August - Chapter Two

“I have mud,” said Jeremy, staring into the basin of the huge sink in Irene’s barn. “I have mud in places I didn’t know I could have mud.”

Colin snorted from where he lay sprawled on a spare hay bale. He’d only bothered washing his hands and most of his face — there was a splotch of mud under his chin, another on his neck, and his arms were covered in brown streaks that were steadily drying to a dull greyish-black. “Think of it as a spa day.”

“Love to.” Jeremy frowned and rubbed at the dirt caked around his nails, even though it seemed pointless. “But I think most spas don’t involve sheep.”

They had spent the afternoon at the far end of Irene’s property, where a section of the fence had finally given up the ghost along the slope of a hill. It had been a gruelling couple of hours knee-deep in mud and grass, with the sun beating down on them from above. Colin had been liberal with his sunscreen, and even now, he glistened with it.

Irene had stayed behind in the field, keeping the sheep contained — “We already had to track a dozen of them through the woods this morning,” she’d told them, with a grimace — while Colin and Jeremy went to work. She would need to have a proper contractor come out and stabilize the land, but couldn’t do that with the sheep running wild. “This’ll tie her over,” Colin had said, grim and determined as he squared up with the first fence post, mallet in hand.

In some ways, Jeremy still didn’t understand it — why Colin worked like a fiend, taking jobs that had nothing to do with animals at all. It made sense in terms of earning money, but, Jeremy reflected, glancing at the way Colin stared out at the field beyond the barn, exhaustion in every line of his body, was it really worth it?

“Boys.” Irene appeared in the doorway to the barn. Her hair was slipping out of her braided topknot, and her boots were caked in mud, but she was smiling, and Jeremy was struck by how much it changed her face. She didn’t look quite so cold, or so grim. Between that and the fact that she was wearing shorts, she looked about ten years younger. “Hannah’s got some lemonade and cake ready, if you’ve got the time? It’s the least I can do.”

Jeremy’s stomach jolted, and he turned off the tap, trying not to let his excitement show. For all their visits to Irene’s farm, they had never met — or even seen — Irene’s partner. “Yes, we have time for cake.” He turned to the hay bale. “Col, did you hear? There’s cake.”

“Aye, Yankee.” Colin gave him a sideways smile and stood up, his movements slow. “Thinking with your stomach, as always.”

Irene nodded. “Come up to the house. We’ll eat on the porch.” She turned and left, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Jeremy turned to Colin.

“Have you met her before? Hannah?”

“A few times. They moved in right before I left for school last year, and I came by to help clear out this old dump.” He gestured to the space around them, and Jeremy had a fleeting image of old, rusty machinery piled up to the ceiling, moldy bales of hay rotting in the corner. Colin stretched, exposing a strip of skin just above his hips, and came to stand next to the sink. “She’s lovely. Does something with numbers for her job. Not as quiet as Irene.”

“Huh.” Jeremy rubbed his hands on his — okay, filthy — cutoff to keep himself from doing something stupid, like reaching for Colin, wrapping his arms around Colin’s hips. They were both sweaty, caked in mud, and more than a little bit stinky. Not cute. And, technically, they weren’t alone.

“Promise to behave?” Colin was closer, now, his smile sliding into a smirk. His eyes were bright, and his gaze flickered to Jeremy’s mouth.

Jeremy forced himself to swallow past the pounding in his throat. “Yes,” he said, trying to sound as petulant as possible.

“Good.” Colin’s hand came up to Jeremy’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. His thumb grazed the line of Jeremy’s collarbone. “Let’s go.”

His touch was rough, lingering, and when he stepped away, Jeremy fought the urge to chase it. Instead, he did as Colin asked, and followed him out of the barn and back into the sunshine, heading for the squat little farmhouse with a thatched roof.

The house had a front garden overflowing with flowers, bushes, and bees. Brilliant reds, oranges, yellows, and whites grew in seething bundles, stretching across and over each other as if they were fighting for space. Ivy trickled in luscious networks around the open windows, spilling over onto the rough little patio built onto the front of the house, which held a wooden table and chairs shoved underneath a large blue umbrella. The table was spread with a colorful tablecloth and a haphazard collection of plates and silverware, all Bohemian and inviting. It’s kind of like the Shire, Jeremy couldn’t help but think, gazing at the tiny house.

“Please sit!” came Irene’s voice from somewhere inside, and they obeyed, slumping into the chairs with relief. Jeremy made a silent prayer for his, hoping that the mud would wash off.

“You boys must be starving!” A short, plump woman in a floral sundress came sailing out of the house in bare feet, a yellow flower stuck into her bun. She had blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a complexion that vaguely reminded Jeremy of Colin’s sunburn. “Good job I’ve been stress-baking, Irene’s nearly sick to death of Victoria Sponge. Plenty for you to eat up!” She plopped a huge white cake covered in powdered sugar onto the table, followed by an equally huge jug of lemonade. “I’m Hannah, by the way!”

