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 into 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.
When I look up I see my father has begun eating, as though nothing is wrong. And maybe it isn’t. I’m being stupid; I doubt he even realizes what he’s done.
Pushing down the sorrow in my chest, I sit and lift one of the potatoes from the tray. It drips cream on to the plate, cheese and bacon oozing from the core. This was his speciality when I was little. I used to ask for it at least twice a week, though it was closer to twice a year that he’d make it. He bakes the potatoes in the stove, packed deep in a tray of ashes. When they’re almost done he brings them out and cleans the ash off, then he makes a hole, scooping the innards out. He mixes the potato with cheese and bacon, then crams it all back inside the skin, covering the hole. To serve, he slashes the tops and drizzles cream spiked with garlic and chives, thyme and tarragon over it. They taste salty and smoky and fatty and creamy, they taste like home, but I’m too nervous to take a bite, too frightened of what might come bubbling up to the surface if I do. I take a sip of water instead.
“Is he courting you? Murren Ross?”
I almost spit the water across the table. Ren, courting me? As though he’s a gentle laird and I’m a pretty maiden whose hand he seeks in marriage. I half-wish Ren was there to hear it. He’d die.
I manage to keep a straight face as I reply. “No,” I say. “No one’s courting me. Ren just gets the paper I need for transcribing, cheap from the mill. He came to deliver it because I didn’t go down. The mail cart is due at the end of the week, you see, so I have to finish my work in the next couple of days.”
My father gives a displeased “hmmm”, then falls silent, as he always does when I talk about my job.
Which is exactly is why I brought it up.