August - Chapter Seven

Jeremy looked up when Colin shuffled into the kitchen, squinty-eyed, hair vertical, clothes rumpled, pillow crease still fresh on his cheek. “Morning, Sir Sleeps-A-Lot.”

Colin grunted in reply, his gaze drifting to the kettle.

Jeremy counted to ten in his head, forcing himself not to stand up and kiss Colin stupid. “Water’s still hot,” he said, leaning back in his chair and pulling his own mug of coffee close. “Tea’s there on the counter.”

Colin nodded and went about making himself a cup of tea. His movements were slow, measured, but he seemed completely at ease. He also knew where everything was, and it absolutely did not make Jeremy flush with pride.

When he sat down across from Jeremy, taking a sip of tea, he seemed a little more awake.

“Just in case it wasn’t clear,” said Jeremy, “you slept later than I did.”

Colin said nothing and took another sip of tea.

“Not that it matters,” Jeremy continued. “At all. Not even a little bit. My mom says good morning, by the way.”

Colin frowned. “She’s here?”

Jeremy shook his head. “At work. But she checked on you before she left, just to make sure you were alive.”

“Oh.” Colin’s ears flushed red and he went back to his tea.

“And I’m supposed to give you this.” Jeremy stood up and went to the oven, where he pulled out a plate of leftovers that had been warming for the past hour and a half. He put it down in front of Colin, along with a fork. “She wanted you to eat before you went home.”

The redness spread from Colin’s ears to his face as he stared down at the food.

“It’s rice and beans,” Jeremy went on as he sat back down. “And eggs and sausage and spinach. Sorry, it’s kind of breakfast and lunch rolled into one.”

“Thanks,” Colin mumbled, and he dug in.

They passed a few minutes in comfortable silence, Jeremy scrolling through Instagram as he checked to see how his newest post of Mozart on the beach was doing. Not bad, and he already had two DM’s from Jo with links to personalized winter gear for cats. She could be insanely unhelpful.

“Where’d you sleep?” Colin asked out of the blue.

“Couch,” said Jeremy, not looking up.

“Why?”

Jeremy did look up then, and was surprised to see Colin frowning at him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Colin went on. Whether he meant Jeremy sacrificing his bed or not joining him in the bed was left marvellously unclear.

Now a blush was crawling up Jeremy’s throat. “Yes, I did. My mom checked on us when she got back last night.”

“Oh.” Colin went back to his food, now as red as a tomato.

Silence fell again, much more awkward than before. Jeremy tried to bury himself in a truly bizarre food video on his Discover page, but even that wasn’t doing the trick. Colin didn’t want me to leave, his traitorous brain was screaming at him. He wanted me in bed with him, not doing anything, just sleeping, oh my God oh my God oh my GOD.

“I should get going,” said Colin, putting his fork down on the now-empty plate. “I have to look in on my chooks, and I need to see about those goats.”

Jeremy nodded, putting his phone away. “I need to practice.”

“You sounded good, last night.” Then Colin abruptly stood up and took his plate to the sink, keeping his back to Jeremy.

“Uh, thanks,” Jeremy replied, unsure what to make of this wholly bizarre morning. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yup.” Colin turned around. He was looking everywhere except for Jeremy and he stooped to give Mozart a rub before leaving the room. “Bye, Yankee.”

“Bye,” said Jeremy, and a moment later, the front door opened and closed.

The cottage was silent once again.

“Sixty hours of community service,” Aggie was saying the next day as she steered them towards shore. “Plus it’ll show on their permanent records, even though they’re underage.”

“That’s awesome,” said Jeremy, and he meant it. The goat in his arms bleated loudly next to his ear and he winced. “Seriously, Aggie, that’s incredible.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. “Mum and Dad are quite happy about it, too. Not that a couple of minors are going to have a permanent record, obviously, but that they’re actually getting punished for what they did.”

“Good riddance,” Colin said. He had a goat under each arm and his sunglasses on — he could’ve been the front page of an Eddie Bauer or L.L. Bean campaign. “I’m just glad they didn’t do any permanent damage.”

“Us, too,” Aggie replied. As they neared the shore, the gap between the cliffs appeared, along with the dock and the little beach. There was no sign of Guibert, since they’d assured him that they could get to the monastery on their own. “Plus they sort of gave us free advertising. We’ve had loads more people coming in just to show their support. Dad called it a blessing in disguise.”

“That’s definitely a silver lining.” Jeremy frowned up at the staircase while Colin got them tethered to the dock. “The goats can really climb up there by themselves?”

“Yes,” Colin replied. “And if they refuse, we’ll just have to carry them.” As if to prove his point, he reached down into the boat and hoisted a goat up and over his shoulders, its front legs in one hand and its back legs in the other, its belly resting on the back of his neck.

The goat bleated in surprise as well as protest, and they all laughed.

“Hold on,” Jeremy choked out, unlocking his phone. “That’s incredible.” Colin grinned and Jeremy snapped a picture just as the goat let out another yell.

“Quit fooling around,” said Colin, even though he was still smiling. “Let’s get moving.”

It wasn’t too difficult to steer the goats up the path and through the forest, and when they reached the monastery, they found Guibert sitting on the grass in front of the building, deep in conversation with—

“Amalga,” said Aggie, her surprise — Jeremy thought — not doing the moment justice.

The dragon was awake this time, and lying on the stretch of land between the monastery and the cliff’s edge. In the direct sunlight, her scales sparkled copper and red, banishing all memory of the dull brown they’d seen just a few days before. Amalga looked much bigger now that she wasn’t curled up — her haunches easily cleared ten feet by themselves, and the spikes along her back stretched three feet tall at their crest. From what he could see through the long, pillowy grass, her tail was about the same length as her body, and tapered to a triangle of thin brown cartilage that matched her wings, which were folded and tucked in against her body. The talons on her feet were shiny and menacing where they were digging into the dirt, and he reminded himself not to get cute with her.