“Nice to meet you,” Jeremy said, grinning. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but—”

“Oh, nonsense!” Hannah came over to his side of the table, beaming. “I live with a farmer, and besides, I’m more of a hugger!” And with that, she leaned down to give him a hug, mud and all. She smelled like honeysuckle and roses.

“You’re… not Scottish,” Jeremy said, once she pulled away.

Hannah laughed, a bright, cheery sound, as she bent down to give Colin a hug as well, followed by a kiss on the cheek. Colin grinned and kissed her back, leaning in to her embrace. He seemed relaxed, Jeremy noticed. Maybe the most relaxed Jeremy had seen him around people, ever.

“I’m originally from Dublin,” Hannah said, giving Colin a pat on the shoulder before going back to the other side of the table and picking up a large knife. “Lived in London for a few years before I moved up to Glasgow. Then I met Irene, and she tricked me into falling in love with this little island.” She began slicing the cake into neat, equal portions.

“Dublin’s in Ireland, Yankee,” said Colin, amusement lacing his words.

“I know,” said Jeremy, his ears going hot.

“Now, Jeremy, I hear you’re new to the area as well,” continued Hannah. She was watching him keenly. “How are you liking it?”

“It’s all right.” He shrugged. “Different from where I grew up, but I like it okay.”

“You lived in a big city, then?” Hannah filled their glasses with lemonade.

“Yeah. Washington, D.C.”

“Gosh, that must have been intense.”

Jeremy thought back to the most recent Presidential election and nodded, reaching for his glass. “Sometimes.”

“And Colin said you play the clarinet?”

Jeremy almost choked on his lemonade — which was delicious, definitely homemade — and shot Colin a look. Colin, busy in his own lemonade, didn’t catch it. “Yeah, I do. Since I was kid.”

“How lovely! And what’s your favorite thing to play?”

“Well, I—”

“Good God, Hannah.” Irene appeared in the front doorway, stepping down onto the porch with a smile. “Don’t interrogate the poor boy.”

“But I’m interrogating him very gently,” Hannah replied. “And Jeremy doesn’t mind, do you, Jeremy?” She gave him a wink.

“Not at all,” he said, smiling. “Even though my answers are pretty boring.”

“Nonsense! You’re the new one in town, which makes you interesting by default.” Hannah held out a plate. “Cake?”

“Thank you.” Jeremy dug in, and had to stop himself from making an audible noise. Good God. Whatever Victoria Sponge was, Hannah did it incredibly right.

Irene was watching him with amusement, and she leaned back in her chair. “First Victoria Sponge, Jeremy?”

He nodded, mouth too full to speak.

Irene chuckled, and Jeremy almost did a double-take. He’d never heard her do that before.

“Slow down, Yankee.” Colin’s voice was teasing. “There’s plenty to go around, and the nearest hospital is almost half an hour away.”

After that, the conversation drifted to other topics. Colin recounted a few of their farming adventures, as well as the local gossip from the ceilidh. Jeremy suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Irene or Hannah at the ceilidh. Too shy? he wondered, polishing off his second slice of cake. But then Hannah leaned forward, her eyes sparkling as she quizzed Colin about so-and-so’s mother-in-law, and he realized that that was probably impossible. It didn’t seem like Hannah was capable of being shy. He took in the way Irene relaxed in her chair, utterly at ease, a glass of lemonade sweating in one hand, the other tucked in at the small of Hannah’s back, and felt a warm flush of pride. Irene trusted them enough to be completely herself in front of them. Maybe she knows, came a voice from one of the more paranoid corners of his mind. I hope she doesn’t, he thought back.

“We really ought to get a fan for the porch,” Hannah was saying, fanning herself. “This summer’s even hotter than the last.”

“Count your blessings, though,” said Irene. “Islay and Jura lost almost half their wheat and barley last summer, thanks to drought. We’re not that bad, yet.”

“Really?” Jeremy found himself asking. Those islands were practically within spitting distance of Rowe.

“Aye, Yankee,” said Colin.

“Is that normal?”

“The new normal.” Colin frowned, all puffed-up and noble, like he always got whenever climate change entered the conversation. “Temperatures have been going up.”

“But this island’s been okay?”

Irene shrugged. “For the most part. Grain harvests are fine, barring the usual losses, and animal goods are steady. People always want wool and dairy.”

“Huh,” Jeremy said, and then the conversation moved on.

They left some time later, when the afternoon was sliding into evening. The sun was still brilliant, the air still hot, and Colin kept the windows in the truck rolled down as they headed south.

“Isn’t it weird?” Jeremy said. He was slumped in the passenger seat, one arm hanging out of the window. His skin was buzzing from the lemonade and from the still-new privilege of seeing Irene and Hannah like that, cheerful and calm in their home. “That the islands around us are having problems with crops and stuff, but somehow this island is fine?”

