You could be down the mountain and back within three hours, a sly voice says in my head.
I hide the gun away once more, then look out of my window, scanning the loch. No sign of my father. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t come back at any minute.
He took all that food, the voice continues. That’s a lot of food. I bet he plans to be out at least until supper tonight.
In the kitchen the clock chimes eight times. We eat supper around six, usually.
Down and back in three hours… Maybe your last chance…
Oh hell.
Before I can think better of it, I find myself outside with a basket in my hand, creeping along the edge of the loch in a plain brown earasaid, eyes peeled for any sign of him. When I make it to the mountain path unseen, some of the fear eases up; the chances of bumping into him on it are pretty remote, unless he has, finally, gone to see Giles. But something in my gut tells me that’s not where he is, and I look north one last time before beginning the journey down.
Almost an hour later, as I round the last bend on the mountain path, trailing my fingers through the heather, the low hum of Giles’s mill reaches me, disturbing my peace. Then I see Ormscaula; pretty cottages with thatched roofs and white walls, glowing in the sunlight, tiny dots of chickens scratching in neat squares of fenced-off dirt behind them. It’s like something from a storybook; I have to fight the urge to sing as I approach it, with my hair tucked neatly under my earasaid, rosy cheeked from the wind. A simple country maiden, wending her way to the picturesque village she calls home…
The walk back up the mountain is pure hell on my thighs.
Still, that’s ahead of me, along with the rest of my troubles, and it’s hard not to feel cheerful under the warm sun. The basket rests in the crook of my left arm, and in my right hand I have a trusty flintlock, half-cocked once more. I like the weight of it, the same as I like the weight of the knife that bounces gently against my leg with each step. What kind of girl – what kind of person – takes comfort in that?
This girl. This person. What can you do?
Just outside the village proper I pass the mill: a long, windowless building with a single tower churning white steam into the air, as the giant waterwheel sucks up water from the river. The noise this close to it is deafening, all roaring and creaking and thumping, and I scrunch my nose up against it, as if that’ll help. It’ll be a hundred times worse when Giles expands the mill. And the water it’ll need…
Not my business, I remind myself. Not my business, not my problem. Not any more.
I de-cock the gun and tuck it into the basket as I arrive into Ormscaula, where my mood immediately sours. Up close it’s still like something from a storybook, but the moment I cross the bridge and enter the village, the story changes from one where I might be the plucky young heroine to one where I’m the monster. Or, if not the actual monster, then the monster’s daughter. That’s what Giles would have them believe, at any rate.
And he’s right. My father is exactly what Giles says he is. He is a murderer.
I know, because I was there.
It’s why I can’t be angry with them for the way they treat me.
I pass Auld Iain Stewart, some third or fourth cousin of Giles, sitting out in his garden. He spots me and sucks in a deep breath, then kisses his knuckles and presses them to his forehead, warding against me like I’m a mountain geist. Women pull their children away from garden gates as I walk by, like being motherless is catching. Men passing me on their way to the mill stare through narrowed eyes, as if trying to figure out who I’m more like: my maybe-murderer recluse of a father, or my maybe-child-and-husband-abandoning mam. I don’t know which they think would be better.
From what Ren says, no one really believed Giles when he came haring down the mountain, shouting about murder. They nodded and said, aye, how terrible, but most folk reckon my mother left of her own free will, making for Balinkeld and beyond when she realized she’d shackled herself to a man who would always put the loch first. They saw enough in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance to believe she finally snapped and ran away.
It’s what gave me the idea to leave, actually. I like how they believe my mam is out there, living a life she’s chosen. I couldn’t save her from my da, but I can do this for us.
When I finally reach the village square I’m surprised to see people tossing old furniture and scraps from the mill to build a bonfire at the centre. Then I remember it’s almost time for the feis samhaid – the festival to bring on summer.
As I stare at the burgeoning pile I can almost taste charred sausages, salted butter and hot bread. I think of the last of the harvest apples from the autumn before, dried over winter, then sliced, speared on sticks and dipped in hot caramel that dripped on to your hands so you had to lick them clean. Birch sap in tiny cups, tasting like silk. My father lifting me on to his shoulders so I could see over the crowd to where the violinists were sawing away, the dancers spinning about the Staff, the lovers kissing.
I remember one particular year, him setting me down while he bought hot whisky for himself and my mother, and a cone of pine candy for me to suck while they supped. How my mother pushed her cup away and laughed.
“I can’t drink that now, can I?” she’d said, and he’d stared, baffled for a moment, before slapping his forehead.
“I forgot,” he’d grinned.
“Lucky you,” my mam had replied, and they’d both laughed.
I didn’t understand what was funny at the time. When they’d hugged I remember feeling left out of it, and alone…
Another memory pushes through, of the same feis, one of a scrawny boy with dirty-blond hair falling in his eyes, sitting alone on the well, a sturdy brace strapped to his leg, glaring around him as though he could repel people with the power of his mind. But not me. I walked over, away from my embracing parents, and sat next to him. I offered him a candy. I remember the crack it made when he bit into it, the crunching sound of teeth on hard sugar. He asked for another and I gave it to him. He ate the whole cone while I sucked the one sweet until it was gone.
Ren.
That was the last feis samhaid I went to. Just before…
“Alva?”
I realize Gavan Stewart, Giles’s son, is right in front of me, tentatively waving his hand before my face. Behind him his friends – who used to be my friends too – are watching. Their faces are amused, confused, and maybe a little disdainful, all at once. I straighten in response.
“Hallo there,” Gavan says, brown eyes lit with pleasure. “It’s nice to see you. It’s been a while. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” I nod towards the bonfire. “How’s it going?”
“Good. It’s going to be a great night. The best one yet, I reckon. Will you… Are you planning to come this year?”
Not many would ask me that without a snide note in their voice, but Gavan means it sincerely. He’s genuinely interested. He’s his father’s double – same reddish-gold hair, same ruddy complexion, same stocky build – but in temperament Gavan’s as sweet as can be. And he doesn’t need to be, not with Giles as a father and everyone desperate to curry favour because of it. The mill will be his one day – which means Ormscaula will be his, or as good as. Most boys would turn nasty with that sort of power.