Page 24 of Priceless
“What brings you to Scotland?”
“My husband died, and I don’t remember who I was without him.”
Did I want people to think I was a fool or just pathetic?
I was sinking into that double pool of self-pity when the waiter brought my food.
“This’ll be you, then.” He set the plate in front of me, one fist on his hip, the other rested on the back of a chair. “What brings ye to the ol’ capital of the world, madam?”
Madam? I couldn’t be more than ten years older than him. But he was just being kind, so I swallowed my pride and answered. “A friend recommended it.”
“Bravin’ it alone, are ye?”
“I am.”
“Auch, well done. It’s not so dangerous a place, but ye’re brave just the same. Are ye chasin’ yer ancestry by chance?”
“Not my thing. My husband was a Harris, but he wasn’t much for history. He thought looking back was a waste of time.”
“A shame, that.” He grimaced, like I’d just told him my husband was the worst kind of sinner. “Ah, well, I’ll leave ye to yer meal. If ye need suggestions for adventurin’, just ask.”
I realized I was gripping my phone a bit too tightly, like it was a lifeline. I lifted it and waved it like a flag. “My friend helped me make a plan. But thank you.”
Once he left, I tucked my phone back into my purse, just to prove to myself I didn’t need a crutch to get through dinner. And bite by bite, I realized I wasn’t as brave as this guy thought. I wasn’t truly alone. I’d come with a lifeline in my pocket, still leaning on someone else—real or not—to define me.
The brave thing would be to ditch Jocko’s plan and do whatever I felt like doing. Here I was in one of the most historic cities in the world, and I barely knew enough about history to know I was clueless. What better place to start?
I pulled out my phone one last time—to turn it off. Jocko wouldn’t call me, wouldn’t care if I followed his suggestions or not, but there was something symbolic in the act.
I was going to do this on my own.
I finished and paid the check just as the couple by the window stood to leave. The woman paused by my table and smiled. “We’re about to go on a ghost tour, if you’re looking for something to do.” Her American accent felt instantly comforting.
“Sounds perfect, thanks.”
Paul would’ve rolled his eyes at the idea of wasting time with the dead. But Paul wasn’t here. Neither was Jocko. And I wanted to be entertained, maybe learn a little, even if it meant getting the crap scared out of me.
Besides, my perspective on “ghosts” had recently changed…
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ipulled up my hood against the soft drizzle that didn’t seem to deter anyone from seeing Edinburgh at night. The Royal Mile glittered. The wet cobblestones reflected the light from the old-fashioned streetlamps. It wasn’t the bone-deep cold I’d half-expected from Scotland. It was more of a mild, damp cool that makes you tug your sweater close, not shiver.
Back home in Denver, rain usually came with a warning—a black wall of clouds and lightning. Here, it just arrived, like another person joining your group. Gentle. Persistent. And instead of smelling like dust, it carried the scent of stone, like the buildings had been storing it all day just to let it go at night.
I’d been awake nineteen hours and my thoughts felt loose in my head, like someone had tipped them out and hadn’t bothered to put them back right. But I wasn’t going to waste this night. I’d come all this way, farther than I’d ever been in my life. I wouldn’t waste a minute.
The ghost tour office was small enough to miss, wedged between a whisky bar and a tartan shop. The scarves in the store window looked like they’d been there since before I was born, their colors just a little faded, but still pretty. In the ghost tourwindow, a single brass lantern glowed like an invitation to visit the past, which was what we were about to do.
A handful of people huddled outside, stamping their feet against the damp. Among them was the couple from the restaurant—the ones who’d invited me along. They smiled when they spotted me, the woman giving a small wave as if to say,You made it.I moved closer, glad for a familiar face, even if we’d only exchanged a few words.
The door creaked, and out stepped our guide. Tall and narrow-shouldered, he was wrapped in a dark overcoat that swayed like a heavy curtain. He carried the big lantern with an ease that said he’d been holding it every night for years. His voice was deep, smooth, and had that lilt I heard in my head when I read Jocko’s responses.
“Good evenin’ to ye all,” he said smoothly. “I’m Duncan, and I’ll be takin’ ye through the darker alleys of Auld Reekie tonight. If ye’re lookin’ for cheery tales, ye’ve wandered into the wrong place.”
When no one chickened out, we moved down the Mile with the castle at our backs, past St. Giles’ Cathedral with its spire silhouetted against the darkening sky. Duncan turned us into an alley so narrow my elbows could almost touch both sides. The misty rain came along for the tour, and the air felt closer too.
I had the crazy idea that we might be walking into a place that remembered things. Pretty bizarre for someone who didn’t believe in anything paranormal.
