Page 2 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

When no such occurrence happened, I blinked at the dimly lit hall, and crouched like an automaton, collecting my things and stuffing them into the remnants of my case. The thing refused to go back into its original shape, and I gave it up as a bad job as my phone buzzed dramatically.

“Abusive, aren’t you?” I muttered, picking the call up.

“I beg your pardon?” A confused and distinct Scottish lilt muttered on the other end in a facade of politeness that only just came through.

“Oh, sorry. Traveling difficulties.” Not exactly a lie. “Is this Bettina?”

“Yes.” Relief coated the caller’s tone. “Did you find the castle? It’s the big stone building at the end of the loch,” she added helpfully, her brogue thickening with each word.

“I found it. I thought you were going to be here with the welcome pack?” I attempted to keep the accusation out of my voice, and failed miserably.

“Welcome pack is in the kitchen. End of the hall. Left, left, down the stairs, another two lefts and a right. And a left and a right. You’ll find it. Think of it as an orientation discovery tour,” Bettina said cheerfully. “I’m off for a trip into town for a few weeks and I’ll be back after the new year. There’s plenty of food in the pantry, eggs in the chicken run and the milk is out the back.”

“Milk is out the…why?” I asked, my stomach dropping.

“Oh, Buttercup is easy. Don’t you stress.” Bettina giggled.

“Buttercup. Like…a cow?”

“She’s a sweet little Highland coo. Loves a good chat. You just sit down and you’ll get the freshest milk you’ve ever had.”

I prefer mine straight from the source. The bottled sort.

Or a plastic carton.

“Right.” I cleared my throat. “And um, any other creatures I need to know about?”

“Ally might be about. Ignore him. He’s a fixture by now.”

“Okay then.”

“Yes. Merry Christmas and all. Oh, you’re the painter one, aren’t you? Easels are in the top of the tower, east wing. Door tends to stick. Be firm with it, don’t let the ol’ castle boss you around. Bye now!”

The call ended. I found myself staring at a blank phone, my unmentionables dancing around my ankles, and wondering why I had launched myself halfway around the world for an art trip that seemed doomed before it started.

And I sure as hell wasn’t milking a freakingcoo.

Four rights, a left, another left and two sets of stairs that weren’t on Bettina’s list later, I was lost in castle hell. I had found a moat, unfilled, no alligators that six-year-old me would have been devastated to discover. The kitchen and rear of the castle was nowhere in sight.

I ardently hoped Buttercup didn’t require milking any time soon as not only was I not up to the task, but I hadn’t found the butt end of the castle yet. My decision to leave my ruined case at the—locked, I wasn’t that silly—front door weighed on me with each step. I considered retracing those steps but my confidence in locating that same entrance hall faded with each new corridor I turned down.

Finally, I found a stairwell that only wentup.

“One choice, huh?” I stared into the gloomy—and gray—curved stone staircase that seemed as unadorned as the rest of the muted behemoth.

A once-three-candle, now-one-candle-candelabra rattled in its holder. I nodded to it.

“Agreed. Up we go.”

Speaking to inanimate objects had become a way of life for me years before. Paintbrushes, canvases, even potted plants became conversational companions, even if the chatter was a little one sided. A function of progressive ADHD, or so my childhood therapist assured me, though I suspected it was just something that artists often did when their psyche sank deep in a creative moment.

Not that I could claim any sort of creativeness as I entered the stairwell and started up. My thighs moaned after the first three dozen steps that wound tighter and closer, and screamedat the eighth dozen. I stopped counting after that, unwilling to become more demoralized. But I'd told the candelabra we were headed up, and I refused to return to that hallway without claiming my prize of achievingsomedestination for the day.

Not that I expected said candelabra to judge me on my life choices, though I might. Panting and grousing at the streak of stubbornness and more than a touch sweaty, I turned a corner and could have wept. An arched door covered in scars of an era long past stood before me.

Destination achieved.

I leaned against its hard surface and gave it a little pat. “Hi there,” I murmured, hope springing from an eternal well of the stuff I kept in reserve, if well buried.

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