“Not really.” The radio was on, and Colin tapped a beat on the steering wheel. Between the mud, the still-fading sunburn, and the Ray Bans, he made quite the picture. “Rowe’s always been like this. Steady. We look after our own, we never go hungry, the weather’s predictable to a tee.” He frowned a bit. “Except those storms we’ve been having recently. Don’t normally get anything so big during the summer.”

“Right.” Jeremy looked at him. “So you guys keep everything you produce?”

“Nah. Sell a lot of it to Ireland and the rest of the UK. But our farmers are always in the black. Even the ones that struggle. Irene’s uncle had a rough time of it, near the end, but he still came out ahead.” He drummed again, a quick tap-tap-tap. “On Rowe, the farmers aren’t the ones with problems.”

“What does that mean?”

Something flashed across Colin’s face, something raw and bitter, but then it was gone, and replaced by a smirk. “Well, Yankee. D’you think Sweet Ray’s would always break even, if it weren’t for its main investor?”

Jeremy had to chuckle at that. “Fair point.”

They drove on for a minute in relative silence before Colin broke it.

“So what’d you think? Of Hannah?”

“She’s…” Trying to think of the right word, Jeremy grinned. “Bubbly.”

“Bubbly.”

“Yeah. Bouncing everywhere.” He made a point of looking out the window, hoping that Colin wouldn’t notice his blush. “They fit each other.”

“They do.”

Jeremy forced himself to ignore the warmth in Colin’s voice. “I sort of don’t buy that she’s a risk analyst. No way she would do something so boring all day.”

“She makes it sound interesting. Finding the shit before it hits the fan.”

“She should put that on her resumé.”

Silence fell again, and as they passed the castle, Jeremy fidgeted.

“Why didn’t they come to the ceilidh?”

“What, does Irene seem like a social butterfly to you?”

Jeremy turned to scowl at him, and found that Colin was smiling.

“Honestly, though?” Colin shook his head. “They went through a lot, when they moved in. People talking shite, nasty notes in the letterbox, sideways looks in town. Makes them gun-shy, not that I can blame them.”

“Really?” Jeremy blinked, his stomach giving an uneasy twist. “Aggie never mentioned that.”

Colin gave him a sideways glance, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. “What’d she say?”

“That people here care more about how many head of sheep you’re worth than who you climb into bed with at night.”

Colin flashed a brief, bright grin. “That’s true, but.” He took a breath and drummed again. Tap-a-tap-tap. “They care about that, too.”

Jeremy’s stomach twist turned into more of a clench and he fought for a way to change the subject. “Gun-shy?”

“Yeah?”

“So you guys do guns on your farm? Just thought I’d check,” he went on, “since we’re not in Virginia and I can’t take it as a given. I gotta know which way to run.”

“ ’Course I do guns, Yankee,” said Colin, turning in the direction of the cottage. “I’ve got two of them in the truck right now.”

“What—”

“One—” Colin flexed his right bicep — “Two!” He flexed the other and made an obscene, high-pitched grunt. “Welcome to the gun show!” he screamed, à la Guns N’ Roses.

Jeremy stared at him, laughter bubbling up in his throat. “That was awful.”

“That was brilliant,” Colin corrected him. “But yes, we have guns at the farm. Under lock and key, not under the passenger seat like they do it in your country.”

“What—” Jeremy bit his lip, wondering if he should really ask. “What do you use them for?”

“What do we use them for?” Colin repeated, one eyebrow twitching. “Hunting. Pest control. Deciding which chicken to have for dinner. Defending our territory against wily Americans.”

“You eat your chickens?”

“Freshest poultry for miles.” Colin pulled to a stop in front of the cottage and killed the engine. The movement brought Jeremy’s attention back to his biceps. Guns, he thought, then wished that the earth would swallow him whole.

“I thought you loved your chickens,” he said as they exited the cab. The sun was brutal, delightful, against his skin. “What with the eggs and the baking and whatnot.”

Colin looked at him askance. “I live on a farm, Yankee. I can care about animals and be practical about them, too. Don’t even get me started on those goddamn vegans.”

I know, Jeremy wanted to say, thinking back to a particularly choice comment of Colin’s from under the oak in Aggie’s backyard when Jeremy happened to mention Tofurkey.

But before they could so much as look in the direction of the cottage, the front door whipped open. “Hold it,” Rochelle called out, blocking the doorway. “You guys are three-hundred percent too muddy for this house.”

“Okay,” Jeremy called back, frowning.

“Hi, Ms. Lefebre!” Colin waved. “You’re looking lovely today!”

“Kiss-ass,” Jeremy grumbled out of the corner of his mouth. Colin ignored him.

“Thank you, Colin!” Rochelle smiled. “Chop-chop, boys. Time to de-mud.”

