Page 58 of Duke It Out
I head for the bookshelves, scanning for that elusive red spine, hoping it might finally show itself.
The library door slams shut. I freeze, not intending to eavesdrop, but with nowhere else to go.
“You look like shit,” says a deep voice a moment later.
“Good to see you too.” Rory, clipped as ever.
“I had questions,” says the voice. “Thought I’d ask them in person.”
There’s a pause and I contemplate climbing out of the window and sneaking away. I’d have to slide out sideways through the ancient sash window and knowing my luck I’d get caught wedged halfway like Winnie the Pooh. The thought of it makes me snort with inappropriate laughter and I put my hand over my mouth to stop any sound coming out. What’s pretty clear from all of this is that I would make a spectacularly terrible spy.
“Go on,” says Rory. “What sort of questions?”
“Georgia, my PR girl. She’s had an American journalist sniffing around asking questions. She’s put him off?—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Rory explodes.
“You know as well as I do that this place is a fucking unexploded bomb. I rebuilt the distillery business from the ground up. It was on its knees.”
There’s another pause before Rory speaks. I shift from one foot to the other and the floorboard underneath me squeaks. Shit, this is not helpful.
“I am aware,” Rory says.
“If this place starts coming apart at the seams in the headlines, guess what they’re going to drag in with it?”
“You don’t think I know it’s a fucking mess?”
“What the hell is going on? Do I need to think about damage control?”
“It’s under control.”
“Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing. I voted withmy feet, remember? The last thing I want is all this coming back to bite me on the arse. I’ve seen the accounts; I know how much of a mess the foundation was in before he popped his clogs.”
“And I’m getting it under control. All of it.”
“I fucking hope so. This is your circus, Rory, not mine.”
“Believe me, I know. If I had the choice, I’d be living the quiet life on an island.”
“Aye,” says the voice gruffly. “Well, you shouldn’t have been born first.”
There’s a rumble of laughter, which surprises me.
Silence hums between the shelves as I stand motionless, barely daring to breathe. Footsteps draw closer, and I realize – too late – that I’m trapped. I cast a final, futile glance at the window just as the door creaks open.
He fills the doorway, the light from the hall swallowed by his broad frame. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, eyes shadowed beneath dark, intimidating brows. In one hand, he holds a glass of whisky, the amber liquid catching a flare of sunlight and burning like fire. His shoulders are wide enough to block the entire doorframe, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
“And you are?”
“Um,” I say, taking a step back and banging into the armchair. I grab it to steady myself. “Sorry, this is—I mean, I am—it’s?—”
He stands there, completely still and unmoved. I wonder if I could make a run for it, duck under the arm that’s propped up in the doorway and head for the hills.
Rory appears behind him, a pained expression on his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s praying for patience or some sort of celestial intervention.
“Edie, this is my brother, Finn. Finn, this is Edie, the…”
“Writer.” I step forward and hold out my hand with what I hope is a confident smile. “And archivist. A bit of both. Or historian. Yes. That as well.”