“Wicked,” said Colin. “Shit,” said Jeremy.

Amalga turned her head as if she’d heard them. Her eyes were a pale, brilliant green that was iridescent in the midday sun, and her pupils were thin, vertical slits, just like a cat’s.

“Think she wants to eat the goats?” Jeremy muttered to Colin, then had to dodge an elbow to the ribs. “What? It’s worth knowing how many mouths we’re feeding.”

“Come on, boys,” said Aggie in her no-nonsense voice, even though Jeremy could tell she was half-shitting herself. She put down the sack of groceries. “We have to… you know. Say hi.”

“Need to put the goats away first,” said Colin, and Jeremy nodded along because he really wasn’t in the mood to attend a barbecue.

When they got back, Aggie fell in step and the three of them all headed over to Guibert and Amalga. As they got closer, Jeremy realized that what he’d mistaken for conversation was actually singing — Guibert was singing to Amalga, in the same pidgin language of Gaelic and Latin.

“Hi,” said Aggie. “Nice to see you.”

Guibert shot her a frown and stopped singing. “Amalga,” he said as he stood up. “Allow me to properly introduce the people who have decided to help us. Jeremy, Colin, and Agatha.”

The dragon stared at them each in turn, then slowly bowed her head. Heart thumping, Jeremy briefly thought that she was going to open her mouth and speak to them, but that would be ridiculous—

Welcome, came a rich, deep voice that had no particular gender or volume. We are very blessed to have aid from those so young.

“Ahaha,” was the sound that Colin made aloud. He looked like he was about to pass out. “Did everyone else hear that?”

“Yes,” said Aggie, but she didn’t seem frightened. Only intrigued.

Amalga made a whirring sound deep in her throat, then the voice continued: I know it may seem strange, but this is the best method for communicating. Please don’t be alarmed. I am merely manipulating the frequency of the air around us to ensure that you all can hear me.

“Right,” said Colin. “Not worrying at all.”

Amalga made the whirring sound again. Jeremy suspected it was her equivalent of a chuckle. Don’t worry, I can’t hear all your thoughts. Only those directed at me, personally.

Aggie cocked her head to the side and squinted.

Yes, Agatha, I agree, it is very useful.

“Wild.” Aggie grinned. “I like you, old girl.”

“Please,” said Guibert, sounding pained. “If we could begin work?”

“Oh, yeah.” Aggie gave herself a bit of a shake. “I want to try out possible bonding agents today. I’ve been researching different ways we can use the sand and we need to test the formulas to make sure we find the right one.”

Guibert blinked at her. “Right. Well. Proceed. Colin,” he added, “why don’t you work with Aggie today? I need Jeremy to stay here with Amalga and me for a while.”

“All right,” said Colin, but he didn’t sound happy about it. Jeremy felt the same way — he didn’t know what the monk was up to, and it was weird to have Guibert telling them what to do.

“I hope you aren’t about to kidnap me or something,” said Jeremy, once the others were busy at what remained of the chapel’s western wall. “Because that would just be disappointing.”

Guibert snorted. “Hardly. Where do you get your morbid tendencies? No.” He nodded to Amalga, who looked back at him, enigmatic as usual. “We have a request to make of you.”

“A request,” Jeremy repeated, glancing between them with a raised eyebrow.

More like a favor, said Amalga. Several of them, in fact.

Jeremy’s stomach flipped over. This was where the cult part started, he was sure of it. “Okay,” he said, mouth dry. “Like what?”

“Well, the first—” Guibert twitched his arm and a thin piece of wood slid out of his sleeve and into his hand. “We were wondering if you could play some music. Amalga needs it, but I can’t sing and help you three at the same time.”

Jeremy blinked at the piece of wood, which actually seemed to be some kind of recorder. He had several sudden and vivid flashbacks to fourth grade, which was the last time he’d been forced to play one of these things. “Okay. So long as I don’t have to sing.” He had close to no idea how he’d make music on this thing, but that probably wasn’t worth mentioning.

“Good.” Guibert handed over the instrument. “And now, for the second thing.” He traded a glance with Amalga, and for a moment, he actually seemed nervous. “Over the past few days, it’s become clear that our distance from the modern world over the past hundred years has become more of a hindrance rather than an aid. It’s been so long since I’ve had any contact with it that I don’t even know how much I’ve missed.” He paused to take a breath and give Jeremy a considering look. “I would like for you to… what is the phrase? Catch me up.”

Jeremy stared at him, his stomach doing that annoying flipping thing again. “What?”

Guibert seemed to swell, irritation starting to show on his face. “Lessons. History lessons.”

“Right.” Jeremy’s mind was whirling with the absurdity of this whole situation. First he had to play court musician to a dragon, and now he had to tutor a monk? “Are you sure you want me doing this? History isn’t my best subject.”

“We know,” said Guibert, in an annoyingly smug kind of way that made Jeremy want to kick him in the shin.

But Agatha is otherwise occupied, added Amalga.

For a blinding, sudden moment, Jeremy had the urge to suggest that his mom come up here and tutor Guibert herself, but that was nothing short of insane. “Fine,” he said. “But you need to answer some of my questions in return.”

Guibert seemed nettled by this, but he nodded. “Very well.”

“Okay, then.” Jeremy settled down in the grass. The ground was warm and plush beneath him, and in the bright sunshine, it was actually quite nice. “Where do you want me to start? And please remember that I haven’t cracked a history book in months, so I definitely don’t know any details and don’t even ask me about dates. Plus, I didn’t even grow up here so my knowledge of British history is shaky at best.”

Guibert shook his head, then sighed. “Why don’t we start with who’s the King? You must know that, at least.”

