July - Chapter One

Jeremy was sitting in his window seat, hands resting in his lap, wondering whether he should be having an existential crisis of some kind.

The move had been surprisingly smooth. Their house in D.C. was small, which helped, he guessed, and his mom could be a little organized if she put her mind to it. They had sold most of their furniture, donated whatever wasn’t worth selling, and shipped the rest of their personal possessions to Scotland. Jeremy’s belongings — which were mostly books and sheet music — fit in a neat half-dozen boxes and a large suitcase, plus his clarinet, which was currently sitting above him in the overhead compartment. They’d ended up shipping his keyboard, even though Jeremy had spent about a week trying to convince his mom that he could carry two instruments through the airport. She hadn’t bought it.

Rochelle’s books were another matter entirely. She spent most of the time before the move going through each volume, getting into half-hour debates with herself about what she needed to keep, what could be given away. It was mind-numbing, and, if Jeremy was honest, a bit frightening — he’d grown up with a historian for a mom, yes, but it was still a shock to see how attached people could get to their books. She ended up settling for a solid ten boxes of books, shipped them off to Scotland, and donated the rest to American University’s library.

“I hope you aren’t going to keep those in the house,” Jeremy said as she signed the FedEx guy’s little box.

She snorted. “Of course not, Jer,” she said, and it was absolutely a lie.

However, trying to use the move as an excuse for his mom to downsize her shoe collection had backfired miserably, ending in a Steve Madden to the back of his knee. They had punched out a hasty truce over dinner at Steak n’ Shake and tiptoed around each other for a few days, but apart from that, things had gone smoothly, and Jeremy couldn’t figure out why it bugged him.

If he had to guess, maybe it was the whole no going-away party thing that was the issue, though he wasn’t sure who he would invite.

Jo was the only person he really had to say goodbye to, apart from his teachers. And Mrs. Gibbins, his long-time, twice-weekly, on-the-dot-of-five-o’clock-and-not-a-moment-later-young-man clarinet teacher. She herself was a retired clarinetist, and wore her hair in a severe grey bun. Having played in the National Symphony Orchestra for years, she had a persistent habit of making Jeremy feel like an inadequate toad. But that was fine. At seventeen, Jeremy was a damn fine clarinetist and probably well ahead of most of his peers, even if Mrs. Gibbins would never admit anything close to it. Or so he’d thought.

At the end of their last lesson together, the day before his flight, she had taken him out of the front room for the first time and served him stupidly good lemon pound cake in her small but bright kitchen. Then, as they sipped at Earl Grey, she told Jeremy that he ought to try for a music scholarship at university and eventually a position in one of the British symphonies, causing him to inhale half his cup of tea and require several strong pats on the back to recover. Mercifully, she hadn’t tried to hug him goodbye, which, Jeremy reflected, was probably for the best, since he couldn’t have handled two shocks in one day.

But he had to admit he would miss her. He would continue clarinet at school, of course, but Rochelle hadn’t mentioned anything about lessons in the village they would be living in. Jeremy assumed that was an indication of the village’s size, and didn’t push her on it, something that he regretted now that he was staring down the prospect of two months without a lesson. He could make do on his own, but he knew it would get boring.

Boring. That was something Jo had talked about a lot over the past couple weeks. “What do you think kids do for fun there?” In his mind’s eye, she fiddled with her septum piercing as she lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Chase sheep, probably. Or worse.” She had waggled her eyebrows at him, laughing when he threw a pillow at her.

But that was something he couldn’t stop thinking about. What was there to do in Dunsegall? Rochelle had been useless on this front — “I’m sure they keep busy!” “With something other than farming?” “Pack the utensils, Jeremy.” — which was pretty much par for the course.

It made sense, though, why she took the job. She knew it was a big move, especially with him so close to finishing high school, but it was the sort of opportunity she’d dreamed of since her undergrad days, and, really, Jeremy couldn’t begrudge her that. His mom had worked hard to get where she was, and it didn’t hurt that the new job offered more money, more exposure, more benefits, not to mention the opportunity to basically reinvent an entire museum.