“What do you want us to do?” Jeremy asked her. “We don’t have a hose!”

“Good thing there’s a gigantic swimming pool, and the admission’s free.” She turned to go back inside and Mozart appeared at her ankles. “I’ll bring you some towels.”

The front door closed. Jeremy groaned as Mozart trotted over to them, her tail held high. This day really seemed determined to test his sanity.

“Come on, then.” Colin was grinning, and he stepped away. “This’ll be fun.”

“Uh huh.” Jeremy turned to follow, Mozart pressing up against his calf. He watched as Colin pulled off his shirt, jogging towards the ocean. “Fun.”

The water was somewhere between warm and cool, and as the waves lulled against Jeremy’s body, he looked up at the sky, thinking a little too much about fate and the probability of having to be around a shirtless Colin for much longer.

“Yankee.”

Jeremy frowned and turned to look at Colin, who was a bit blurry from this distance. He was kicking around like a fish, suddenly full of energy in a way that Jeremy couldn’t understand. “What?”

“You need to put your head under.”

Jeremy scowled at him, or what little he could see of him. “I know.”

Putting his head under was the only part of swimming that Jeremy still struggled with. He could tread water happily for as long as he liked, but holding his breath underwater? Not the best. And if he were being honest, it was in part because of the whole falling-off-a-cliff-and-almost-drowning thing. The water would close around his head and he would be back in that horrible moment, kicking for a foothold that wasn’t there, arms flailing, salt flooding his nose, his mouth. But he wasn’t about to tell Colin that and unleash a whole tidal wave of nervous glances, and Heaven forbid, a do you want to talk about it?

So, still scowling, he pinched his nose and ducked under the water. Holding his breath, he twisted around a little, his heart pounding, then he kicked back to the surface, gasping as the air flooded his lungs.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Much better,” Colin said. He was coming closer, looking like an otter with the way his hair lay flat on his head. “Who knew there was hair under all that mud?”

“I met a mermaid down below. She asked me to swim away with her.”

“Really?” Colin’s grin was crooked and sharp, now that Jeremy could see him clearly. “Don’t tell me you said yes. I can’t plan a stag do that fast.”

“Stag do,” Jeremy repeated. “What’s a—”

“Ah, right, what do you call it in America? Bachelor party?”

“Guess so.” Jeremy paused for breath, glancing at the cottage, the beach, anything to not look at Colin, to avoid pulling him closer. “We should probably go in.”

“Nah.” Colin kicked out, coasting away on his back. “We’ve loads of time. Don’t rush things.” The sun glittered burnt-orange in his hair.

As if on cue, Rochelle appeared on the beach next to the piles of their clothes. “Boys!” she called out, waving a towel above her head. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

“Speak of the devil,” Jeremy said, then kicked out for shore. Colin followed him with a sigh.

They weren’t that far out, and it didn’t take them long to reach the shallows. As they walked up the rocks and sand towards the cottage, Jeremy was aware of the minimal distance between them, and the fact that they were only wearing their underwear. He could practically feel the ever-present heat radiating from Colin’s frame, and just as he was thinking about stepping away, Colin gave him a playful shove.

Jeremy eyed him. “Really? That’s what we’re doing now?”

Colin grinned, cheeky, and Jeremy couldn’t resist. He closed the distance between them and shoved Colin back, and Colin laughed in reply, stumbling to the side.

“Boys!” came his mother’s call again, sharper now that they were closer. “Behave!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Colin called back, but he gave Jeremy a look that made his stomach do interesting things.

This isn’t over, Jeremy thought, then quickly told himself, Stop being so dramatic.

“Much better,” Rochelle said, handing them both a towel when they reached her. “I can actually see your faces now. After you’ve dried off, you can go inside to change. There might be time for a shower, but it’ll have to be quick.”

“Cheers,” said Colin, rubbing himself dry with military-like precision. “Thanks for having me over again, Ms. Lefebre.”

“Of course. You’re welcome anytime, Colin, you know that.”

To Jeremy’s mild surprise, Colin actually looked flustered as he nodded. “Aye.”

“Hurry, but don’t rush,” Rochelle said, bending down to sweep their muddy clothes into her arms. She pulled Jeremy’s glasses out of the pocket of his shorts and handed them over. “I want you to eat while it’s hot,” she added before heading back to the cottage.

“So what’ll it be, Yankee?” Colin said, his voice dropping low. “Care to split a shower?”

Jeremy immediately stepped away, head flooding his neck. “You are a pest. A fiend.” He started off for the cottage, clenching his towel so hard his knuckles were white.

Colin was grinning, he could hear it, and followed. “You say such hurtful things, Jer. No need to be so prickly.”

“I’m ignoring you,” Jeremy threw over his shoulder, stumbling on a loose rock and bumping into Mozart, who was keeping pace with him. She gave a short mew in reply, unamused.

“No, you’re not.” Colin still sounded smug. “You’re trying to ignore me, but you just can’t help yourself.”

