether he was single, but also because she wanted to keep the knowledge of Sam Silverton’s interest in her new book a secret. It would probably lead to nothing – she’d lost count of the times a studio or producer had made all the right noises about turning one of her novels into a film or TV drama and it had never happened yet. Practically every writer she knew had a similar tale to tell; the ones that made it onto the screen were few and far between. But perhaps it was the magic of Orkney, where stories seemed to have more power, or maybe it was simply the right story at the right time; whatever the reason, she had a good feeling about Sam’s interest, a sensation in the pit of her stomach that simply said yes.
She had sent the outline, anyway, along with the first 25,000 words, and tried not to feel guilty that he was seeing it before her agent. It would all come to nothing, she told herself whenever the uneasiness raised its head. And if anything did happen, she could cross that bridge when she got to it.
The skies were clearer than she’d ever seen them when Merry stepped outside the croft just after ten o’clock that night. She stood beside Magnús and gazed upwards, craning her neck as far back as it would go as she took in the myriad stars shimmering against the black velvet sky, with the merest crescent of moon hanging nearby.
‘Amazing,’ she breathed. ‘They feel so close. Are they always so bright?’
Magnús nodded. ‘On clear nights like this. Obviously, there’s very little light pollution here, which helps.’
‘I could look at them all night.’ She stared for a moment longer, then glanced at Magnús. ‘Although catching the aurora would be cool too.’
He grinned. ‘Let’s get going, then.’
She reached into the croft to grab her rucksack and holdall that contained everything she thought they might need. Magnús took the holdall and blinked in surprise at the weight. ‘What have you packed in here?’
‘Just some essentials,’ Merry said, waving an airy hand.
‘Essentials. Right,’ Magnús said, hefting the bag onto the rear seat of the jeep. ‘Did I mention it’s a two-mile hike to the best aurora-watching spot?’
Merry felt her mouth drop in dismay. ‘Two miles?’
Magnús grinned again and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘I’m kidding. There’s a car park just below the clifftop.’
The journey took twenty minutes, during which Magnús did his best to manage Merry’s expectations. ‘There’s no guarantee we will see anything at all,’ he warned, as he negotiated the black road that led to the northern tip of the island. ‘There’s really no predicting when the aurora will dance, but the moon is in her first phase so moonlight shouldn’t be much of a problem. And obviously, the weather is in our favour.’
The clear skies meant it was cold, however, and Merry was glad of both her woollen hat and the thermals she wore underneath her clothes. The walk from the car park to the top of the cliffs was enough to get her heart pumping, but nowhere near long enough to warm her for long, especially with the biting breeze that was blowing inlan
d from the sea. The view was uninterrupted but it came at a cost; Merry suspected her nose would be as red as a cherry within minutes, if it wasn’t already. So much for romantic; the young Morag had clearly been made of sterner stuff than Merry, she decided.
It transpired that Magnús had a rucksack and holdall of his own, so they made two trips from the car. And Merry laughed out loud when he produced a waterproof picnic rug and laid it on the grass. ‘Great minds think alike,’ she said, pulling a similar rug from her own rucksack. ‘Have you brought hot chocolate too?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve gone one better,’ he said, and refused to elaborate further.
Surely it couldn’t be champagne, Merry mused, although at least it would be perfectly chilled. They settled down, wrapped in thick blankets, and Magnús pointed out some of the constellations. ‘There’s Venus,’ he said, pointing to a particularly bright star. ‘And if you squint a bit, you might just be able to make out the Andromeda galaxy – see?’
He leaned closer and pointed so she could follow the line of his finger. The breath caught in her throat; the dense swirl of lights might be tiny and distant but it was more beautiful than she could have dreamed possible, a glistening opal surrounded by a forest of diamonds. She stared at it for a long time, forgetting about the cold, forgetting about Magnús beside her, imagining the far-off galaxy and the secrets it held.
‘Do you suppose they look at our cluster of planets and wonder what it is, the way we do with them?’ she asked eventually.
He spread his hands. ‘Who knows? But I find it a comforting thought that we are not alone in the universe, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I used to make up stories about other planets when I was a child. Too much Star Trek, I suppose.’
‘Even then, you were a writer,’ he observed.
‘Even then,’ she agreed, and smiled.
It took an hour for the first lights to appear, and they were so faint that Merry wasn’t sure Magnús was serious. She peered at a faint grey smudge on the horizon, watching as it flickered and vanished. ‘That’s it?’
‘Patience,’ Magnús said. ‘We’re going to have a very good show tonight – I can feel it.’
They sipped at the hot chocolate Merry had brought and munched on the pastries she’d collected from Rossi’s earlier that day. And slowly, before their eyes, the aurora unveiled its brilliance.
The colours were more muted than Merry had anticipated but the curtain of shifting light was still a sight to behold. Magnús let her gaze at it for a while, then touched her arm. ‘Now I’m going to let you into a secret. Did you bring your camera?’
Tearing her eyes away from the sea of greens, blues and pinks that bent and arced in the sky, Merry rummaged in her bag until she found the SLR camera she’d rarely had time to use. Switching it on, she handed it to Magnús. He knelt behind her and positioned the camera so that it was pointing at the sky where they could both see it.
‘Watch,’ he said, opening the flip screen.
The viewer exploded with colour and Merry couldn’t prevent a gasp of pure astonishment. It was the same view, with the intensity turned up by a million; the columns of light flexed and turned, dancing upwards and downwards across the screen with a shimmer Merry simply couldn’t pick up when she looked past the display to the sky itself. The blues and greens and pinks split into turquoise and cyan, emerald and lime, cherry blossom and bubble-gum, and yellow chased peach through the centre. She sat there, mesmerized by the sight, until at last Magnús sighed and lowered the camera.