The National Trust chapter at Dunsegall Castle — which, his mom told him, still technically belonged to the MacLewan clan that had been seated there since probably the beginning of time — had decided that they needed a major overhaul if they were going to continue pulling in significant tourism revenue. This was especially urgent, since their Head Archivist of thirty years had just retired the previous winter, leaving databases without updates and most of the resources, unfortunately, locked out of the digital age. “Would you believe,” Rochelle had said to him at least three times, “the castle has one of the best collections of artifacts and manuscripts in all of Scotland — all of Scotland, Jer!” He’d nodded along, of course, mulling in his own distaste for the move, but the moment she’d told him that her boss recommended her for the job, her eyes bright and shining on that windy March evening, he’d known that she would get it. There was a good reason she was one of the top manuscript specialists at the National Archive, and that reason had pulled her all the way across the pond, where, if she was being honest, she’d always wanted to be.

She didn’t seem to worry that her son, bred in Washington, D.C. and used to all the conveniences of living in a city, would soon be thrown headfirst into what he was sure was the world’s tiniest and Most Scottish village.

Dunsegall had several thousand inhabitants, nestled in the Isle of Rowe’s only hospitable harbor and not far from the castle it was named after, and it traded mostly in fish, grain, and animal products. Jeremy had Googled it, and found no less than ten pubs within ‘city’ limits. He supposed that was probably overkill, but had winced as he scrolled through endless photos of rolling hills, thin cliff paths, and buildings that looked to be stuck in the eighteenth century at the earliest. Not a single McDonald’s in sight. Lots of haggis, apparently, but once he’d made the mistake of Googling that as well, he had sworn on his own clarinet that he would never touch the stuff.

And then there was the question of college. Jeremy let his gaze drift from his personal television screen, which was blaring a greeting from British Airways, out the window instead. It was late at night, the sky a deep purple, and the sea of fluorescent lights on the airport tarmac burned through his lenses.

He would have to crank out two more years at an international baccalaureate school and finish his exams, whatever those were, before applying to university. His mind went to the crumpled list of college suggestions handed to him by the college counselor not a month earlier, and he supposed he could easily come back to America, but that felt like cheating. So did picking music as his major. Not that he knew what he would study instead. Maybe integrals.

Jeremy wasn’t too sure why he was so fine with this challenge. He hadn’t overanalyzed it yet. But, he supposed, he was fine with it because he had to be.

In the seat next to him, his mom was practically vibrating. “This is a bit exciting, isn’t it?” she whispered to him, heedful of the older man sitting on her right.

Jeremy raised his eyebrows at her. She was already indulging in her complimentary slippers and blanket and using her eye mask as a headband, even though she had never looked further from sleep. “Sure.”

“Just think!” Rochelle continued, her whisper somehow getting high-pitched. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Scotland!”

Jeremy felt his eyebrows creep higher. “I hope so. Otherwise, we’re on the wrong plane.”

She smacked him on the arm, grinning as he huffed a laugh. “Smart-ass.”

He grinned back. “Don’t say that until you see my final grades.”

Rochelle settled into her seat, closing her eyes and putting up a warning finger. “And you, don’t pop my bubble. I’m so ready to get my relax on.” She wiggled her toes, and her neighbor shot her a sideways glance that was a refreshing mixture of fear and disbelief.

“You do realize we’re not in a spa?” Jeremy pressed.

“Sorry, Jer, I can’t hear you over the dulcet tones of our complimentary in-flight entertainment.” She pushed her headphones over her ears, keeping her eyes closed but unable to stop smiling.

Jeremy looked at the screen, which hadn’t changed from the British Airways marketing and safety junk. He hoped they had some good movies.

Die Hard and one episode of Seinfeld later, Jeremy felt like he had knocked back some adderall with a shot of sleeping medicine, and thought he might die if he didn’t move soon.

The cabin was dark and silent, dinner long-served and the trash long-collected, and next to him, both his mother and the older man were fast asleep. She was snoring. He really wanted to die.

Calm your ass down, he told himself, reaching up to turn off his screen. With jittery fingers, he pulled out his backpack and retrieved a notebook, some pencils, and his phone. The phone, affectionately nicknamed Darla, had a Spotify library to rival even God’s, with every kind of music imaginable. Jeremy plugged in his headphones, which were his most recent Christmas present and probably the fanciest thing he owned, then cued up some Gary Clark Jr., opened his music notebook to a fresh sheet, and started to sketch out a melody.

This occupied him for about half an hour until his bladder started to get real insistent, real quick. Rochelle, though, wasn’t amused.