Jeremy looked from him to Amalga and back again, then he grinned. “Okay, that’s a good one. You had me there.”

“What do you mean?” said Guibert, frowning. “Had you where?”

Jeremy stared at him in disbelief. “Oh my God, you’re not kidding.”

Guibert was definitely annoyed now. “No, and don’t take His name in vain, you mongrel.”

“Okay, wow.” Jeremy reached into his pocket and dug out a crumpled five-pound note and a handful of coins. He gave Guibert a pound coin and unfurled the note, holding it up so Amalga could see. “Here’s your Queen. She’s called Elizabeth II.”

“A Queen,” said Guibert, somewhat in disbelief. He rubbed his thumb across the coin, staring down at her profile.

“She’s really old,” said Jeremy. “I think about ninety or something.”

“She doesn’t look ninety,” said Guibert, frowning at the note.

“No, but that’s from when she was younger.” Jeremy handed it over as well. “I think she’s been on the throne for like fifty or sixty years.”

Guibert was quiet, staring down at the note like it was actual gold. “You must be very wealthy,” he said at last, “to be carrying around such a great deal of money.”

A laugh burst out of Jeremy before he could stop it. Guibert and Amalga both shot him an unamused look and he said, “No, I’m not wealthy at all. Between the note and the coins, I only have about ten pounds on me. Here on the island, that’ll buy me a nice sandwich and a drink and today’s paper, but in Glasgow, that might not even get me the sandwich. Well, not a good sandwich.”

“Really?” Guibert was staring at him in disbelief. “That’s absurd. How much is a shilling worth, then, if ten pounds can only get you a sandwich?”

“A shilling?” Jeremy repeated. He was beginning to realize that he had a very long road ahead of him. “No, Guibert, there aren’t shillings anymore.” He held out his hand palm-up and pointed to all the different coins. “You’re on a decimal system now. There are pennies, two pence, five pence, ten pence, twenty pence, and fifty pence. And there are two-pound coins as well, but I don’t have any of those on me.”

This seemed to be some sort of breaking point for the monk. He stared at the coins for several long moments in silence, then he stood up and brushed the grass off his robe. “I think I need a glass of water before we continue.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy, but Guibert had already gone, heading for the monastery. He stuffed all the money back into his pocket, wondering if maybe he should’ve been a bit more gentle or something.

Be patient with him, came Amalga’s voice. She was staring at Jeremy in a way that made the back of his neck prickle. There is so much for him to learn. He is not used to being reminded of the knowledge that he lacks.

“Right.” Jeremy picked up the recorder and spun it in his fingers. It was lightweight and obviously handmade, about a foot and a half long and an inch wide, with a thin mouthpiece and holes carved along its body. There were more holes in this instrument than he remembered being on a standard recorder, and two along the back instead of just one. “I guess I’d better give this a try.”

In your own time, said Amalga, her eyes slipping half-shut.

Jeremy blew on the recorder, trying to play a G chord. Something came out, but it didn’t sound quite right. It was loud enough that Aggie and Colin turned to look at him from where they were working on the building, and he waved at them. “Sorry,” he called out. “Ignore me.”

It took about a quarter of an hour, but finally, he played a series of notes that sounded halfway decent. “I hope I’m not splitting your ears,” he said aloud to Amalga, who had kept her eyes closed the entire time.

No, she replied. But perhaps you could try to play a song?

“I’m glad you used the word ‘try,’ because I make no promises.” He cleared his throat, threw out a silent prayer to whoever was listening, and did his best to get through Für Elise.

Guibert approached them when he was near the end of the piece and as Jeremy played the last measure, Guibert said, “Not bad. Certainly better than I can do. There’s a reason why I was only trained to sing, not play an instrument.”

“To each their own, G-Man.” Jeremy spun the recorder in his fingers again. “Speaking of instruments, who made this thing?”

“Cedric the Mellow,” Guibert replied, taking a seat in the grass beside Jeremy. “In the mid-1700s, I believe, when he was a mere postulant. He held the seat of the Acolyte Superior prior to Gregory the Red, who, you may recall, was my Superior.”

“Ah,” said Jeremy. He very carefully put the two hundred year-old instrument down in the grass. “So I’m guessing he was studying music and decided to make his own recorder?”

“I believe so. All postulants study music for the sake of worship, as we all must contribute to the well-being of the dragons. Most sing, though some, like Cedric, played instruments. I believe someone played the bagpipes at one point, but that was before my time.”

“Wicked,” said Jeremy, because the image of a monk playing the bagpipes was too incredible for words. “So what is it about the music?” He turned to Amalga. “Why do you need music?”

A few moments passed, and then she finally answered. That is like asking why plants need the sun, why animals need air, why fish need the water. We need it because music is in everything, and so are we.

Well. Jeremy didn’t really have anything to say to that. He looked at Guibert again. “What kind of stuff do you sing?”

“The Divine Office, mostly,” Guibert replied. “But some traditional compositions as well. The Isle of Rowe has more than a few old songs to its name, and a few of them mention the dragons — surely you’ve heard them before?”

“No,” said Jeremy, a touch baffled. “But Colin and Aggie probably have.”

Guibert nodded, his dark gaze drifting to the horizon.

Jeremy felt a brief pang of sympathy for the monk, all alone in this ruined old building on an island that was moving forward through history without him. “Okay, so we’ve covered the Queen, the money, and the basic principles of inflation. What d’you want to learn next?”

“The small box you carry around, in your pocket.” Guibert cleared his throat. “In the name of all Holy Creation, what on earth is it and why does it buzz?”

“All right,” said Jeremy, several hours later. The remains of their lunch were scattered in the grass around them, and Guibert was lying on his back, his arms over his face. Jeremy couldn’t really fault him for it — he would feel the same way if he’d just learned about the whole Brexit situation. “Can I ask you a few things, now?”

