Page 56 of Wild Scottish Rose

“Do you?” I turned to her, wondering if she was just saying that. Because secretly I was trying not to freak out that I’d just seen glitter magick hover in the air.

“I do. Like…lighter maybe?” Greta shrugged. “Maybe I just needed someone to tell me that it was okay to not feel guilty if I stopped grieving as hard.”

And maybe that was just it. Either way, by the time I’d left, Greta was sitting on the floor coloring with her kids, her eyes much brighter than when I’d first arrived. I couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, I’d helped. Magick or not, at least she was a step closer toward finding whatever healing path she landed on. I drove home, barely seeing the road, my own grief over the loss of my gran having surfaced.I miss you so much, Gran. You were taken too soon.Thoughts of her baking came to mind, and it brought me a moment of peace.I can make one of her pies tonight. That could honor her and I’d put on some of her favorite music while I cooked. Decided, I hopped from the van when I got home and reached for my walking stick.

My heart stilled.

Just beneath the handle a singular oval agate stone was now embedded in the wood.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Owen

The boat rental place had a kid that looked no older than twelve manning the front and when I’d casually mentioned the Kelpies, he’d bolted into the back room only to have a grizzled older man with heavy-soled work boots and worn denim overalls come out to speak with me. His dialect was so thick that I was having trouble understanding him.

I’d resigned myself to pointing at a canoe, and then to the loch, and he’d just shook his head.

“Ye cannae, d’ye ken?”

Smiling, because I had no clue with the man was saying, I left feeling like I’d been very neatly redirected from my line of questioning. Making a note in the Notes app on my phone, I walked down the street, following it as it curved along the banks of Loch Mirren. Based on my research, sheran nearly thirty miles long, was connected with the Sound of Jura, and hosted an abundance of sea life. Renowned for its oysters, summers usually brought hordes of tourists looking for good seafood and the pretty atmosphere.

Leaning on the railing that hugged the path and prevented anyone from falling into the water, I studied the small island in the center of the loch. It was an unusual spot for an island, now that I’d done some research on Loch Mirren. Her waters ran deep, over six hundred feet at her deepest, and according to my calculations that was where that little island was. I imagined one long pillar of rock, spearing from the murky bottom, barely holding the island in place. I didn’t know enough about topography to understand the makeup of islands and how lakes were formed, but I had an email off to a friend to look into it for me.

When in doubt, I asked people smarter than me.

Well, smarter than me in their given field, that is.

I picked up my phone, typing a quick text to check in on Ryan. He’d managed to get back home just fine and had promised me he was improving. Nevertheless, he was keenly interested in my discoveries, or lack thereof, in Loren Brae. I updated him on the boat man’s rudeness, and he sent a picture of a bulldog back, reminding me to be stubborn.

Like I needed reminding.

Today was one of those glorious early fall days that craved apple cider, hayrides, and bonfires. It was cold enough to require a thick coat and cap—not the pink pom-pom one today but the navy one with the blue edging—and enough sun filtered through the clouds to keep the worst of the cold away. The trees that blanketed the hills on the other side of the loch were just shifting from gold to red,and their reflection spread across the smooth surface of the water. I snapped a few photos, because how could I not?

Was there really a monster lurking under the calm surface of Loch Mirren? It was so far-fetched that I had a hard time, in the light of a sunshiny fall day, to think there was. Yet that didn’t account for people’s weird behavior here anytime I mentioned the Kelpies. I’d been to the bakery, the corner market, and the boat rental shop and not a single person answered my questions about Kelpies. I had one more stop on my list for the day, and then I hoped to maybe find some takeout food and convince Shona to have dinner with me.

Shona knew something.

I could already sense that. She’d avoided my questions twice now, but since she’d told me the subject made her uncomfortable, I just had to figure out how to make her trust me enough to share what she didn’t want to talk about. Which was fair. If there really was something nefarious going on in Loren Brae, I couldn’t exactly expect people to just welcome me in and tell me everything about it.

Particularly when I had a camera around my neck.

Turning, I set my sights on the last stop of the day—MacAlpine Castle. The main tourist draw of the town, aside from the lovely Loch Mirren that is, MacAlpine Castle was settled onto a hill and towered over the town like a pretentious grand dame. Tall hedges lined the driveway that curved up the hill spilling out into expansive manicured gardens. On the weekends, the castle threw its doors open and welcomed tourists to peruse the side of the castle kept historically accurate. From what Shona had told me,the other side had been converted into apartments for the staff and caretakers. A gnome peaked out from a bush, this one in bib overalls with a plaid shirt, and I grinned, thinking of Shona’s gnomes. They must be a popular garden decoration in Loren Brae.

A sharp bark brought my head up, and I turned to see a chihuahua in a kilt race toward me. He skidded to a stop by a bush a few feet away, and growled at me, lifting his leg to pee as he did so.

“Excellent entrance, buddy. I’m suitably impressed,” I said. His lip curled back, and his growling increased. Another dog, this one a hybrid corgi type, waddled over with a loose tartan bow at her neck. She stopped at my feet, dropping into a sit, and looked up at me, her tongue lolling out in a smile.

“Hi, cutie.” I bent to give her a pet and the other dog let out a series of sharp barks.

“Sir Buster. That’s enough.”

The dog stopped mid-bark, though he still let out short bursts of growls. I turned to see an older man with a shock of white hair, a flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled back, and gardening gloves on his hands. He smiled at me, his thick eyebrows raising in question.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Owen. I’m staying down at Shona’s cottage.” I assumed he might know Shona since she supplied herbs to the restaurant here and had been up the other afternoon.

“Och, right. The filmmaker.” The way the man said it didn’t necessarily make it sound like a good thing. “I’m Archie, caretaker of this fine castle. What canI do for you?”

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