Jeremy flipped him the bird. Colin laughed, bright and sharp.

“Creative, Yankee. If I’d known you were so full of wit, I’d have challenged you to Scrabble.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Jeremy told him. They had reached the cottage, and the earthy scent of roasted lamb wafted out of the open back door. Rochelle was at the stove, and she looked up as they approached, pointing at the two piles of clean clothes on the table. “Have a nice shower,” Jeremy said to Colin, then stepped inside, grabbed a set of clothes, and fled to the sitting room.

He finished drying off and changed quickly, staring at the wall. The windows were open to compensate for the heat, and the rhythmic pounding of the waves helped to slow his heart rate. He heard Colin go upstairs, followed by the sound of a door closing and the pipes groaning to life. It was easier to not think about the reality of having a very friendly and very pushy Colin in his house if he instead thought about the strange pinkish color of the wallpaper and the smell of lamb.

“Keep your shit together,” he told himself, polishing his glasses on the corner of his t-shirt. “This thing with Colin isn’t even a week old. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Much better,” Rochelle said, in French, when he went back into the kitchen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much mud. Even when you went through your mud pie phase.”

“Perks of the job,” he replied, also in French, sitting down in his usual spot. Mozart immediately hopped into his lap, purring, and pushed her head under his chin. The washing machine was already running, and he caught a glimpse of his muddy shirt beneath the suds. Between the weather and the oven, the temperature in the kitchen was a bit stifling. His mom had all the windows open, along with the sunroom, and a welcome breeze drifted in off the ocean.

Rochelle glanced at him. “You look tired,” she said, sprinkling vinegar over a cold salad of potatoes and asparagus. The leg of lamb was already resting on the sideboard, covered in tin foil. “Long day? What’d you get into?”

“Part of Irene’s land collapsed and took the fence with it. Had to get it back up to keep the sheep contained while she waits for a contractor.” Jeremy threaded his fingers through Mozart’s soft fur and felt some of his nerves loosen. “How was work?”

Rochelle sighed, and he could hear the annoyance underneath it. “Insane, of course. I feel like I’m an archivist, curator, publicist, and manager all at the same time. The BBC’s been talking to Robert, they want to come out and do a special report sometime this week, maybe this weekend.”

“Special report?” Jeremy repeated, frowning. “What does that mean?”

“Extended interviews, some for TV, some for radio, featuring a few talking heads from other institutions who want to offer their opinion. The BBC thinks it’s a great opportunity to do more coverage on the ‘hidden gems’ of Scotland. Lots of B-roll of the castle and grounds, plus speeches about our educational and preservation initiatives.”

“This all sounds like a good thing,” Jeremy said. “But you make it sound like a bad thing.”

In the middle of spooning the potatoes and asparagus into a serving dish, Rochelle snorted. “I think it sounds like a circus. And, obviously, I’m happy that the cross and this place are getting lots of attention — our website traffic is up three-hundred percent — but at the same time—”

“—you don’t want other historians butting in.” Jeremy nodded. “I get it.”

“Which is crazy of me,” Rochelle said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be so proprietary about the whole thing. But what can I do? We’re in a very odd position. I have to be at the forefront of this new discovery while secretly investigating it and hoping no one beats me to the answers.” She set down the dish of vegetables on the table and sighed.

“Kind of like poker,” Jeremy said, scratching under Mozart’s chin. “Have to keep bluffing so you can win the pot.”

“I guess so.” Rochelle went to the fridge. “Want some lemonade? Miranda bought a few too many bottles and sent me home with some.”

Jeremy smiled. “Sure.”

This lemonade, unlike Hannah’s, was pale and sparkling. Jeremy sipped at it, and bubbles exploded in the back of his throat. “Weird,” he said. “But good. I met Irene’s partner today.”

Rochelle stopped midway through slicing the lamb. “Partner?”

“Yeah. A woman named Hannah. She’s really nice.”

“Hannah,” Rochelle repeated, then her eyes flashed with recognition. “I met a Hannah last weekend in town! I wonder if it’s the same woman?”

“Short, blonde, very talkative? Shopping basket probably full of baking supplies and jam?”

“The same.” Rochelle went back to slicing the meat, contemplative. “I didn’t realize she was with Irene. How nice.”

Jeremy could hear all of the questions she wasn’t asking, and he felt a familiar heat creep up the back of his neck. “I love their house,” he found himself saying.

“Really?” said Rochelle, and he could tell that she was smiling. “What do you like about it?”

Before Jeremy could answer, another voice cut in— “If I’d known we would be speaking in French this evening, I would have studied my books more.”

Both Rochelle and Jeremy turned to look at Colin in surprise. He was in the doorway, sheepish, his skin flushed, his hair damp and going in three different directions. How his arms hadn’t already burst out of the borrowed shirt, Jeremy would never know. “Sorry,” Colin added, in English. “I know my French isn’t that strong.”