“Fine,” came Guibert’s voice, brittle and impatient.

Jeremy quickly pulled out his phone and started a new voice memo, then opened his Notes app. The day before, he’d listened to their first conversation with Guibert again and typed out a few questions, though, if he was being honest, it was difficult to know where to start.

“You said you were born in 1814,” Jeremy began, and Guibert dropped his arms to reveal a pointed glare. “Can you please explain to me how you’re still alive?”

“Amalga,” Guibert replied, and the dragon let out a sleepy rumble in reply. “Just as she protects this island and this monastery, so does she protect those who would serve her. The members of the Order are exempt from the conventional concerns of health and mortality, and this allows us to give ourselves entirely to the worship of the Old One and the Son.”

“So you never get sick?”

Guibert considered this. “Not seriously. Nothing that would be life-threatening.”

“Wow. That’s a pretty good deal.”

Guibert shot him a sharp smirk. “I have to agree with you there. Though it does get tiring, sometimes.” He glanced at Jeremy’s phone. “I’ve never even lived with electricity, and now you have the whole world in your pocket. And on those lapscreens.”

“Laptops,” said Jeremy, smiling.

“Exactly.” Guibert looked sort of disgusted by the reminder. “As if humans needed another reason to stay inside.”

“There’s this place,” said Jeremy, “that I think you’d love. It’s called REI.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t leave the island,” Guibert replied. “It’s part of our vows. So I could never visit this REI.”

“Really?” Jeremy cocked his head to one side. “What if a snake bit you and your leg fell off and the only place for you to get a new leg would be at your buddy’s place in Glasgow?”

That really did the trick. Guibert glared at him, outrage creasing his weathered face. “I can leave in case of emergencies, young man. How do you think I survived the Flood in ’74?”

“The Flood,” Jeremy repeated, glancing at Amalga, who hadn’t reacted. “That came up the other day. Can you tell me what happened?”

Anguish flashed brief and deep in Guibert’s eyes, then he looked away, fixing his gaze on the horizon once again. “Next question.”

Dammit. Jeremy consulted his notes. “So you were born in 1814, and your parents gave you up to the Order. Can you explain to me how they were able to do that?”

“Tithing,” said Guibert with a sniff. “Or something close enough to it.”

“Tithing?” Jeremy repeated, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“A tithe is a tax paid to support the local church or its clergy. For many hundreds of years, residents in every community were required to pay tithes in the form of either money or agricultural products.” Guibert glanced at Jeremy. “Rowe did things a bit differently. They collected grains and gold, but there was something else as well— two men in each generation had to be surrendered to the Order, for the sake of the island.”

Jeremy stared at him, appalled. “Guibert, that… that sounds like slavery. Or indentured servitude or something.”

Guibert nodded. “You’re not the only one who felt that way. People got fed up with it, over time, even though for some of them, having one less mouth to feed was more of a blessing than anything else. That was certainly the case for my father. He elected to surrender me voluntarily, which was a rare occurrence, because in doing so, he was guaranteed a lesser tax on his crops for a decade, and a portion of his debts were forgiven. It was a provision for the desperate, and he needed it, or so I’m told.” He pulled a long blade of grass out of the ground and fiddled with it, splitting it in half. “It’s just as well that they gave me up when they did, because in 1858, the clan held a town meeting. Representatives from all the big families were there, along with Gregory the Red, one of my mentors. It’s not often that we dared to venture into the clan seat, but when Gregory and Samuel received the notice, they knew it had to be important. So Samuel stayed behind to look after me, and Gregory went into town, not knowing what to expect.

“The short of the long was that the Order was losing its footing in Rowe. So much of the community had shifted towards Protestantism that it was nearly split down the middle, and most people didn’t see the point of tithing any more, especially when so many of them had stopped attending worship at the monastery. This is where Gregory began to get nervous, because he knew that without tithing, in one form or another, the Order would all but cease to exist. Without postulants, be they culled or otherwise, the dragons would have no one to look after them, and without the annual shares of wheat, the Order wouldn’t be able to make bread, let alone survive.” He was twisting the blade of grass now, shaping a thin, warping cord.

“But Gregory’s protests went unheard, and the Accords of 1858 were written into clan law. Gregory was forced to sign under pain of discovery — if he didn’t, clan members would start telling other islands, other communities, about the dragons. Of course, doing so would put Rowe and its inhabitants into grave danger, but they weren’t listening. They didn’t care. They just wanted to stop surrendering their sons and their wheat.” He sighed a little, and with a flick of his wrist, the cord of grass twisted into a wreath. “I can understand their fear, their frustration. The world was moving forward, and they didn’t understand what they were risking in wanting to move forward with it. Without the tithes, without the sacrifices… this island would fall to ruin, and quickly.”

Gobsmacked, Jeremy could only nod. There was nothing about any of this in the official history, and the idea that a handful of people would just be abandoned on the edge of the island to fend for themselves was sort of horrifying. He also had about a dozen more questions, but no idea where to start. “I think I remember you mentioning these Accords the other day. Is that all they were, a stopgap for recruiting more postulants?”

Guibert’s face hardened. He tucked in the edges of the little wreath and stared down at it. “No. The Order was forced to agree to other isolationist terms. The clan knew that if it sealed itself away from us, we could still recruit postulants with the help of the mother seat in Glasgow or Edinburgh. So we were forbidden from contacting the mother seats about postulants without the express written permission of the clan chief who, of course, would likely never give it.”

“But how would they know?” said Jeremy. “If they stopped coming here, if they kept their community separate from you, how would they ever know if you contacted the mother seat?”

