Page 3 of Threadbound

As Jamie stood looking out over the sweep of the city, a shadow passed overhead again, and Jamie tilted his head back, shading his eyes from the sun as he tried to spot the bird that had momentarily blocked the light. Big, black, and graceful, it circled Arthur’s Seat, the wide span of its dark feathers telling him that this wasn’t an ordinary crow.

People confused crows and ravens—easy enough, if you only ever saw them in books, since they were both from the corvid family and were all black—but one was bird-sized and the other one was the size of a medium cat or small dog. With wings. And a really sharp beak.

Ravens weren’t unheard of in Scotland, Jamie knew, but they weren’t extremely common, either. And this one was big.

He wondered if it was the same bird that had taken up residence in the courtyard of St. Giles. He’d seen one there a few weeks ago, probably two, two-and-a-half feet long, with a wingspan wider than the bent old lady there who fed the pigeons was tall. Admittedly, she was probably only five feet on a good day, but still. That was huge for a bird.

Above him, the raven circled a few more times, then winged its way out over Edinburgh. Maybe back to St. Giles or off to some other roost where it could survey the stone and glass and steel of the city from on high.

With a last long, deep breath, Jamie turned and began to head back down Crow Hill, following the path’s continued loop across Holyrood Park toward the ruins of St. Anthony’s, then back to his tiny apartment over the thrift store. The last few blocks were always the worst, dodging tourists and locals alike, and he usually gave up trying to maintain any sort of decent pace while playing slalom with people and vehicles.

Today was no different, and he ended up walking the last few blocks before taking the two flights of stairs up at a run.

Sweat cooled on his skin as he fumbled his keys out of his pocket, then unlocked the door to an apartment that had definitely seen better days, but would probably also see worse. It was small, with an alcove on one side that held his bed and a small night stand. The main room had one window under which he’d put a table that served as his desk, along with an office chair. He also had a more casual chair and ottoman purchased from the downstairs thrift store. There was a third folding chair, leaning against the wall in the back of the kitchen closet, that served either in the event that he had guests or, more often, he needed to change a light bulb.

Nearly everything was secondhand, bought from thrift stores or liberated from dumpsters on the days that the students moved out of their dorms and apartments at the end of term. Jamie might have gotten funding for tuition, but the research stipend they paid him barely covered rent.

Not that he could really complain. He was able to work part-time at the Surgeons’ Hall Museums to make a little extra money so that he didn’t have to budget his food quite so tightly and even had enough for the occasional purchase of something more fun, like going to a movie or buying the brightly colored packages of embroidery floss and macramé cord that he used to soothe himself while he thought.

His mother had knitted and crocheted, and she’d taught Jamie when he was young how to take the yarn and use the little hooks to create complicated knots that eventually turned into things like shawls and scarves and blankets. He didn’t really have the patience for crocheting blankets—as much as he loved the ones he had from his mother—so he stuck to smaller things he could sell online so that once a month or so he could really splurge and buy a bottle of whisky or spend a night out with some of the other doctoral students or buy the makings of a really nice dinner.

He made little things—bracelets, little decorative ornaments, keychains. Nothing big or fancy. He didn’t think of himself as an artist—just a guy who had restless hands who figured he might as well get something out of all the knots and braids his fingers twisted together while he watched murder mysteries on the BBC.

His plan for the night was exactly that—twisting together a couple bracelets that had been ordered online while watchingMidsomer Murdersand eating a bowl of pasta. It might not be exciting, but it suited him.

Chapter

Three

It had been a good couple of weeks in the online-bracelet business, so Jamie stopped off at the coffee shop on the corner for a lavender latte, one of his favorite things, but which he only let himself get about once a month.

He drew in a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the floral coffee before taking a sip as he walked through the warm summer air, headed for that great bastion of graduate students everywhere: the library.

In order to justify splurging on the latte, he’d made himself a nice, healthy, affordable lunch of cut-up veggies and hummus in a little re-usable dish along with some pita bread and an apple. It wasn’t particularly decadent, but Jamie wasn’t really that kind of guy. Although he was pretty sure he knew what Bill would have to say about his lunch.

Where’s the meat, boy? You some kind of fucking rabbit?

It wasn’t that he didn’t like meat—he loved fish, and a good burger now and then was great. But meat was expensive, and since he didn’t need it, he usually didn’t bother.

Not that fresh produce wasn’t also expensive, but Jamie had always figured that vitamins were things he should probably begetting somehow. That, and he liked carrots and celery, which were actually pretty cheap as far as fresh veggies went.

His messenger bag bumped against his hip as he walked, threading his way through tourists milling around the streets near campus. The University was integrated right into the middle of the old part of the city, barely a handful of blocks from the Royal Mile, so there were generally tourists everywhere, either scoping out the campus or lost looking for something else.

Every day somebody stopped him to ask directions, which he was willing to provide, although people usually looked surprised at the Southern US accent that came out of his mouth.

He got that at work, too. There it was a bit more irritating, since there was usually at least one person every week or two who asked for a different tour guide because Jamie wasn’t “authentically Scottish.” Why they thought you had to befromScotland to give a tour of Surgeons’ Hall, he didn’t know—it’s not like the knowledge of body parts or the history of medicine were exclusive to Scots. And Jamie’s research made him more than qualified to talk about it.

But some tourists apparently signed on for an experience that only involved tour guides who werefromScotland.

They were usually American, and Jamie took perverse delight in having them assigned to Trixie Baker’s tours, since Trixie wasn’t from Scotland, either—she was from Manchester, England, but most Americans couldn’t tell the difference between Trixie’s accent and Rob Taylor’s, and Rob had been born and bred in Glasgow before coming down to Edinburgh get his MFA.

Rob worked days in Surgeons’ Hall and nights over at Fringe across the street—Jamie wasn’t sure when, exactly, Rob slept, but the baristas at both Black Medicine and 1505 knew his order by heart.

Jamie had promised to come to one of the shows next week, and he would, even though he couldn’t actually remember which one it was or what it was supposed to be about. It was on Thursday, he knew that much. He figured he’d show up and whatever it was would be a pleasant surprise. Or maybe just an interesting one.

Rob loved things that he calledavant gardeand Jamie called just plain weird. They were always interesting, though, and sometimes Jamie really enjoyed them, even if he walked away with very little understanding of what he’d just experienced. His mother had always said it was important to experience things, even if you didn’t understand them. Jamie tried to take that advice to heart.

He preferred nature and books to Rob’s performance art, but Rob was a good friend. Besides, a week or two after Fringe closed, he’d stuff Trixie and Jamie in his car and drive them somewhere into the highlands for a hike. That was for Jamie.

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