“No, don’t be,” Rochelle said, smiling at him. “That was really good!”

“You know French?” Jeremy demanded, frowning at Colin as he came over and sat down at the table, in what was becoming his usual spot.

“Not really.” Colin fidgeted, looking sheepish again. “I switched to Gaelic in secondary school, but before that I took French for a few years. They teach it in most British schools, but now my vocabulary is—” He broke off and winced. “My vocabulary isn’t strong.”

What the fuck does it matter, Jeremy wanted to say, you knew I called you a hush-puppy that one time!

“Don’t worry about it,” said Rochelle. “I’m just trying to keep Jeremy and I in practice. Don’t want to lose it now that we’re in Scotland.”

“You spoke French back in America?”

“When we were at home.” Rochelle piled the sliced meat onto another platter. “It’s how my parents raised me, and I did the same with Jeremy. French at home, Spanish and English at school.”

“Right, because your mum’s—” Colin broke off, glancing at Jeremy. “Is your grandad Haitian as well?”

“No, he’s French Creole,” said Rochelle.

“Doesn’t mean he talks like a textbook, though,” said Jeremy. “He and my grandma— my mom and I call it ‘Franglish.’”

Rochelle laughed, putting the platter on the table, followed by a stack of plates. “Half of it’s Creole, too, which I don’t even know. They like having their secret language.”

Colin was smiling, his eyes warm and crinkly. “They sound fun.” He glanced at Jeremy again. “You must miss them.”

Jeremy thought back to the previous Thursday, the day before the ceilidh. He and his mom had FaceTimed with his grandparents for almost three hours, long into the evening. His grandma had cracked a bottle of wine at one point, and his grandpa had held Bombo, their black-grey mutt, up to the camera to show off his new collar. “Yeah,” he said.

“What about you, Colin?” said Rochelle as they filled their plates. “What are your grandparents like?”

Jeremy shot her a look, which she ignored.

“Oh, uh.” Colin cleared his throat in a cough, gaze on his potatoes. “My grandad passed away when I was little, and my grandmother passed a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rochelle said, sympathetic. “That’s a shame.”

Colin nodded. “They were older when they had my dad, so.” He shoved a piece of lamb in his mouth, and Rochelle tactfully changed the subject.

They talked for a while about the island’s newfound fame. Ever the conduit for town gossip, Colin filled them in on the way people were handling the news. Most of Rowe’s residents were proud, delighted— “That tracks,” Rochelle said between bites, “since our visitor stream over the past two days is the highest it’s been in years,” — but some of them were skeptical as well, worried that they’d all been duped by a fake, or just concerned about how the situation was being handled— “That also tracks,” Rochelle said, “based on the number of angry emails I’ve gotten.”

Colin frowned a little. “They aren’t being unkind, are they?”

“Not really,” Rochelle said with a shrug. “I think everyone’s worried about the attention this will bring. Rowe always had a consistent tourist stream, but this might really change things.”

“You said you’ve been having more visitors,” said Jeremy. “So does that mean the cross is on display at the castle?”

Rochelle nodded. “I put it in one of the main wings. Locals have been to the castle enough to remember most of the collection, and I didn’t want to force people to walk through the whole museum just to see one new artifact. But I didn’t want to put it right at the front, either. Robert doesn’t want it to seem like we’re showing off for the sake of a little media attention, and I actually agree with him. Best strategy is to treat it like any other new addition.”

“I get his point,” said Colin. He looked thoughtful, wry. “The more casual you are about it, the less questions people are likely to ask. I’m sure that’s part of his plan, too.”

“Really?” Rochelle paused, her fork and knife stilling above her plate. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. His behavior’s been more odd than not, running hot and cold over the media involvement, wanting to downplay the discovery instead of brag about it. I know that you feel the same way and you’re going along with it because you want to protect the information we have and not get anyone else butting in on our secret project. But, I would’ve expected that you’d have to discourage him from doing too much press, not the opposite. We’ve said it before, his reaction wasn’t what we expected — if anything, he’s been doing everything he can to avoid the attention that the cross is bringing to Rowe, when someone in his position would practically be yelling it from the castle roof.” Colin shrugged. “We know why you’re treading carefully, but why’s he doing the same? Because he doesn’t want people, especially powerful people, asking questions.”

Jeremy fought the urge to gape at him. That was the most he’d ever heard Colin say at once.

Rochelle looked at Colin for a moment, then inhaled sharply. “You think he knows.”

Jeremy looked at her. “What?”

Colin ignored him. “He might not know about the book, but I think he definitely knows something. It would explain the way he’s acting. I would bet that whatever the cross means, it would reflect badly on the clan, maybe even on Robert himself. He could be trying to protect himself and his family.”

“And it wouldn’t just be them,” Rochelle added. “It would be the chiefs before him, going back who knows how long, even if they weren’t from his direct family.”