“Oh my God,” she grumbled, crushing a hand to her face as she twisted her legs up and out of his path. “I’m so stealing your complimentary slippers”

“Go for it,” he whispered back, sliding past her and stepping lightly over the old man, who was out cold and had his mouth open.

Jeremy was one of the few still awake, and he slipped past the other sleeping passengers with ease. Around him, the cabin hummed with the ceaseless white noise of the engines, and he felt a wave of relief as his legs stretched and warmed up.

As he walked towards the toilets near the back of the plane, he noticed a gaggle of flight attendants hanging around in the kitchenette. They were all young, and one of them, a stupidly cute blond with knockout blue eyes who was perched on the counter, looked up as he approached. He smiled, and Jeremy felt his insides liquify just a little bit.

“Can I help you, sir?” Blue Eyes whispered. Damn. British, too.

He shook his head, reaching for the door to the tiny restroom. “I think I can manage.”

Blue Eyes’ grin widened, and Jeremy fought off a blush as he went into the can and locked the door. “Grow up,” he hissed at his reflection. “And calm down.”

Blue Eyes shot him another smile as he stepped out of the restroom, and Jeremy hesitantly returned it as he headed back up the aisle. He wasn’t in any rush. Now that he was standing, he didn’t want to sit back down.

He continued past his seat, walking up through the business section and cutting across at the next bathroom area. There, he was surprised to find stairs up to another deck, but they were sectioned off with a striped piece of rope. Just as he was about to step over it, some of the flight attendants he had seen before appeared behind him, giving him a knowing smirk as they filed past him and up the stairs.

Rebuffed, Jeremy started strolling back down the way he had come, but on the opposite side of the plane. As he neared the back, he stretched his arms over his head, keeping his elbows bent so as not to hit the ceiling, and relished the feeling of his joints popping.

Until he opened his eyes and saw Blue Eyes not ten feet away, still in the kitchenette with a playful glint in his eye.

He fought another blush and dropped his arms, conscious of the fact that a moment ago, a few inches of his tummy had been on display. But he kept walking, closer and closer to Blue Eyes.

“Change your mind?” Blue Eyes whispered.

“Guess so,” Jeremy whispered back. He drew even with the kitchenette, which was bigger than it had first appeared. Directly next to it was one of the large back doors of the plane, complete with a handy round window. He leaned against it, a safe distance away. The plastic of the door was cold against his skin, and he ignored the ice crystals on the window.

“Can I get you anything, then?” Blue Eyes was smiling now. Jeremy couldn’t quite see his nametag, and fought an urge to get closer.

“A Coke?” Jeremy found himself saying.

Blue Eyes nodded, turned around, and bent to open a small refrigerator. He pulled out a can of Coke, but instead of opening it and pouring half into a cup, he handed the whole can to Jeremy, who couldn’t hide his surprise.

Blue Eyes shrugged. “Flight’s almost done.”

He took the soda and smiled back. “Thanks.” Before Blue Eyes stepped away, he could see the nametag. Trevor. It was so stupidly British it was perfect. “So how often do you do flights like these?”

“What, transatlantic?” When Jeremy nodded, Trevor continued: “More often than not. I used to do the regional circuit a lot, just around the UK, but these can pay a bit better.”

He couldn’t fight off an impish grin as he cracked open the can. “What, no cat to miss you back at home?”

Trevor’s eyes widened and his grin brightened. “No, but maybe one day.”

He sipped at his soda, and Trevor took the opening. “So what’s your deal, then? A holiday? Foreign exchange program?”

Jeremy shook his head, bubbles bursting in the back of his throat. “Moving.”

Trevor’s eyebrows flickered upwards, and something in his gaze got sympathetic. “Wow. That’s pretty major.”

He shrugged.

“Where?”

“Uh.” Trevor was so distracting that Jeremy had to actually think for a moment. “Dunsegall. Somewhere in Scotland?”

Trevor let out a low whistle. “Damn. Bitch and a half to get to.”

Jeremy sighed. “Don’t I know it.” He had another plane ticket, plus a ferry ticket, tucked into his backpack, and he was not looking forward to it. “I plan on sleeping through as much of it as possible.” In an ideal world, he thought.

