me anew .
"I'll show him to his room,” said London.
"Righty-ho.” Puckle walked toward the rear of the house.
Mick followed London to the staircase. The long triangular treads spiraling upward were bowed deeply on the wider side. Each one groaned in turn beneath his feet. Shadowy corridors led from the landing. London opened the door of a small, spotlessly tidy room close by the stairs. “Thank you kindly,” Mick said again. “And the loo?"
"Just there, across the hall. I'll leave you to it. The dining room's downstairs on the left.” London's footsteps receded down the steps.
Mick dropped his rucksack on the bed. The weight inside his jacket as he draped it over a peg was the sgian dubh . All this time it had rested heavy as a bad conscience against his heart.
The face reflected in the mirror above the washbasin wasn't his own—bloodshot gray eyes were cushioned by black bags, stubbled cheeks were creased by hours of gritted teeth. His hair was a mare's nest. He yanked the elastic band from his ponytail and combed the dark waves smooth. He splashed his face with warm water and gargled with cold. A hot bath , he thought. Clean clothes. The starched white pillowcase on the bed beckoned him to sleep.
No. Waking or sleeping all he'd hear was his father's voice, begging for help he couldn't give. All he'd see was the road ahead, empty.
Mick hirpled back down the stairs, his feet clumsy on the misshapen treads, and stopped. The lass climbing the stairs also stopped, two steps below him. Her face turned toward him like a daffodil toward the sun. He'd once read an essay saying that flowers proved the grace of God. He must have died and gone to heaven, then, and here was an angel come to welcome him.
But she was staring as though she were the one peeking through the Pearly Gates, her eyes blue as wee bits of sky or sea. Her lips parted. “Hi."
She was one of the Americans Gupta had mentioned. “Hello yourself."
"I'm Rose Kildare."
"Mick Dewar."
"Oh, you're Calum's son. I found—uh—I'm sure you'll find him real soon now. Sorry, I'm in your way.” Without taking her eyes from his she edged toward the narrower side of the staircase and lost her balance.
He grasped her hand to steady her.
"Thank you,” she said.
"No problem.” Even after he released her hand its warm shape nestled in his. Her fragrance teased his nostrils. He inched past, until he was one step below her and they stood nose to nose. “I'll be seeing you later, then."
"Oh yes.” She smiled.
Blinded, Mick managed to walk himself down the stairs and into the dining room without falling.
Thomas London sat at the table, stirring a cup of tea. The man's expression was that grim he might as well have been digging a grave with his spoon. Gupta had told him about this chap London as well. He might help sort this business about relics. Mick had already sorted Gupta—no, his dad wasn't jealous and possessive of women.
A plate of roast beef sandwiches and crisps waited. So did a black and white cat, sitting beside his chair. Mick tore a wee bittie of beef and held it out. “There you are.” The cat nipped it from his fingers.
He sat down, bit into the sandwich, and chewed. His jaw felt heavy.
London pushed a steaming cup toward him. “Do you mind if I join you?"
"Not at all,” Mick returned thickly.
"I believe I'm a friend of your family. That is, I am if the most recent Malise Dewar of Glendochart was your—great-grandfather, I suppose?"
"That was my great-grandad's name right enough. And his grandad's. But my dad's the family genealogist."
"There's no news of him, I take it?"
"No.” Mick forced the wad of beef, bread, and mustard down his throat and gulped tea, burning his tongue.
A woman stepped through the doorway. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt depicting a cartoon armadillo, tire tracks a grid across its body. Her auburn hair swept back from a high, clear forehead. She frowned at London, not in anger, Mick thought,
"I'll show him to his room,” said London.
"Righty-ho.” Puckle walked toward the rear of the house.
Mick followed London to the staircase. The long triangular treads spiraling upward were bowed deeply on the wider side. Each one groaned in turn beneath his feet. Shadowy corridors led from the landing. London opened the door of a small, spotlessly tidy room close by the stairs. “Thank you kindly,” Mick said again. “And the loo?"
"Just there, across the hall. I'll leave you to it. The dining room's downstairs on the left.” London's footsteps receded down the steps.
Mick dropped his rucksack on the bed. The weight inside his jacket as he draped it over a peg was the sgian dubh . All this time it had rested heavy as a bad conscience against his heart.
The face reflected in the mirror above the washbasin wasn't his own—bloodshot gray eyes were cushioned by black bags, stubbled cheeks were creased by hours of gritted teeth. His hair was a mare's nest. He yanked the elastic band from his ponytail and combed the dark waves smooth. He splashed his face with warm water and gargled with cold. A hot bath , he thought. Clean clothes. The starched white pillowcase on the bed beckoned him to sleep.
No. Waking or sleeping all he'd hear was his father's voice, begging for help he couldn't give. All he'd see was the road ahead, empty.
Mick hirpled back down the stairs, his feet clumsy on the misshapen treads, and stopped. The lass climbing the stairs also stopped, two steps below him. Her face turned toward him like a daffodil toward the sun. He'd once read an essay saying that flowers proved the grace of God. He must have died and gone to heaven, then, and here was an angel come to welcome him.
But she was staring as though she were the one peeking through the Pearly Gates, her eyes blue as wee bits of sky or sea. Her lips parted. “Hi."
She was one of the Americans Gupta had mentioned. “Hello yourself."
"I'm Rose Kildare."
"Mick Dewar."
"Oh, you're Calum's son. I found—uh—I'm sure you'll find him real soon now. Sorry, I'm in your way.” Without taking her eyes from his she edged toward the narrower side of the staircase and lost her balance.
He grasped her hand to steady her.
"Thank you,” she said.
"No problem.” Even after he released her hand its warm shape nestled in his. Her fragrance teased his nostrils. He inched past, until he was one step below her and they stood nose to nose. “I'll be seeing you later, then."
"Oh yes.” She smiled.
Blinded, Mick managed to walk himself down the stairs and into the dining room without falling.
Thomas London sat at the table, stirring a cup of tea. The man's expression was that grim he might as well have been digging a grave with his spoon. Gupta had told him about this chap London as well. He might help sort this business about relics. Mick had already sorted Gupta—no, his dad wasn't jealous and possessive of women.
A plate of roast beef sandwiches and crisps waited. So did a black and white cat, sitting beside his chair. Mick tore a wee bittie of beef and held it out. “There you are.” The cat nipped it from his fingers.
He sat down, bit into the sandwich, and chewed. His jaw felt heavy.
London pushed a steaming cup toward him. “Do you mind if I join you?"
"Not at all,” Mick returned thickly.
"I believe I'm a friend of your family. That is, I am if the most recent Malise Dewar of Glendochart was your—great-grandfather, I suppose?"
"That was my great-grandad's name right enough. And his grandad's. But my dad's the family genealogist."
"There's no news of him, I take it?"
"No.” Mick forced the wad of beef, bread, and mustard down his throat and gulped tea, burning his tongue.
A woman stepped through the doorway. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt depicting a cartoon armadillo, tire tracks a grid across its body. Her auburn hair swept back from a high, clear forehead. She frowned at London, not in anger, Mick thought,
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