“You said it yourself, when you showed me the book,” said Colin. “This isn’t a question of he-said she-said, of little details in a history that no one cares about anymore. If this involves religion, it could get very serious, very quickly. Just because things have settled down doesn’t mean that people forget the past. We already get enough looks from other Scots because we’ve got quite a few Catholics living here. We don’t need any more trouble stirred up.”

“Wait, Scottish people aren’t Catholic?” Jeremy said, frowning.

“Most of them aren’t,” Rochelle replied. “Most are Presbyterian, Church of Scotland. But Rowe does have the highest number of Catholics in comparison to the surrounding islands. Presbyterianism didn’t take off here the way it did in the rest of the country, much to the irritation of its leaders.” She smiled. “Another one of the island’s anomalies.”

“So the MacLewans aren’t Catholic?” said Jeremy.

Colin and Rochelle traded glances, and Jeremy felt a funny bubble underneath his stomach. He’d never thought that he’d see this — Colin and his mom teamed up.

“They were, for a long time,” said Rochelle. “Just like everyone else. Even with the late conversion date, Rowe was a Catholic place for over six hundred years, up until the Protestant missionaries arrived from the mainland in the late seventeenth century.”

“But it didn’t catch on right away,” Colin said, grinning before he took another bite. “Islanders told the Protestants where they could shove their new ideas and turned them away.”

“Basically, yes.” Rochelle grinned as well. “People didn’t really get into Presbyterianism for another hundred or so years, and when the numbers started to grow, it created problems for the clan chief at the time, who was still Catholic, like most of the island.”

“Wild,” said Jeremy. “Did it ever get bloody?”

“Nothing too serious,” Rochelle replied. “No one started a war over it. Presbyterians just became a vocal minority, and Rowe eventually realized that most of the country had gone that way as well. It would be to their benefit to have at least some Presbyterian leaders, or even a handful of Presbyterian merchants. Keep things civil when dealing with outsiders.”

“That’s when the clan stopped having a Catholic-only seat,” said Colin. “First Presbyterian chief was elected by a slim majority. Since then, it’s gone back and forth. Robert’s family, the main MacLewan branch, are now Presbyterian as well, but I think the chief before him was Catholic?”

“Close,” said Rochelle. “Two chiefs ago. His great uncle.”

“When did the island start to switch over?” said Jeremy.

“1750s,” Rochelle replied. “The Presbyterian offshoots didn’t really gain traction out here, though, and I’m sure part of that is because they had such a strong Catholic figurehead in the chief.”

“So is that a late conversion, again?”

Rochelle tilted her head, considering. “You could probably argue either way. The Highlands and the island communities were always a step or three behind the more central parts of Scotland. Even when it came to the first Catholic missionaries, but you know that Rowe is the exception to that rule as well.”

“Ms. Lefebre,” said Colin, the tips of his ears reddening. “Might I have some more?” And sure enough, his plate was licked clean.

“Of course!” said Rochelle, pushing the dish of meat closer to him.

Jeremy blinked down at his own food, which he’d almost abandoned in the course of the conversation. “Catholics and Protestants,” he said, spearing a potato on his fork. “Feels like, uh. Who was that? Queen Mary?”

“God, I hope not.” Rochelle chuckled, taking a sip of wine.

“But you do think it’s possible that Robert knows more than he’s letting on?”

“Yes,” said Colin, after inhaling another slice of lamb. “Absolutely.”

“Maybe,” Rochelle conceded. “I think it’s a little early to jump to conclusions.”

Jeremy nodded and ate a few bites of food. After chasing it with a sip of lemonade, he looked up at his mom again. “You said Rowe is a predominantly Catholic place, right? Has been for most of its history?”

“Yeah.”

“Then where are the monks?”

“Another one of Rowe’s mysteries,” said Rochelle. “There’s no recorded evidence of there being a monastery on this island, even though the castle’s collection of medieval texts is substantial. As far as historians can tell, while there wasn’t a monastery built on this island, there was a small one on Kintyre, and a few acolytes would travel back and forth. There was some kind of partnership that allowed them to move quite freely, and there was an exchange of texts and finished goods between the two communities.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy. “But there’s nothing in the book that says where it was written?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” said Rochelle. “But it could just be that I don’t know what I’m looking for. There could be some sort of clue staring us in the face, and we’re none the wiser.”

“Love that,” Jeremy replied. “So the plan is to keep translating?”

“Yes,” Rochelle said, glancing at Colin. “If Col’s still on board.”

“Of course,” he replied with a smile. “Makes me feel like I’m part of the Scooby gang.”

“I’m Scooby,” said Jeremy.

Colin snorted. “Oh please. You’re Daphne.”

“I’m Daphne? Then who are you?”