“Oh really? Our humble countryside not good enough for Captain America over here?” Trevor was properly grinning now, all toothy. “I promise you, there’s always a bagpipe playing somewhere in Scotland, and it’ll be more than enough to keep you awake.”

Jeremy grinned back. “So what do you do for fun on these trips? Is there a gigantic ball and wheel hidden away somewhere?”

“No,” said Trevor, pulling out the syllable like taffy. “We aren’t hamsters, you know. But we do what we can.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Make our own fun and all that.”

“Oh yeah?” Jeremy locked gazes with him, feeling brave. “So what’s on the top floor?”

Five minutes later, Jeremy was marching smartly down the aisle, right on Trevor’s heels, and adjusting the nametag (“Chuck”) on his borrowed vest.

“Right,” Trevor hissed as they ducked into the mid-plane kitchen area. “Carry these.” He dumped several empty boxes into Jeremy’s hands. “And follow me. We’re just restocking the snack bar, got it?”

“Got it,” he whispered back, his heart thumping. They turned to the stairs, and Trevor reached forward, unhooking the rope divider and stepping to the side, waiting for Jeremy to pass.

Jeremy padded up the carpeted stairs, into the relative darkness.

When he reached the top, he was surprised at how normal it looked. The overall cabin was sleeker, the seats were bigger, and the TVs were maybe a bit nicer, but that was pretty much it. Everyone up here was just as asleep as everyone on the floor below.

Trevor nudged him. “Come on,” he whispered, heading for the back of the plane.

Jeremy followed him, glancing at the passengers, wondering how much extra they had paid for these seats.

“So.” Trevor smiled at him once they were safely in the back kitchen area. He was standing much closer now, and Jeremy could see the freckle underneath his eye. “Worth it?”

Jeremy grinned. “Absolutely. Beats sitting on my ass.”

Trevor chuckled, the sound low and throaty. “Arse.”

Ok, that threw him. “Huh?”

“Arse. You’re British now, remember?”

“Right.” Jeremy’s gaze found the nearest open window, where a broad expanse of blue-black ice stretched below them, not a single city in sight. He reached for Trevor, and took a breath.

Jeremy sat on one of three benches outside Glasgow Airport and slowly came to terms with the fact that he didn’t like rain.

He knew it was what the United Kingdom was famous for, but it was almost midday on a July morning. There had to be limits.

About ten feet away, Rochelle was humming and strolling in a loose circle. The airport had a large overhang that sheltered them from the worst of the weather, and she was following the edge of the dry ground, pacing away the minutes until their ride showed up. Why they couldn’t wait inside, he didn’t know.

Jeremy cleared his throat. “And you’re sure they didn’t forget about us?”

“Of course they didn’t.” She didn’t even turn around, just kept humming and watching.

The airport was practically deserted, a testament to the fact it was mid-afternoon on a Friday. They were waiting on a ride from someone literally, not-shitting-you-in-the-least, named Angus. He was somehow related to Rochelle’s job, but Jeremy had checked out of that information session pretty quickly. All he knew, and all he cared about, was that Angus was a half-hour late.

Their hour-and-a-half flight from Heathrow to Glasgow had been pretty painless, if a little cramped and bumpy. Soon after landing, Jeremy and Rochelle had found themselves pretty much alone — the few other passengers from their flight had scuttled away pretty quickly.

He shook his head and curled into his headphones. The air was chilly, and the damp seemed to go right through his sweater. He had his clarinet case in his lap, too paranoid to set it on top of his suitcase, and after a moment, he switched the song to something by Henry Mancini and pulled out the pieces of his instrument, sticking the reed in his mouth to moisten it.

He slid the pieces together with practiced fingers, inserted the reed, then tested it by playing a quick stream of notes. Rochelle turned at the sound, grinned at him. Jeremy winked back and started to play in earnest, riffing on the Mancini and hoping that they really were the only people around, because hoo boy did he probably look crazy.

About five minutes later, a nondescript Peugeot that looked like it was half-car, half-van pulled up under the awning. Jeremy stopped playing and pulled off his headphones as the largest human he had ever seen in real life extracted himself from the front seat.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Angus had iridescent ginger hair and was basically a human version of a brick wall, beard included. “There were sheep on the road!” His voice was booming, and his accent was thick. The only thing missing was a kilt. Instead, he was wearing jeans, and Jeremy tried not to feel disappointed.