‘I’m afraid I can’t feel my toes,’ he said, shifting away from her and getting to his feet with obvious regret. ‘I am sorry.’
Merry laughed and arched her back, suddenly aware of her own stiffening muscles. ‘It’s okay,’ she told him. ‘I should probably take some photos, anyway – my friend Jess won’t believe I actually did this otherwise.’
She stood up and took the camera, snapping off picture after picture, marvelling all over again at the incredible colours that showed on the screen.
‘The lens picks up more than the human eye,’ Magnús said. ‘Most aurora watchers view them through a camera screen.’
Once she’d taken plenty of photos with the camera, she pulled out her phone and snapped a few using that, so that she could send them easily to Jess. And then she saw the time – 12.40am.
‘I had no idea it was so late,’ she said, surprised to note she didn’t feel in the least bit tired. ‘Or is it early?’
‘The night is young in terms of the Dancers,’ he replied. ‘The best displays often happen in the early hours. But we can go any time you like.’
‘Not yet,’ she said, turning back to the curtain of dazzling colour. ‘I’m nowhere near ready to leave yet.’
‘In that case, it’s probably time for this.’
Magnús opened his rucksack and produced two tin mugs from inside. Then he pulled out a thermos flask and unscrewed the lid. A waft of whisky-laden steam hit Merry’s nostrils, with a hint of lemon and cinnamon beneath it.
‘A hot toddy!’ Merry said, beaming at him. ‘My grandmother used to swear by that to ward off a cold.’
‘Then we should certainly honour your grandmother’s wisdom,’ he said, pouring some of the steaming liquid into one of the mugs.
Merry took it gratefully and noticed he poured himself a much smaller measure. It was a shame he had to drive, but there was really no alternative; there were no handy night tubes to hop onto when it was time to head home. Wrapping her gloved hands around the hot metal mug, she took a sip and savoured the smoothness as the whisky mingled with the honey and caressed her taste buds. Magnús lowered himself to the rug next to her and they sat, side by side, sipping their drinks and watching the ever-shifting horizon.
‘Some people think my ancestors believed the aurora was a bridge that led to the gods,’ he said, after a while. ‘Others say they thought the lights were the glow reflected from the armour of the Valkyrie as they rode above the great battles and decided who would have the great honour of dying.’
It didn’t sound like much of an honour to Merry but she knew the Vikings had set great store in going down in a blaze of battle-fuelled glory. ‘I’ve heard the idea about the bridge before. It was called the Bivrost, wasn’t it?’
The look he gave her was impressed. ‘That’s right. It means “moving way” in Old Norse. How did you know?’
She smiled. ‘I’ve seen the Avengers movies,’ she said, her tone teasing. ‘But, actually, I must have read it somewhere. Authors are like that – we collect snippets of information and store them in our brains in case they ever come in useful.’
Magnús nodded. ‘That makes sense. So which theory appeals most to your imagination – a bridge to the gods or a symbol of the awe and the might of the Valkyrie?’
Merry considered the question. ‘Both are good, from a writer’s perspective – plenty of scope for conflict and drama. But I think I’d go for the bridge – gives the potential for a nice climax where our heroes ascend and finally meet the gods.’
‘Good answer,’ Magnús said approvingly.
The admiration in his voice made Merry feel warm in a way that no amount of hot toddy could manage. ‘How about you?’ she asked, as much to cover the blush that was creeping up her cheeks as anything. ‘Which theory do you prefer?’
‘I have a weakness for the Valkyrie,’ he said, with a self-deprecating smile. ‘There’s something about a strong, powerful woman who never shies away from battle that appeals to me. Probably because I was raised by my mother and my sister and that description fits them to a tee.’
Merry thought back to his compliment in the distillery, when he’d likened her to an avenging angel. He’d got that wrong, she decided with a little inward sigh; she couldn’t even cope with the death of her relationship, let alone choose who lived or died on the battlefield. ‘They sound awesome,’ she said out loud.
Magnus smiled. ‘Who, the Valkyrie?’
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‘I meant your mum and sister, but the Valkyrie are cool too,’ she said, swatting his arm because he’d known exactly what she’d meant. ‘I’d quite like to channel some of their strength and confidence, that’s for sure.’
He took a long, thoughtful sip from his mug, then sent a quizzical look her way. ‘You don’t think you are strong or confident? I beg to differ.’
He stretched out a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear. ‘You’re strong, resilient, talented and resourceful, not to mention intelligent and beautiful. In fact, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.’
The breath caught in Merry’s throat as his fingers brushed her skin and she almost forgot to feel embarrassed at the compliments he’d just paid her.
‘Thank you,’ she managed. ‘I don’t feel any of those things, except for maybe when I’m talking about writing, and even then I worry that people will think I’m a fraud. Especially since I haven’t written anything for so long.’
‘But you have written,’ he objected with a frown. ‘I’ve heard you read a story that kept an entire hall of people spellbound, and I know you’re working on a new idea now. That takes talent and whatever it was that stopped you writing doesn’t seem to be there anymore. Wouldn’t you agree?’
There wasn’t much she could say to that, she decided, and gave a reluctant nod.
‘And the fact that you’ve come through it, plus coped with the end of a long-term relationship, shows strength and resilience. Coming up with new story ideas suggests you’re resourceful, and turning them into something everyone wants to read takes intelligence.’
Now Merry’s cheeks were burning even more fiercely than the aurora. ‘Stop,’ she protested, lifting a gloved hand to fan her rosy face. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
He shrugged and went on as though he hadn’t heard. ‘I can’t prove that you’re beautiful, since that’s in the eye of the beholder, but would it help if I said you’re one of the most stunning women I have ever met?’
She stopped breathing. Had Magnús really just called her stunning? ‘I—’
Coming Home to Brightwater Bay Page 15