“In all honesty, I’m not sure. But it seemed too great a risk.” Guibert put the wreath down in the grass with gentle fingers. “The punishment for doing so would be public censure and what I mentioned before, the chief going public about the dragons. Even if he didn’t find out right away, he would find out eventually, and it wouldn’t be worth it, in the end.”

Jeremy dropped his gaze. Isn’t that blackmail? he wanted to say. “I get it,” he said instead. “So that’s why you didn’t feel comfortable reaching out to the chief for help rebuilding?”

Guibert snorted. “That, and the clan has basically withdrawn all its support over the past fifty years. I can’t remember the last time I received a shipment of supplies from them, let alone a sacrifice or an offering.”

“Sacrifice?” Jeremy repeated, the word ringing in his ears.

“Indeed,” Guibert replied. “The dragons require a certain amount of sacrifices each year, to help maintain the natural balance. I suppose I should really say that the island requires it of the dragons, and so they require it of us.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy. “Can you explain that a bit more, please? Because all I’m picturing right now is one of those Roman holidays where they slaughter a bunch of bulls and dance in the blood as it pours through the streets.”

Guibert dignified that with a glare and pulled up another few blades of grass. “I’m beginning to suspect you were quite right in your assessment of your own abilities, as far as history is concerned. No,” he continued, “nothing like that, and if I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t think the Romans did that, either.”

“Agree to disagree,” Jeremy said with a shrug. “But go on.”

“We use animals for the sacrifices. Usually goats or sheep, something small. That’s part of the reason why I always try to keep an extra goat handy.” With a twist, he knotted the strands of grass. “I can’t do anything close to the ideal number each year, but I usually try to do at least one. The rest, I make up for in contemplation and song.”

“Okay. But, I mean…” Jeremy wondered briefly if he would regret asking. “When you say that you’re ‘doing’ a sacrifice, what do you mean? Like, how does the sacrifice go?”

Guibert met his gaze. “I slaughter an animal as part of a ritual and offer its blood as well as its flesh to Amalga. She consumes them to further increase her power.”

Jeremy fought off a shiver. “Yup, there it is. Lovely.”

“What did you think happened, Jeremy? Did you think dragons ate daisies and caterpillars?” Guibert scoffed. “They’re dragons, for Heaven’s sake, of course they eat meat.”

Jeremy ignored this. “Where do you do it?”

“There is an altar in the cave below,” Guibert replied. He was braiding the grass now, creating a thin, winding cord. “I can show you, if you’d like.”

Jeremy shook his head so hard he thought he heard his neck crack. “No, thank you.”

Guibert grinned then, so sudden and crooked that Jeremy barely had time to be surprised before he realized that Colin was approaching them, his hair mussed, his shirt askew.

“Getting on?” Colin greeted them.

“Oh, aye,” said Guibert, all carefree and breezy, like he hadn’t just given Jeremy enough nightmare fuel for the next decade. “And you?”

Colin nodded. “Aye. But we best be heading out soon.”

Jeremy checked the time and was shocked to see that it was already past four. “Did you and Aggie get everything done?”

“Yeah. We need to let it set for a couple of days to see which mixture worked best. We’ll come back on Friday,” he added, looking at Guibert, “and if everything does what it’s supposed to do, we can get working in earnest.”

Guibert gave him a nod. “Thank you. And allow me to impress upon you again how thankful I am for your help in this.”

As am I, came Amalga’s voice, and Jeremy jumped. He’d thought she was asleep. Thank you all, for what you are doing to restore this sanctuary and keep the island safe.

“Sure,” said Colin, shooting her a smile that did stupid things to Jeremy’s insides.

“Hey,” said Jeremy, “I’m the one giving a monk modern history lessons, I think I deserve a bronze plaque, at the very least.”

Colin swatted at his arm and Amalga made her funny grumbling noise again.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jeremy said the following night, scrolling through the BBC news Twitter account. “But you’re kind of a celebrity.”

Rochelle sighed into her mug of chamomile tea. “One, that’s not true, and two, please stop, I’m trying not to think about it.”

“How are we not drowning in hordes of people?” he went on, skimming a thread of replies that just didn’t end. “It seems like every grandma and local history buff with a wifi connection has something to say about this.”

“Well we’re not drowning yet, thank God. More like treading water.” She gave him a sharp look. “You’d probably know that if you were around a bit more.”

Jeremy blinked, putting down his phone. “Shots fired,” he said. “I didn’t know I had to be on defense.”

“You don’t.” Rochelle took another sip of her tea. “I just feel like I barely see you, these days. What have you been up to?”

Oh, not much, just playing music for a dragon and teaching a two hundred year-old monk about the Ottoman Empire. Jeremy’s tongue burned with the urge to tell her everything, and he could feel the words clogging his throat, fighting to come pouring out of his mouth, but he couldn’t. Not yet. “Oh, the usual,” he replied. “Odd jobs with Colin, ice cream and swimming with Aggie.”

Rochelle quirked an eyebrow. “Mrs. Cunningham, whose husband runs the Salty Dog, told me she saw the three of you in a boat yesterday.”

“Fishing,” said Jeremy, praying that his blush wouldn’t reach his face. “Aggie’s idea.”

She frowned now. “Ugh, really?”

“Yeah, don’t ask why. Something about me being quote-unquote ‘Scottish enough’.”

“I guess as far as hazing goes, it’s pretty tame.”

The clock on the wall chimed ten, and Rochelle let out a little sigh. She looked tired, Jeremy noticed, and not just on-the-surface tired, but almost as tired as Colin had looked the other night. Weary, a little bruised around the edges.

“Mom,” he said in French. “Are you doing okay? Really?”

She seemed surprised. “Yeah. It’s just a lot, right now, trying to run this exhibition on my own. The social media part is much more annoying than I expected it to be.”

“Yeah, I can understand that.” Jeremy thumbed the rim of his own mug, watching the steam trickle into the air. “Are people being nice?”