“Hi, Angus!” Rochelle beamed at him, and Angus swept her up into a hug. There was laughter, there were smiles, Jeremy wanted to roll his eyes but somehow didn’t.

“Sheep?” he piped up, taking apart the clarinet and putting it back in its case. “And, what, you had to check to see if they were wearing collars and take them to the pound?”

To his surprise, Angus belted out a laugh and started to walk over. Eyes huge, Jeremy straightened up just in time for Angus to hug him.

“And this must be Jeremy!” Angus squeezed and lifted him off the ground. “What a fine young chap!”

“Mom?!” Jeremy squeaked. She just shook her head and grinned, as if to say, What can you do? Then Angus was putting him back down, and oxygen rushed back into his lungs.

“Nice to meet you, laddie!” Angus thumped him on the back and Jeremy coughed in reply. “Ready to go?”

“Yes!” Rochelle hoisted her suitcase, beaming. Angus went to her side and gently took it from her, waving off her indignant eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re so excited about,” Jeremy grumbled, pulling up the handle of his suitcase and making sure his clarinet case was securely tucked under his arm. “We still have the drive and a ferry ride ahead of us.”

“Aye,” said Angus. Jeremy started; he didn’t think anyone had heard him. “But the roads are quite clear, save for the odd sheep, of course.” Angus let out a belly laugh that echoed around the entire building. “Shouldn’t take more than four, five hours, depending on how often we stop.”

Jeremy blinked some more, then looked to his mom, who was giving him her most sheepish—hah—face. “Five hours?”

Angus let out that huge laugh again. “Well of course! Anything that takes a ferry to get to isn’t exactly close.” Chuckling to himself, Angus went about loading Rochelle’s bag, busying himself at the trunk of the car.

Jeremy wheeled his suitcase over to where his mom stood, still giving him her most sheepish expression, which was getting more desperate by the minute.

“Okay, okay,” she was saying, reaching for and taking his arm as he approached. “I’m sorry, I know, I probably should have told you, but I didn’t want you to freak out, and—”

“It’s okay, mom,” he found himself saying. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “It’s fine. All part of the adventure, right?” He offered her a weak smile, and she visibly relaxed.

“Oh, thank God.” Rochelle squeezed his arm, leaned forward and pushed her forehead against his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to get mad again.” She then laughed and straightened up, her eyes practically glowing with excitement. “Adventure. Right. Absolutely. Big adventure. Let’s go.” She squeezed his arm again, then Angus was coming up and taking Jeremy’s bag, and Jeremy was getting into the backseat with his clarinet on his lap and his backpack at his feet. Then he noticed a large pink bag on the seat next to him.

It was a canvas shopping bag, advertising something called Tesco’s. Jeremy frowned at it as Angus and his mom climbed into the front seat. Angus saw him in the rearview mirror and said, “Lunch, laddie.”

“Oh.” Jeremy peered over the edge of the bag, pulling out what looked like a sandwich wrapped in plastic. His eyes bugged at the filling. “What is that? Vegemite?”

Angus grinned, starting the car. “Try black pudding.”

“Great!” Jeremy dropped the sandwich as if it had burnt him, and Angus’ booming laugh rang in his ears.

The hours rolled past like the hills beneath their wheels. Jeremy watched as the grass and rocks rose and fell around them, as villages and towns shrank and grew, as the rain stopped and started and stopped again, as the air became thick with fog and sea spray.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” Rochelle called to him from the deck of the ferry. She was standing outside the car near the railing, while Angus chatted to the ferryman (Dunsegall’s only ferryman, Angus had told him). Jeremy was still inside the car. He couldn’t swim.

“Sure, mom!” he yelled back, his voice carrying through the open sunroof.

They were surrounded by waves. Velvet-grey and turquoise in a rare patch of sun, the ocean sloshed and lulled around the boat, calm except for the areas closest to the coast. Jeremy willed himself to feel the push and pull, the up-and-down of the boat, his gaze on the horizon.

To his right, the east, there was a splash of green-black where the nearest island crashed into the water. Directly ahead, to the north, Dunsegall grew.

