Page 4 of Wild Scottish Rose

It wasn’t until I invited people over, which was rare, that I took the time to look at the clutter I’d accumulated. It wasn’t even that I didn’t care about tidying up, it was just that I’d overbooked myself. I couldn’t even blame it on poor time management skills, because I prided myself on being on time with all of my orders and deliveries. It was, quite simply, overwhelming.

I was only one person.

Agnes was right, I didn’t need to do it all, but I’d been running so fast, burning the candle at both ends, that I hadn’t stopped to look at where my life was going in ages. The thing was, I wasn’t even all that unhappy or even burnt out. However, Iwastired.

Which was probably whyoddthings were happening to me. Bits of delusion was all it likely was. Lack of sleep would do that to a person.

“Do you want help, Shona? I could take a day and wecould dig into all of these piles. You know…sort, toss, clean?” Agnes wrinkled her brow in concern.

“No. But thank you. I’ll book the cleaners. When I know they’re coming, I clean. Clean for the cleaners.” I winced. While I hadn’t reached hoarder status, my piles had gotten a touch out of control. The only person who should have to sort through them was me.

“Well, the offer stands. It’s okay to ask for help.” Agnes gave me a pointed look as she pulled a small laptop from her bag and put it on the table. Opening it, she connected her camera and drummed her fingers while the pictures began to download. A slim woman with a riot of curls and dancing eyes, Agnes vibrated with energy even when she sat still. I resonated with that, used to being on my feet all day, and it hit me just how much I’d missed my friend. Crossing to her I squatted and threw my arms around her shoulders.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Och, Shona, I’ve missed you too. I have so much to catch you up on. Like, big stuff. We really need to talk.”

My thoughts flashed to when I’d been standing in the garden earlier this week, watching in shock as a rose bloomed from just my command, even though the bud had been tightly closed.You can’t tell her that, you eejit. She’ll think you’ve well and truly lost it.What was I supposed to say?I think I’m a green witch?

That being said, if anyone was to understand, it would be Agnes. Not only did she deeply love all of the mythical and fantastical things about Scotland, what with owning a bookshop and all, she’d been one of the key people trying to carefully change the narrative around the Kelpies that haunted Loren Brae.

I’d never seen them, myself, but I’d been privy to their otherworldly shrieks a time or two, and I can attest to the fact that I wasn’t interested in meeting one face to face. For centuries now, Loren Brae and the myth of the Kelpies went hand in hand, but only the locals believed it to be true. Mainly because of eyewitness accounts and the fact we could hear their cries carried across the frigid waters of Loch Mirren. Around Scotland, the myth of the Kelpies had almost reached that of Nessie proportions, without the shine to it. Nessie? Fun, non-threatening, cute dinosaur plushies sold at gift shops. Kelpies? Dangerous, screaming-in-the night, intimidating four-story sculptures built in their homage at Falkirk. The dark image of loch-dwelling monsters had done Loren Brae no favors at all. The tourist trade had declined to the extent that gift and craft shops were closing their doors for good, holiday rentals stood empty, and most of the remaining businesses were struggling to eke out a living.

“Just let me quickly freshen up, and I’ll be ready to go.”

I left Agnes to select the photos, knowing she had an eye for it, and made my way to my bedroom. While I couldn’t say it was uncluttered, it wasn’t as messy as the main room. Aside from the perpetual stack of clean laundry on the chair that never seemed to make it into the wardrobe–why bother when you could pull from it each morning to dress?–the room was largely sparse. Likely because I didn’t have much in the way of jewelry, makeup, or accessories to crowd any surfaces. An antique wardrobe, with lovely arched doors, and honey-gold wood dominated one side of the room, and those drawers held my lovingly cared for undergarments. Those I never left in a pile on thechair. Those were handwashed and hung out to dry, then carefully put away between soft sheets of tissue paper. Granted, I didn’t always wear silk for my everyday mucking in the gardens, but even then, I always,always, wore cute matching sets, in bright colors and pretty patterns.

Changing into dark jeans, a soft grey sweater, and Chelsea boots, I checked my appearance in the bathroom mirror. Stick-straight, wispy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and cheeks that tended to show the cold, I rarely gave much thought to my appearance. Now, I ran a brush through my long hair until it shone, and then plaited it so it fell over my shoulder. Dashing some water on my face, I dried my skin and applied some tinted lip balm in a pretty poppy color. Good enough.

“Look at this, Shona. Doesn’t this just look grand?” Agnes angled her computer when I returned to the kitchen, and I bent to look at the listing. I’d already written the description and added the amenities earlier that day.

Cozy, private cottage with magickal woodland garden.

The pictures matched the headline, beautifully conveying the size and charm of the cottage, and I couldn’t be more pleased.

“Well done, you. I owe you a pint.”

“Shall we get it listed then?” Agnes’s finger hovered over the publish button, and my stomach twisted with nerves.

“Yes, do it.”

We gave a small cheer when it published, and then Agnes slammed her laptop shut.

“Enough work for today. You deserve a break.”

The sky had just darkened as we left for the Tipsy Thistle, Agnes driving, even though I lived close enough to walkhome from the pub. A few traces of the setting sun skewered the murky night sky, long red tendrils spearing the clouds like talons. Unaccountably, a shiver trickled across my skin, the hairs at the back of my neck standing up.

“Agnes…slow down. Something’s off.” Already Agnes was steering the car to the side of the road, her eyes caught on the frothing waters of Loch Mirren.

“There’s someone out there. Near the island. Shit, shit, shit.” Agnes whipped out her phone, leaving the car running, as she ran for the shore.

An otherworldly shriek split the night sky, and the waters near the island rose, reminding me of video I’d seen of a tsunami, before hovering over the single man rapidly paddling in a canoe.

For an instant, the water morphed, vaguely shaping the head of a horse, before it crashed over the terrified man.

My heart stopped.

I was out of the car and running, meeting Agnes where she screamed into her phone, a flurry of activity at the dock. A car streaked by as sirens wailed, and I could just make out Sophie and Lachlan, who lived at MacAlpine Castle, tumble from the car and jump into a small zodiac boat.

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