Page 2 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

Fly, little one, promise me you’ll fly.They were her mother’s last words, before the pain meds had stolen her voice and before death had silenced her for eternity.

Gasping, Freya battled on, almost bent double, her hands on her thighs helping to push her legs up the path. She didn’t stop to catch her breath, she didn’t pause to take in the view, and her attention didn’t veer from the narrow trail through the heather and tussocky grasses as she focused on the next step and the next.

Finally, she reached the top and only then did she allow herself to stop.

Collapsing on a boulder, her chest heaving, her legs weak and aching, she sat on the sun-warmed rock and gazed down at the home she would be leaving behind.

Coorie Castle, with its white walls shimmering in the late-afternoon sunlight, was the most prominent feature. Built on a rocky outcrop some eight hundred years ago, it gave the village of Duncoorie its name.

Beyond it lay the loch, its waters a deep unfathomable indigo with ribbons of navy, cobalt and sapphire. And near the shore, where the sea was shallower, the water swirled in swathes of turquoise and green.

The mountains on the opposite shore were purpled with heather and looked almost dove-grey in the distance. Overhead, wisps of white cirrus clouds feathered the sky.

Freya felt so small up here, insignificant in the face of the vastness of nature, yet Duncoorie was an anchor she was about to set herself adrift from.

It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

As her eyes roamed over the village, her gaze was caught by the old stone kirk with its spire and vaulted windows, and she remembered the sombre tones of the vicar as he asked the congregation to pray for her mother’s soul.

‘Oh, Mum…’ she whispered. It was a familiar refrain. Since her mother’s death, she’d found herself saying it often, the rest of the sentence always choked by grief and regret.

Freya was keeping her promise.

Against the odds, she’d obtained a place at one of the best art colleges in the world. She was going to follow her dreams and make a name for herself.

She had also promised her mum that she wouldn’t mourn her, that she would move beyond grief, but how could she do that when everything here reminded her of her loss?

London was a new beginning, a new life. And in that city where no one knew her, she hoped she would be able to keep that promise, too.

Chapter 1

15 years later

‘Fantastic turnout, Freya,’ a man she didn’t recognise said.

‘Congratulations. Your best work yet!’ A woman placed a hand on Freya’s shoulder as she eased through the crowded art gallery, and Freya smiled politely.

‘Give me a call and we’ll chat about commissioning some pieces, yeah?’ someone else told her, and Freya barely had time to register who they were before they’d gone.

‘Here.’ Sean Pickles, the vice chancellor of the prestigious London art college where Freya taught ceramics, handed her a half-filled fluted glass of pale liquid.

Freya sipped it gratefully, the bubbles of the sparkling wine tickling the back of her throat. ‘Thanks, I needed this.’

Sean gazed around the gallery with a satisfied smile. After all, having one of his staff be the draw for a successful exhibition would help enormously with the profile of the college.

He said, ‘It was a good idea of yours to combine three strands with the same theme. It makes for a cohesive message. The punters seem to like it.’

‘The punters’ were her peers and colleagues in the art world, as well as a carefully curated selection of the press, businesspeople, critics, and patrons of the college. So far, the exhibition appeared to be a roaring success, with each of the three artists showcased (Freya being the most well-known) receiving enthusiastic praise.

The title of the event wasColour in Motion, and the three strands of artwork complemented each other. Several large and striking oil-on-canvas paintings adorned the gallery’s plain white walls, and fabrics created by an up-and-coming textile designer were draped and folded to show off their jewelled colours. Freya’s ceramic pieces were placed at strategic points in between to bring the elements together.

A man caught her eye as he approached, and she recognised him by his purple goatee as the renowned critic Gustav Horn.

‘Freya, my darling, so lovely to meet you at last,’ he gushed. ‘I’ve been a fan of your work for some time.’ He held out a hand, and she shook it.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Horn,’ she replied.

He offered her a humble smile, as though surprised she knew his name, even though he expected everyone at the exhibition to have heard of him.

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