“Actually, yes, which is pretty surprising, given that I’m a black American woman instead of the dusty old British man they were all expecting. I’m less of a factor when the story is about the possibility of solving a mystery that no one thought they could solve.”

“I guess that’s a good thing?”

Rochelle nodded, smiling. “It is. Honestly, most of the flack I’m getting is from the historians, some of them are going out of their way to deny the cross’s authenticity. But it doesn’t really bother me, because regardless of whether they believe it or not, it still brings attention our way. The museum makes money even if people think they know better than we do.”

“Wow, they sound like… what’s the technical term?” Jeremy mimed stroking his nonexistent beard. “Assholes.”

She laughed then, a real laugh that made her eyes crinkle. “Yeah, you’re not wrong.”

“So what do you do, just ignore them?”

Rochelle shrugged. “Mostly. But Robert wants to hold a historians’ summit of some kind before the end of the month. It’s a gesture of goodwill, but he thinks it’d be a good way of bringing more attention to the rest of the collection, as well.”

“A summit,” Jeremy repeated. “What would that look like?”

“We’d invite a bunch of historians for a day or two of tours, panels, and talks. Seems like everyone in the field has a theory or a paper to push at the moment, so we wouldn’t be hurting for programs.” Rochelle took a sip of her tea. “He wants to do it on the day of the Games. More press for the island, more entertainment for the guests.”

“And more work for you,” he pointed out. The Games were only two and a half weeks away, which he knew because Colin was keeping a countdown.

“Yeah, it’s going to be more of an open invitation than anything else. But it’s a good gesture to make when we’re the ones at the center of the debate, and it could lead to something more, like an annual conference on medieval British history.” She shrugged again and gave a half-smile. “Something like that would be amazing for the tourism numbers, but it’s basically just wishful thinking at this point.”

“Maybe not,” Jeremy replied, smiling. “I’m sure it’ll pay off.”

Rochelle rolled her eyes and her smile grew. “You and Angus. Determined to talk me up at every chance you get.”

Jeremy felt a weird flutter in his stomach. He still wasn’t used to his mom — who had rarely even dated back in the States — having someone like Angus in her life, someone who made her smile like that. “Good to know he and I are on the same page.”

“Try and stop him.” Rochelle then gave him a look that was all too shrewd. “So how’s Colin?”

Jeremy’s stomach did the thing of going to Antarctica without him. “He’s fine, why?”

“Well, I know I didn’t ask too many questions about the other night, but you know I usually like a little more warning than a text after the fact. You’re seventeen, so I understand that getting my permission to have a friend stay the night during summer break isn’t your top priority, but if he was here last-minute because something’s wrong, I think I need to know, as a parent.”

Jeremy stared at her, his heart beating too fast and too slow all at once, overwhelmed by the direction this conversation had taken. “N—nothing’s wrong—”

“Are you sure?” Rochelle pressed, in full-on Mom Mode now.

“Yes.” He tried to take a breath. It had been so long since he’d lied to her about something like this, and the last one was just about sleeping over at Jo’s when really he went to a party that wasn’t even worth it in the end. “He was just— he was having a hard time, so he needed some air, and he didn’t even mean to fall asleep, it was just an accident.”

“A hard time,” she repeated, her eyes flashing. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Jeremy, and at least he could be honest on this account. “I really don’t, mom. He doesn’t tell me those things.”

Rochelle looked at him for a few moments, seemingly deciding whether or not she could trust him, which was just so ironic he had to fight off a manic grin. Here he was, telling the truth, and here she was, not trusting it. “Okay,” she said at last. “But you tell him to come and talk to me the next time he’s around.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy, feeling a stab of sympathy on Colin’s behalf.

“Now, tell me all about your audition pieces, how are those going?”

Later, when they’d finished cleaning up the kitchen and his mom was once again neck-deep in an EastEnders rerun, Jeremy went upstairs and, after sending up a silent prayer on behalf of his own sneakiness, crept into his mom’s bedroom.

Most of her books were in her office at the castle, but there were still plenty here, stuffed into her small bookshelf and stacked in piles around the edges of the room. He looked down at the nearest stack, which happened to be a series of thrillers, and snorted — they were alphabetized by the authors’ last names. He and his mom might have shared the habit of keeping books wherever they fit, but he wasn’t quite so organized.

Closing the door behind him, he scanned the nearest piles, and realized that the books on the floor were mostly fiction. The nonfiction appeared to be kept on the shelves, and stacked in the far corner behind her hamper. Jeremy headed for the bookcase, glancing over the titles — most of them seemed to be biographies, but on the bottom shelf, he found what he was looking for.

He couldn’t take more than one or two at a time without her noticing, so Jeremy thought it best to start with a book called The Long Twentieth Century, and another called The Guns of August. Guibert knew very little about World War I, and even less about World War II. It was a good enough place to start, anyway.

Jeremy shifted a few of the surrounding books to make the gaps less noticeable, then, as he was on his way out, he noticed another stack on the small table his mom used as her desk. One of the books was called The Conversion of Britain, and another The Early Medieval Scottish State. His heart gave an irregular thump — one of those might answer any number of the questions he had about the clan, about the monks, about all of it, but it was too risky. His mom was clearly using these books, and she would notice if they were gone.

And with that, Jeremy crept out of the room and into his own, then stuffed the books into his rucksack. He hoped Guibert was good at doing his homework.

“This is exciting!” Rochelle said, except her hushed tone didn’t carry very well, given the crowds of people surrounding them.

“Sure,” Aggie smiled at her, “if you’ve never been to a pub on open mic night.”

“Oh, I’ve been to plenty of bars before.” Rochelle took a sip of her Scotch while Jeremy openly stared at her. “This just feels… I don’t know, different!”

