Scotland?”
“Oh, yes. A kilt . I thought she said a killed pin.”
“Look at that detail,” Dean pressed. “Is that a clan ensign, do you think?”
Before she could say anything, he had snatched the pin from Ewan’s palm and tossed it at her. Emmie reacted without thinking, catching the pin in both hands. She barely heard Ewan say, “She should be wearing gloves, Deano,” before she was hammered by a wave of emotion.
It was the strongest rush she’d ever experienced. Rage. Pain. Grief. Anguish. It all rolled over and through her, constricting her lungs, her heart, her throat.
Sophie was the first to notice something was wrong. “Hey, Em. You okay? Your hands are shaking.”
“Emmie?” Famke repeated when she didn’t answer.
“Yes—I… I just haven’t been feeling well lately,” she forced herself to choke out. Her voice was strained, hoarse. “I think I need to go back inside.”
“I’ll help you,” Dean, insisted. Ewan stopped him.
“No, Deano. You stay here. Emmie, let me help you.”
He took the pin from her trembling hand, and put it back on the table. Taking her gently by the elbow, he led her back to the house. He was patient, letting her walk at her own pace, and Emmie was immensely grateful that he didn’t try and talk to her. What would she say?
He stopped at the front door, and looked into her face. His eyes, which Emmie hadn’t before noticed were a clear green with gold flecks, searched her face beneath that full, brown beard.
“Do you need help inside? Or can I get Lamb for you?”
Emmie shook her head. “I—I just need to sit down, I think.”
“You’re not diabetic, are you? A low blood sugar? You look as pale as a sheet and you’re sweating.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t know what happened, really.”
Ewan breathed deeply, and glanced up at the sky. “Sometimes it just happens. You’re fine one minute, then the next you feel like you’ve been hit by a lorry. If you haven’t bounced back in an hour or so, make sure you tell Lamb. I’d feel better if he knew you were poorly.”
“I will. I promise. Tell the others I’m sorry.”
Ewan snorted. “Adam and Deano? They don’t deserve it.”
He waited while she went inside. She thanked him once again before closing the door. His concern for her well-being caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle, but he raised a hand in farewell and let her go.
Safe behind the walls of Tullybrae House, Emmie climbed the main staircase on heavy legs, and hauled herself to the servants’ stairs. But once she reached them, her legs would climb no further. Instead, she sank pitifully onto the first stair, leaned back against the wall, and pulled her knees to her chest.
Burying her face in her arms, she lost the fight against a torrent of tears—tears which she could not account for. They consumed her. The anguish she’d first felt upon touching that kilt pin squeezed her heart until she thought it would stop. Great, heaving sobs poured out of her into the empty air. She tried to staunch them; she didn’t want Lamb to hear. But it was no use. Her nose ran, her mascara tracked down her cheeks, and her face turned a bright shade of crimson. It was ugly, angry crying. Helpless grief.
The more she cried, the more her sobs echoed back to her. They bounced off the walls in stereo, coming back in unsynchronized rhythm. Her own voice…
Wait… not her own voice.
Not an echo.
Emmie sniffled, and quieted. The sobbing quieted, too.
Rubbing her eyes into focus, she scanned the second floor landing. There was no one there. Yet, she felt certain that someone was there, in the stairwell with her. Closer to the door.
She peered. Squinted. Strained. Tried to make sense of the discrepancy between what she saw, and what she felt. The longer she stared, the more the air by the door began to shift. To shimmer, like heat rising from pavement.
Then slowly, the shifting, shimmering air took on the vague outline of a
“Oh, yes. A kilt . I thought she said a killed pin.”
“Look at that detail,” Dean pressed. “Is that a clan ensign, do you think?”
Before she could say anything, he had snatched the pin from Ewan’s palm and tossed it at her. Emmie reacted without thinking, catching the pin in both hands. She barely heard Ewan say, “She should be wearing gloves, Deano,” before she was hammered by a wave of emotion.
It was the strongest rush she’d ever experienced. Rage. Pain. Grief. Anguish. It all rolled over and through her, constricting her lungs, her heart, her throat.
Sophie was the first to notice something was wrong. “Hey, Em. You okay? Your hands are shaking.”
“Emmie?” Famke repeated when she didn’t answer.
“Yes—I… I just haven’t been feeling well lately,” she forced herself to choke out. Her voice was strained, hoarse. “I think I need to go back inside.”
“I’ll help you,” Dean, insisted. Ewan stopped him.
“No, Deano. You stay here. Emmie, let me help you.”
He took the pin from her trembling hand, and put it back on the table. Taking her gently by the elbow, he led her back to the house. He was patient, letting her walk at her own pace, and Emmie was immensely grateful that he didn’t try and talk to her. What would she say?
He stopped at the front door, and looked into her face. His eyes, which Emmie hadn’t before noticed were a clear green with gold flecks, searched her face beneath that full, brown beard.
“Do you need help inside? Or can I get Lamb for you?”
Emmie shook her head. “I—I just need to sit down, I think.”
“You’re not diabetic, are you? A low blood sugar? You look as pale as a sheet and you’re sweating.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t know what happened, really.”
Ewan breathed deeply, and glanced up at the sky. “Sometimes it just happens. You’re fine one minute, then the next you feel like you’ve been hit by a lorry. If you haven’t bounced back in an hour or so, make sure you tell Lamb. I’d feel better if he knew you were poorly.”
“I will. I promise. Tell the others I’m sorry.”
Ewan snorted. “Adam and Deano? They don’t deserve it.”
He waited while she went inside. She thanked him once again before closing the door. His concern for her well-being caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle, but he raised a hand in farewell and let her go.
Safe behind the walls of Tullybrae House, Emmie climbed the main staircase on heavy legs, and hauled herself to the servants’ stairs. But once she reached them, her legs would climb no further. Instead, she sank pitifully onto the first stair, leaned back against the wall, and pulled her knees to her chest.
Burying her face in her arms, she lost the fight against a torrent of tears—tears which she could not account for. They consumed her. The anguish she’d first felt upon touching that kilt pin squeezed her heart until she thought it would stop. Great, heaving sobs poured out of her into the empty air. She tried to staunch them; she didn’t want Lamb to hear. But it was no use. Her nose ran, her mascara tracked down her cheeks, and her face turned a bright shade of crimson. It was ugly, angry crying. Helpless grief.
The more she cried, the more her sobs echoed back to her. They bounced off the walls in stereo, coming back in unsynchronized rhythm. Her own voice…
Wait… not her own voice.
Not an echo.
Emmie sniffled, and quieted. The sobbing quieted, too.
Rubbing her eyes into focus, she scanned the second floor landing. There was no one there. Yet, she felt certain that someone was there, in the stairwell with her. Closer to the door.
She peered. Squinted. Strained. Tried to make sense of the discrepancy between what she saw, and what she felt. The longer she stared, the more the air by the door began to shift. To shimmer, like heat rising from pavement.
Then slowly, the shifting, shimmering air took on the vague outline of a
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