The Isle of Rowe was a splotch of white that rose from the ocean like a toad. It seemed to be squatting, staring, waiting on their approach. From this distance, neither the Isle of Rowe nor Dunsegall itself looked like much, breaking above the water in a white line of cliffs that gradually sloped into gentle, green hills and fields. As they drew nearer, Jeremy could see the boats in the harbor, the white, grey, and even pink houses lining the shore, the cluster of shops that must’ve been the high street, the farms and the sheep that dotted the bright green land and hills beyond.

And there, on the westernmost corner of the southern coast, facing the Atlantic, was Dunsegall Castle.

It was… normal, Jeremy supposed. He was surprised, though. The castle was smaller than he had imagined, and in much better condition. No ruined towers or crumbling walls. It was really just a large stone manor with a tower thrown onto the front. It sat back from the immediate coastline and was surrounded by a lawn and a small forest, then linked to the town by a long winding road.

The hour had just gone eight (20:00, Jeremy corrected himself) when they docked in the small but packed harbor. Boats of every kind stretched along the water, like an army of seagulls asleep at port.

Now back in the car, Angus tapped the horn and called, “Cheers!” to the ferryman. The sun had yet to set, and as they drove off the ferry, down a little road, and turned onto what Jeremy had correctly guessed to be High Street, people stopped and stared. They looked friendly enough, mostly on the retiree side of life, and wore a lot of tartan.

Jeremy stared back at them. “We seem to be popular.”

“Of course!” Angus chuckled. “Everyone knows you’re coming! Been the talk of the town for weeks now!”

“Really.” How reassuring, he didn’t say.

The road looked like it was stuck in a bygone era, cobblestones and all. With the sea on their left and the town on their right, they drove past a seafront pub, The Salty Dog, which was lit from within and seemed to throb with cheer. The buildings around it looked long-dead by comparison, sleepy little shops, a single hotel, and waterfront houses, some more touristy than others. It was all quite cliché, and Jeremy was trying very hard not to think it cute.

They continued down the road. The cottages and shops gradually faded into open coastline and lots of greenery. The castle began to loom before them, shades of brown and grey in the bright yellow sun, and Jeremy couldn’t help but stare. It was more imposing from this angle, like a night watchman sitting at his post, gazing out at the billowing sea.

Then, suddenly, just as they had entered the forest that spread out from the foot of the castle, the car took a hard left, turning back towards town. Bemused, Jeremy clung to his clarinet case as they continued down a hill on a small winding lane, the sky clotted by the trees overhead, and then, just as suddenly, a brick wall appeared on their right and Angus pulled them to a stop.

“We’re here!” Angus announced, his joyful, red face turning to smile at Jeremy.

“You don’t say,” Jeremy said, dry as a bone, but Angus only laughed.

“C’mon, Jeremy!” Rochelle unbuckled and started to climb out of the car, and he could hear the reproach in her words.

He turned to look out his window at the house as his mom and Angus busied themselves with the luggage. No, not a house, scratch that. Cottage. You couldn’t call it a house and then look a real house in the eye. The cottage was small, two stories, clean white brick with pretty little windows, a big, flowery garden, and a white wooden gate, all nestled in a neat little plot at the end of the woods. They didn’t have any neighbors, and the road continued for a small distance before it dead-ended at the edge of some rocks. It was so picturesque he kind of wanted to vomit.

It wasn’t until Jeremy was out of the car that he realized just how close they were to the ocean. The air was sweet-bitter and sharp with salt, and he could hear the waves rushing from behind the cottage. Awesome, he thought. Tsunami zone.

Angus kept up a stream of chatter as he carried their luggage indoors, leaving Jeremy to stare in wonder as Angus somehow managed to fit himself and two suitcases through a front door that barely came up to his shoulders.

Inside, the cottage was snug. The floor was grey wood worn pale yellow with age, and the walls were white, but somehow, it still felt warm. The ceilings were a little on the low side, and Angus had to hunch as he continued down the hallway and up the stairs.

On Jeremy’s right was a sitting room, complete with dark, simple furniture, a TV, and an honest-to-God radio, and on his left was what looked to be a combination dining room and library. The light was out, so he couldn’t see much, but the walls were lined with shelves and absolutely crammed with books from top to bottom. The dining table and chairs were gorgeous; he could even see the shine of the varnish through the dark.

Rochelle was busy taking off her coat and boots. “Isn’t this lovely?” She ran her fingers through her hair and hung her coat on one of the weathered metal hooks by the door. “Belongs to the family. We’re technically on MacLewan property right now.”