“Plenty of bars,” Jeremy repeated. “And where was I during all these bar crawls?”

Colin grinned into his pint as Rochelle waved a dismissive hand. “It was before you were in the picture. Though I have to admit, there were some crazy girls’ nights with my friends from work, those ladies really knew how to—”

“Was this Sheila? Sheila from Event Planning? God, I knew she was Payday levels of nuts under all those three-piece suits—”

“Sheila sounds right fun,” Aggie interrupted. “You should fly her out, we’ll have a night on the town.”

“We’ll fly Sheila into town when we want the town flattened,” Jeremy told her. Colin was grinning at him now and that was making all kinds of weird things happen in his stomach.

“Oh, hey.” Aggie waved at someone behind them. “My parents just got here.”

“Ah, great!” Rochelle hopped down from her seat and picked up her glass. “I’ll see if I can find us a table. It will probably involve blackmail or bartering my firstborn, so head’s up, Jer, you might have a new home by the end of the night.” With a wave, she disappeared into the crowd.

Aggie was grinning. “Your mum’s a treat.”

“Yeah, she likes to think so.” But Jeremy smiled before taking a sip of his own pint. He did love her to pieces. “So what can I expect, tonight?”

“Angus’s band plays a bunch of different stuff, mostly folk songs, sometimes the odd Beatles track finds its way in there.” Aggie shrugged. “He likes to keep us guessing.”

“Beatles,” Jeremy repeated, watching Angus unpack his bagpipes. “Beatles with bagpipes?”

Aggie shrugged again. “Don’t ask me how, but it works.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Friday had been a very productive and tiring day at the monastery. Now that all the different versions of the mortar had dried, and a clear winner had been decided, Colin and Aggie had managed to rebuild a section of the chapel wall. It was slow going, since they were using stones instead of bricks, but Aggie told Jeremy it was like a puzzle. They had to pick which stones worked best, and plan ahead.

Jeremy, meanwhile, had gotten closer to mastering the weird little recorder. He’d spent several hours that day playing for Amalga, who seemed to enjoy it. He made most of it up as he went along, since it took a bit too much brain power to translate his clarinet pieces to an instrument that even he didn’t fully understand.

“I liked that one,” Guibert had said, once Jeremy finished a riff that was definitely based on a Massive Attack song. “Does it have a name?”

“Not really,” Jeremy said, fighting off a blush. They had never discussed music, certainly not pop music, and he wasn’t about to try explaining trip-hop, electronica, and sampling to a man who barely understood how a cell phone worked.

He’d given Guibert the history books, as well. “Don’t let anything happen to them,” Jeremy warned. “They’re not mine.”

Guibert had frowned, peering at the covers. “The Order requires us to treat each written work with reverence and due respect.” He cut Jeremy a look. “If I can keep manuscripts preserved for centuries, I can look after your books.”

“Okay.” Jeremy had fought off an embarrassed blush. “We can talk about World War I this weekend, and I’ll bring you more stuff to read.”

Guibert had nodded, already on the first page of The Guns of August.

“So what’s it like,” Aggie was saying to him between mouthfuls of crisps, “playing concerts for the cat?”

They’d taken to referring to Amagla as the ‘cat’ whenever they were in public. Guibert was the ‘shepherd,’ and the monastery was the ‘old farm.’ Jeremy shrugged, took a sip of his beer. “Kind of weird, kind of fun. It’s still a shock when the shepherd tries to sing along, he can really carry a tune but—”

“—you have no idea what he’s saying,” Aggie finished for him, nodding. “The man needs his own Rosetta Stone.”

“Hey,” said Jeremy, suddenly remembering what Guibert had said a few days before. “He mentioned that there are some local folk songs about the dragons. Is that true?”

“I s’pose,” said Colin. He looked unsure. “I never really paid attention.”

“I can’t think of any that are explicitly about the dragons, or any that are specifically from here.” Aggie cocked her head, considering. “We know lots of Irish songs, because there’s so much overlap. I don’t know if I could tell you the difference between one of their songs and one of ours.”

In the corner of the room, where a set of wooden pallets made up a temporary stage, the band was making moves towards the front. Angus picked up a microphone, and Jeremy’s leg kicked out of its own accord under the table.

“Christ.” Aggie aimed a kick back at him. “That was my shin, you pillock.”

“Sorry, it’s just.” Jeremy stared at Angus as he tapped on the microphone and grinned, his fiery ginger head practically brushing the ceiling. “I can’t believe that guy’s dating my mom.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Colin said kindly, patting Jeremy on the arm. Jeremy wanted to throttle him and pounce on him all at once.

“Have they?” Aggie said, mostly into her glass.

“Hiya, folks, good evening and all that.” Angus’ booming voice rang out like a gong across the crowded room, and he got several whoops and cheers in reply. He beamed at the audience, lingering on the table where Jeremy’s mom sat tucked between Aggie’s parents. “Been working on a couple new things for you here, we’ll see how it goes, yeah?”

More cheering. Angus nodded and stepped away from the microphone, glancing at his bandmates. After a few counts, they burst into a bouncing, jovial track and the crowd roared. Jeremy watched, stunned, as Angus and the guitar player broke into song—

We’re the Kishorn Commandos way up in Wester Ross,

We’ve never had a gaffer, we’ve never had a boss…

“This is insane,” he half-yelled into Aggie’s ear.

She grinned, her smile a bright flag in the sea of bodies. “It’s great!” she yelled back, and Jeremy couldn’t help but grin, because she was right. The band was in key, their rhythm was perfect, and their voices were rich and strong. It gave the air a kind of buoyancy, a strength, a warmth that couldn’t be faked.

Colin was under the spell, too. He was watching the band with a huge smile on his face, mouthing along to the words, nodding to the beat. Soon, he was tapping on the tabletop, matching the beat of the bodhrán onstage.