“Fred,” Colin shot back, then seemed to realize what he’d just implied. “Or—”

“Velma,” said Jeremy, heat sweeping up his neck. “You’re translating a spooky book from a half-dead language. Definitely Velma.”

Rochelle just shook her head, exasperated and fond all at once. “You two certainly eat like Shaggy and Scooby.”

Jeremy flashed her a grin. “Rooby-dooby-doo!”

“That,” said Colin, staring at him, “was a little too good. Did you practice that before? In the mirror? First thing this morning?”

“No,” said Jeremy, faking outrage, while Rochelle laughed.

They lingered over the last of dinner, as the sun slowly bowed towards the horizon. Jeremy listened as Colin told Rochelle about the horses, his hands twisting and his face lighting up as he described the line of Duchess’s neck, and how good she was at sharp turns. He could see Rochelle’s surprise, a reflection of the way he’d felt the day before — it was rare to see Colin so animated, so enthusiastic. A small part of Jeremy’s mind told him just how attractive it was, a voice that he tried to squash with minimal success. Stop feeling things, he told himself, taking a large glug of lemonade.

Really, he didn’t want this to be complicated. He didn’t want too much overlap between his space at home, with his mom, and his thing with Colin. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they collided, if his mom found out, or, Jesus, if Aggie found out. He felt a rising wave of panic, and told himself to stop thinking as soon as possible.

“Ah,” said Colin eventually, glancing at the clock on the wall, which told them it was just past nine. “I should probably get going.” He sounded reluctant, even morose.

If Jeremy could hear it, then so could Rochelle, and his suspicions were confirmed when she frowned a little and patted his hand. “Yeah, it’s getting late. But it’s lovely having you, Colin.”

He nodded, and seemed to brighten. “Cheers, Ms. Lefebre. And you’re sure I can’t help with the washing up?”

“Nope,” said Rochelle, smiling now. “That’s Jeremy’s job.”

“Typical foreigners,” said Jeremy, shaking his head. “Trying to steal my means of employment.”

“Do you hear the things you say, sometimes?” said Colin.

“Yes, and I think they should be put in a book. It’d be a bestseller. Mom,” said Jeremy. “I’m gonna walk Colin to his truck.”

“Sure,” she said, and missed the way Colin smirked. She stood up and went over to her briefcase. “Don’t forget these!” Rochelle produced a sheaf of printed scans, binder-clipped together.

“Thanks,” said Colin, taking them. “I’ll have them done by the end of the week, I think.”

Rochelle smiled. “No rush, remember? You’re technically on summer break, Col.”

“I know,” he conceded, standing up. “Is this the rest of the book?”

She shook her head. “We’ve got about a third left after this.”

“Good, so he can definitely rush,” said Jeremy. “Because I want to read this goddamn book and find out what all the fuss is about.”

Rochelle shook her head, and Colin rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him,” she advised Colin.

“Never do,” he replied, smiling when she pulled him in for a hug. “Thanks again for having me, Ms. Lefebre.”

She and Colin bade each other goodnight, and Jeremy led the way out of the cottage, into the brilliant night air. The sun was still fighting its fight with the horizon, and the ocean was calm, lapping gently at the shore. Oranges and purples danced across the surface of the water, below the yawning void of brilliant navy blue, punctuated only by the soft white orb of the moon.

It makes sense, Jeremy found himself thinking. This place feels like it has magic.

Colin followed, and didn’t say anything when Jeremy continued past the truck and a little further down the road, where the stone wall gave way to a grassy hill that obscured them from sight. He turned, then, and looked at Colin.

Colin was a bit ridiculous in his borrowed clothes. The only pants Jeremy owned that would fit him were sweatpants a few sizes too big, because Jeremy had some very specific feelings about winter and bundling and lying on the couch, and the shirt honestly looked like a sausage casing stuffed to the max. Throw in his muddy work boots, and well.

Jeremy shook his head. “You look like you should be committed. Or you walked in the latest Yeezy fashion show.”

Colin cocked his head and came closer, his eyes very very blue in the dusk. “Yankee,” he said, his voice a low rumble that absolutely did not make Jeremy shiver. “Did you bring me out here to offend my delicate sensibilities?”

“We have less than five minutes before my mom starts to get suspicious,” Jeremy told him, refusing to think about the blush clawing up his chest and throat. “Make the most of it.”

He should’ve known better than to give Colin a challenge.

Later, when he was knee-deep in Jimi Hendrix and nose-to-nose with some new Gerschwin sheet music, he had the terrible idea of texting Colin. It was late, later than Colin was usually awake, so there was still a decent chance that he wouldn’t see it at all.

Pencil in his mouth, Jeremy fumbled with his phone.

Me (11:52 PM): C u tomoz?

A few minutes passed, long enough for Jeremy to forget he’d texted anybody, and when his phone finally buzzed, he jumped. Mozart gave him some serious side-eye before going back to her evening bath.

Colin (12:01 AM): Yes