“Really?” Curiosity getting the better of him, Jeremy cast his gaze around the hallway, began to notice just how old the wood was, the nicks and dips in the floor that had been smoothed over the years. He shucked his windbreaker. “Who lived here?”

“That’s a good question, actually.” She straightened up, frowned a little. “I know that Angus’ family, the MacCreeveys, have been the caretakers for generations, and they live in a small, private wing of the castle, always have. Maybe the estate manager lived here, or maybe it was some sort of barn that they converted into spare quarters.”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows at her. “And you call yourself a historian? Ridiculous.”

Rochelle had to laugh. “Stop!” Her eyes were sparkling, her smile wide and bright, and Jeremy realized with a pang that he hadn’t seen her look like that in a long time.

She was still smiling as she bumped his arm with her hand and said, “So. Hungry?”

“Oh. Sure.” He hadn’t touched the sandwiches in the car, and that hasty pizza at the Glasgow airport felt like years ago. His stomach grumbled in reply.

“The kitchen’s well stocked!” Angus reappeared, hunched and thundering down the steps. He was grinning again, and Jeremy wondered if he ever stopped. “Mum wanted to make sure you had the basics.”

“How kind of her!” Rochelle gushed. “Please pass on our thanks!

“Of course. And you must come to tea sometime soon. She’s anxious to meet you.”

“I’m anxious to meet her as well.”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Can we eat dinner now?”

“Of course! I’ll leave you to it!” Angus headed for the front door, and Jeremy flattened himself to the wall to let Angus pass, leaving the two of them to say goodbye as he went into the kitchen.

Another painfully picturesque room. The fixtures were old but spotless, all porcelain and shining when he switched on the light. There was a small breakfast table positioned with its chairs facing a large bay window that looked out onto the beach.

The other thing Jeremy noticed was a back door that also opened onto the beach, tiny but convenient, and at the other end of the kitchen, to his left, was a door to the sunroom. A few armchairs made up most of the decor in there, but they were obscured by stacks of boxes that looked all too familiar, and Jeremy’s insides curdled at the thought of unpacking.

An ocean breeze rattled through, making the windowpanes shudder and the tea towels flutter where they hung from the door of the oven. Colorful roosters stared up at him from the towels, giving him a brief pause before he went over to the cupboards above the sink and started investigating.

Plates, glasses, bowls, cutlery, check. The pantry, a large and deep cupboard, was set into the wall, and Angus wasn’t kidding. Lots going on there, some of it very unfamiliar. At least three kinds of tea, and five kinds of biscuits. And there was such a thing as canned custard? Jeremy shook his head, reached for something that looked a little more normal. Baked beans. Aren’t beans on toast a thing? His stomach growled again, and he decided that beans on toast it was.

Jeremy turned and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Hanging above the breakfast table was one of the biggest posters of Paul Newman he had ever seen. It was a black and white photo, Paul in a shirt and tie sitting with his arms crossed as he stared at a spot about five inches above Jeremy’s head, just a hint of a smile playing around his stupidly pretty features. It was an old poster, clearly, but it was in good condition, framed nicely, and it dominated the wall. Jeremy was still staring at it when he heard the front door close and his mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“What is it?” Rochelle asked him with a frown, then turned to see for herself, and promptly jumped. “Christ alive!”

“Think the MacLewans are big Paul Newman fans?” he asked her.

She shook her head, still staring at it. “They must be. I can’t think of any other reason why they would have this. It is a bit… arresting, isn’t it?”

Jeremy grinned, can in hand as he knelt and started digging through a cupboard for a saucepan. “Maybe you can include it in the archives. Vintage poster of Paul Newman, guaranteed to make people of all ages swoon and clutch their hearts.”

Rochelle tittered and he added, “You’re going to ask him about it, right? You have to!”

“Jeremy.” She laughed for real this time. “I can’t just walk up to Lord MacLewan and ask him where the enormous Paul Newman poster in the cottage came from.”

“Why not?” he countered, saucepan found, and now looking for a can opener. “If anyone knows, he will.”

“Not exactly a good first impression, though.” She finally looked away from Paul. “What’d you find?”

“Baked beans. Want to see if there’s bread?”

