Page 14 of A Scot in the Storm
A gust of wind hit Abigail full in the face, sudden and sharp, carrying salt spray that stung her eyes. She flinched, blinked, and when she opened her eyes the woman was gone.
“Wait —” she called out, but the words died on the wind.
Just gone. The fog was thinning. The gulls had started up again. The hermit crab was still making its slow way across the tide pool.
On the rock where the woman had stood, a single black feather lay against the pale stone, just like the one she’d found on Skye.
Abigail picked it up. A raven’s feather, maybe. Glossy and perfect. It felt heavier than it should.
She stood there for a long moment, the feather in her hand, her heart hammering. The same woman. The same disappearance. Not a coincidence.
She’d read the folklore.The old woman at the stones. The Cailleach who appeared during storms, who seemed to exist at the edges of ordinary time.A figure who appeared in story afterstory across the centuries. The wind shoved at her as she tucked the feather in her jacket pocket, and walked back to the museum.
Ye’ve written to him before, lass.
The phrase kept repeating itself in her head. Abigail didn’t know what it meant. She told herself she didn’t want to know.
Arthur was in the archive room, elbow-deep in a sea chest with brass fittings.
Her stomach dropped.
“Morning!” he said cheerfully.
“Sandra and I pulled this up from the basement store yesterday. It was behind a wall of fishing nets and what I’m fairly certain was another taxidermied puffin, different one from last time, mind you, which raises concerning questions about how many puffins this museum has stuffed over the years. The fittings are late eighteenth-century. Want to have a look?”
Her hands were shaking as she stepped closer. “Sure.”
The chest was beautiful. Dark oak, salt-weathered, with brass corners gone green with age. Arthur had laid out the contents on acid-free tissue paper. A compass with a cracked glass face. A bundle of wax-sealed letters tied with tarred twine. A leather-bound journal with the spine half gone. A folded navigation chart so fragile it looked ready to dissolve.
“The letters are the real prize,” Arthur said, handing her a pair of cotton gloves. “I’ve only skimmed the first two, but they’re from Rory Sinclair, the engineer I mentioned on your first day. Written between 1787 and 1788.”
Abigail took the first letter. The paper was heavy, handmade, with rough deckle edges. The ink had faded to warm brown but was still legible, written in a strong, slightly slanted hand. Confident but not showy.
7th October, 1787
To Mr.Thomas Smith, Engineer to the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses —
Sir, I write to report satisfactory progress on the conversion of the Kinnaird Head tower…
She scanned through the technical details — gear ratios, bearing surfaces, the specific gravity of whale oil, and then her breath caught as she picked up the next letter.
…I should note an unusual occurrence. During the storm of the 1st, a woman was found on the rocks below the Wine Tower. She gave no account of any vessel. No ship had been reported in distress. She was dressed in garments I cannot account for and spoke in a manner I have not encountered in any port or country. She claims to remember nothing. I have given her shelter, as honor demands, though I confess the circumstances trouble me greatly.
She came from the storm, Thomas. And I cannot shake the conviction that the storm sent her.
Abigail set the letter down. Her pulse was loud in her ears.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Arthur said. “A castaway at the lighthouse. Must have been quite the event.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
There were eleven letters in the bundle, spanning four months. She read them all. Rory Sinclair’s handwriting grew more familiar with each one, the decisive t-crossings, the way he wroteyeinstead ofyouwhen the tone got personal. The woman appeared in five of the letters. He never named her.
She has an understanding of mechanics that I cannot explain. She examined the lens assembly yesterday andidentified the bearing fault within minutes. I have been working on this problem for three months.
Abigail’s hands were shaking as she turned to the next letter. The writing was less controlled, the letters pressed hard into the paper, the margins closer, as if Rory had been rushing or agitated. Or both.
I have not slept well since the night she arrived. Is it possible for a person to carry a kind of strangeness the way others carry a familiar scent? She is familiar to me in a way that cannot be explained by the time we have spent together.