Jeremy leaned in next to Colin’s ear. “You should be up there with them!”

Colin shot him a ‘come on’ sort of look.

“I’m serious!” Jeremy continued. He was so close to Colin’s face it would turn heads in any other situation, and for a moment, he felt an odd, blinding gratitude for the excuse. He could smell sunlight and dirt on Colin’s skin, and it made his own smile hard to stifle. “You’re more than good enough, you’re great!”

Colin let out a bark of laughter, leaning away. He reached for his pint and sent Jeremy a smirk that made his knees wobbly. “I’ll put that on my gravestone. Colin MacGregor, a little more than good enough.”

“Hey, you’re just twisting my words now!” Jeremy leaned in again, all too aware that he was pushing the ticket. But it was worth it when he saw Colin’s gaze drop to his mouth. “You need to convince them to let you join!”

“You Yankees think you can boss everybody around, don’t you?” Colin’s eyes were shining with mischief. “You’d better watch that mouth of yours.”

“Or?” Jeremy countered, his heart giving a strange thud.

Colin gave him another appraising, unreadable look and put down his pint. He leaned just a touch closer, and his voice dropped so low that Jeremy could barely hear him. “Or I’ll have to—”

The song ended with a bang, and the pub erupted again. Heart pounding, Jeremy could only stare as Colin stood up along with everyone else, then he finally broke eye contact to clap and whistle. Jeremy started to clap, too, and didn’t think that things could get any messier, but then, when Colin sat back down, his thigh pressed up against Jeremy’s and stayed there.

They didn’t speak, didn’t even look at each other, and for a long time, Jeremy thought that maybe he was experiencing a lucid dream. That had to be the only explanation, but maybe, just maybe, Colin wanted this, actually wanted it, wanted to be able to do things like this in public without the guarantee of a spotlight at best and broken ribs at worst, and besides, they were at a very small table, in a crowded room, there was an excuse for another boy’s leg to be pressed up against his, but even then—

Jeremy continued in this absurd, circular thought pattern for quite some time, trying and failing to figure out what any of this meant as the band made its way through song after song, when, all too suddenly, his brain caught up to his ears and he twitched, staring at Angus.

Aggie had noticed — it was a slow, quiet song — and she frowned at him. “You okay?”

“Shhhhh.” He leaned forward. “Listen.”

… And I’ll find you, where the old ones lie,

At the top of the cliffs, at the bottom of the sky,

Where the fires burn green, blue, and gold,

Above hand-hewn stones, ancient and old.

We’ll dance in the shadow of a thousand wings,

And to an ancient love we’ll cling…

Colin had gone very still. Even his leg had stopped bouncing. “You don’t think—?”

“Shhhhh,” Jeremy hissed, fighting the urge to crawl over the top of the table.

… Down we’ll look, to the end of the sea,

And up to the heavens, where soon, we’ll be.

Feel him now, the warmth of his grin,

The age of his teeth, the rough of his skin,

Wiser than all, younger than none,

Darker than the moon, soft as the sun…

“Oh, my God,” Aggie breathed. “Is this about the Old— ow!” She smacked Jeremy on his arm. “That was my knee!”

… Rise tall, my love, and sing his name,

Let humble men bow and tend his flame.

And I’ll leave you, where the old ones lie,

At the top of the cliffs, at the bottom of the sky,

Where the fires burn green, blue, and gold,

Above hand-hewn stones, ancient and old.

The room burst into applause yet again, and Angus grinned, stepping away from the microphone and giving a small bow. Jeremy and the others hurried to clap along, but he hoped no one could read the obvious shock on his face.

“I’ll be damned.” Aggie shot Jeremy a glance. “It completely changes when you know about the— cats.”

Colin said nothing, opting instead for polishing off his beer.

“So you know it?” Jeremy asked her in an undertone while the band called out for requests from the audience. “You know that song?”

Aggie shrugged. “You hear it every once in a while, it’s not as popular as some of the others. Everyone kind of agrees that it’s about Jesus or the clan leader or something like that, but obviously, that’s a load of horse shite.”

“Damn.” Jeremy sat back in his chair, a little dazed by what had just happened. “Well, I guess we answered our own question.”

Ten minutes later, Jeremy gasped as his back hit the brick wall of the alley, his hands fumbling at Colin’s shirt, neck, hair. “Careful—”

“Always am,” Colin mumbled, then he went back to devastating Jeremy’s neck with his mouth, sloppy and hot and relentless.

Jeremy stifled a groan. His skin felt itchy, electric, and it wasn’t even dark yet — the sun still had an hour or two left. At least the tiny alley behind the pub was deserted. He slid his hands under Colin’s shirt and shuddered at the feeling of his skin.

Colin huffed against Jeremy’s pulse point, his mouth making its burning, painstaking way along Jeremy’s jaw, his chin, then finally—

They disentangled themselves several minutes later, panting into the warm summer air. Blood was squealing under Jeremy’s skin and he clung to Colin, desperate and hazy and all too aware of the brick digging into his spine. Colin nuzzled at his collarbone, squeezed his hips, and Jeremy’s heart clenched.

“We have to go back inside,” Jeremy said, hating himself for saying it. “Before they notice—”

“Right,” Colin grunted. He glanced up at Jeremy, his gaze dark. “When we get back to the cottage, can you—”

“Yeah,” Jeremy managed, with only a faint idea of what he was agreeing to. But the cottage was where Colin’s truck was, so he assumed it was something that would involve what was becoming the tried-and-tested fib of walking Colin to his truck. “Yeah. Can you wait that long?”

Colin flashed him a smile, quick and shining in the pink and orange sunset. “Can you?”

Jeremy groaned again, gently pushing Colin away. “No, but yes.”