“Beans on toast? You are going native.” Rochelle went over to the fridge, on top of which was a breadbox. “You do realize there’s a tab on the can? You don’t need a can opener.”

Jeremy sighed and straightened up. “Knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

They ate their beans on toast at the kitchen table, looking out at the beach. The stretch of white-grey sand between their house and the waves was about forty feet wide and a hundred feet long, a small private inlet hemmed in by chunky, dark rocks. Somehow, it was still light out, enough that it felt like it was six in the evening instead of nine-thirty. Jeremy mentioned as much and his mom nodded.

“It’s because of how high up we are in the hemisphere. The sun won’t set until almost eleven, and it comes up before five in the morning.”

“May my Circadian rhythms rest in peace,” Jeremy quipped and Rochelle smiled, a smudge of bean sauce on her chin.

They finished eating and tidied up the kitchen, leaving Paul in the relative darkness.

“Watch your head,” said Rochelle as they went up the stairs. “Ceiling gets pretty low.”

“Got it.” Jeremy hunched over, and felt his hair skim said ceiling. How Angus had ever managed to fit up here, he had no idea.

They stepped out onto a small landing. Right in front of them was one bedroom, and behind them, diagonal from the first bedroom, was the other. Between the two rooms was a small bathroom and a cupboard.

“I’ve already claimed this one.” She pointed to the bedroom straight ahead. He could see her suitcase through the open door, along with more boxes of books and a few boxes labeled ‘SHOES.’

He nodded. “Understandable. It’s definitely a Mom Room.”

She blinked. “I don’t want to know what that means.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Jeremy crossed to the other bedroom, noting the way the floor creaked. Sneaking out was definitely going to be tricky. “Is it cool if I play for a little while?”

“Of course.” Rochelle looked at him, and he could see her eyes shining with emotion. “We’re here. We’re in Scotland.”

“Yes.” He turned around in his doorway and held up his fingers in a cross. “No tears.”

“But I just wanna hug my baby!” she wailed, her face twisting with exaggerated emotion as she stumbled across the landing, lurching and reaching for him like a zombie.

Jeremy tried to dive into his bedroom, but he was too late. She grabbed him in a gigantic hug and squeezed, fake-sobbing into his chest.

“You are too fucking weird,” he said, and her crocodile tears dissolved into laughter.

When all was said and done, his room was pretty nice. It had the same faded grey floor as the rest of the house and worn wooden furniture to match, plus some big windows that faced the sea. He had a bed, a desk, a chair, a dresser, a small closet, those white white walls and the goddamn slanted ceiling.

Even though they hadn’t traveled much in the past, Jeremy had proved to be excellent at packing, and his suitcases were empty before long. Next came the thin, flat box marked ‘FRAGILE.’ He unpacked his electronic keyboard with care, unfolding the legs and plugging it into an adapter he’d bought for precisely this reason. Thankfully, it all just fit under the window next to his bed. The books would be a problem, but he would deal with that later.

The bathroom was suitably tiny and European — a full-on tub with a tiny curtain and a handheld showerhead that Jeremy dropped a total of six times in five minutes. Once, he managed to hit himself in the eye with the damn thing and he let out a stream of curses, telling the showerhead exactly where it could shove itself.

When he got out of the shower, Jeremy stared at his reflection.

He had never known his parents, even though Rochelle had insisted on an open adoption, but from what she and Jeremy knew, he was Cuban. Jeremy had rich, medium-brown skin and a huge head of jet-black fluffy, wavy hair that had likewise suffered from the showerhead — he hoped that if his eye did bruise, it would be covered by the pseudo-fringe that was developing from the lack of water pressure.

By the time he sat down on his bed, hair still wet from the shower, the sun was setting properly and the sky was a mottled peach of reds and oranges and purples. Looking out the window, he realized he would need some curtains if he didn’t want to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn every day.

It even smells different here, he thought while he sucked on his reed. It wasn’t just the salt and the kelp, but something thicker, woodsier, that hung on the air and in the back of his throat, something like wet trees and dried flowers.

Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to stop. If he thought about it too much, if he realized it was all real and happening and there, he knew he would freak out a little. The sleep deprivation didn’t help, either.

So, he booted up Darla, turned out his bedside lamp, and began to play his clarinet, the ceaseless crash of the tide a dull roar in the background.