Page 4 of A Scot in the Storm
She pulled into the car park, killed the engine, and stared at the building through the windscreen. Grey stone. Grey sky, and more grey in the sea beyond the cliffs. Everything was grey and dreary.
Wet leaves had gathered in rust-colored drifts along the gutters beside the car park, plastered flat by rain and sea wind. Somewhere nearby, peat smoke threaded through the damp air sharp as earth and winter. Above the harbor, gulls wheeled inland in noisy circles, the sort of frantic movement that usually meant weather was turning again.
“Well,” she said to no one. “This is cheerful.”
Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam.
did u land safe? hows scotland? is there haggis?
Landed. Scotland is grey. No haggis yet. How’s the van?
van is great. caught a sick wave this morning. morro bay is firing
She stared at the surfing emoji for a long moment.
Sam was twenty-five, living in a converted Sprinter van in California, surfing every day, working odd jobs when the swellwas flat. He was in what the oncologist called a bridging phase. Basically, a careful word for the space between the last round of chemo and the transplant he didn’t yet have a donor for.
His counts were better than they’d been in a year. His hair was growing back. Last week, he’d sent her a photo of himself on a board at Morro Rock with the captionfuzzy head, don’t care.
The doctors hadn’t exactly approved of surfing, but hadn’t exactly forbidden it either, so her brother had taken that as permission.
She’d been tested the week after the diagnosis. Sat on the lab table with her sleeve pushed up and hoped so hard she’d embarrassed herself, and three weeks later the transplant coordinator had called and said, kindly,Unfortunately you’re not a match.
Abigail had stood in the kitchen of her apartment with the phone against her ear and saidthank you,as if the woman had handed her a coffee.
She’d stood there for a long time after hanging up. The one biological task she’d had for the only person who shared her blood, and she hadn’t been able to do it.
She typed back.
Eat something that isn’t a burrito
no promises. love u sis
Love you too
She pocketed the phone, grabbed her bag, and headed for the entrance.
The museum was housed in Kinnaird Head Castle, a squat sixteenth-century tower that had been converted into Scotland’s first mainland lighthouse in 1787. Abigail knew this because she’d read every paper, historical account, and engineeringreport she could find in the weeks between her mentor’s phone call and her flight. If she was going to be exiled to the edge of the world, she was at least going to be well-prepared.
The door was heavy oak, and it groaned when she pushed it open. Inside, the air smelled like old stone and furniture polish. A man stood behind the reception desk, wrestling with a cardboard box that appeared to be winning.
“Hang on, just?—”
He shoved the box sideways, straightened up, and grinned at her. He was maybe fifty, round-faced, with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of cheerful energy that suggested he’d never met a stranger. “You must be Dr. Winston. I’m Arthur Campbell.”
“Abigail, please.” She shook his hand. “Dr. Winston makes me sound like I know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t we all fake it?” He came around the desk, grinning.
“Welcome to Kinnaird Head. I’d give you the grand tour, but it’s mostly just this—” he gestured at the castle around them, “—stone walls, steep stairs, and more lighthouse equipment than any reasonable person needs. Come on, I’ll show you the archives.”
He talked as he led her through the building, the kind of man who filled silence the way some people filled bookshelves. Compulsively, cheerfully, and without any rhyme or reason. The castle was a warren of narrow corridors and low doorways. She ducked under a lintel and followed him up a spiral staircase so tight her shoulders brushed both walls.
“The collection’s a bit of a mess, I won’t lie,” Arthur said over his shoulder. “Sandra, she’s our curator, you’ll meet her tomorrow, has been trying to catalogue the whole lot for years, but we keep finding more boxes in the cellars. Last month we pulled out a crate that hadn’t been opened since the 1920s. Had a taxidermied puffin in it.”
“A puffin?”
“Aye. Looked quite offended about the whole thing.”
