High tea was amazing, and I decided that when I made my millions, I was going to give everyone I love a chance for high tea once a week, at my expense. I loved it so much that I decided I would even pay for the hours of work my people might lose if they came. It was that good.
However, as good as the scones and clotted cream were, they didn’t completely shake the shivery creepiness I’d felt when I saw that sea monster carving. I didn’t believe in the myth, per se, but the fact that someone’s hospitalization was linked, at least in their mind, to a book I was trying to acquire had me a bit nervous. Plus, that monster had been scary, like it was a 2D gargoyle and I was a demon it was meant to repel.
So between the creepy factor, the full belly, and the jet lag, I was more than ready to go to sleep at 6 p.m. when we made it back to our B&B. Unfortunately, Beattie swore that would mess up my system more and insisted we visit a local pub for a pint and some “crisps” before we went to bed. While I wasn’t sure what crisps were exactly, and I was totally sure I would fall asleep if I had more than one drink, I knew Beattie knew best and trudged behind her to a little pub up the block called The Jolly Codger.
As it turned out, the crisps were potato chips, and I was surprised to find that the bacon-flavored ones were particularly good. So good, in fact, that I had a second pint of cider to go with a second bag. It wasn’t just the good food and drinks that were great in the pub, though. I could not get enough of the dogs beneath all the tables. In particular, I was enamored with a Scottish terrier (of course) named Archie, who kept bumping his head against my knee so I’d drop him a chip, er, a crisp.
Even Butterball was welcome in what turned out to be the local taxi drivers’ hangout. A man named Henry saw him in his carrier, introduced himself to my hamster, and then proceeded to carry him around the pub and introduce him to all the fellows. Someone—probably multiple someones—slipped the little fluffball a bunch of cheese, and by the time he made his way back to me, he was passed out with all his feet in the air, like he had died from dairy delight.
But with all of us full and completely knackered, as the young guy at the bar had described the look on my face, both Beattie and I were ready to turn in for the night when a man in the corner began to tell a story about a sea creature called the stoor worm. Instinctively, I began to eavesdrop, and soon I found myself inching closer to hear more easily. When she realized we weren’t actually going to sleep yet, my best friend took my arm, pulled out a wooden chair from a nearby table, and set me right next to the storyteller before planting herself on a window ledge nearby.
The teller’s voice had as thick a brogue as I’d heard yet on our trip, and I kept having to pause my following of the story to figure out a few words from context. But he was a powerful storyteller. The gist of his tale was that this stoor worm was destroying villages and entire islands with its voracious appetite, so a clan leader offered the hand of his oldest daughter in marriage to the man who could kill the monster.
“A lad from me home, Orkney, volunteered for the job,” the storyteller said. “And don’t you know, he struck that worm down with a hoe.”
I quirked my eyebrow at Beattie, who mouthed, “a hoe?” I was just tipsy and exhausted enough to be unable to hold back a small laugh.
The storyteller turned to me. “Aye, lassie. You think that’s funny?” He scowled and then said, “Why do you think no one can find Nessie? Someone took her out with a rake.” He winked and then threw back his head in laughter.
I flushed what I knew must have been a deep red, but then I smiled and eventually started laughing, too, as the entire group around us began to chuckle. These men had suckered the two American women into a great joke, and I loved them for it.
When we all finished laughing, I said to the storyteller, “So the stoor worm, that legend is something people have told for a long time, isn’t it?” I’d come across the story in my research and knew the Icelandic version of the tale was included in the book I was trying to buy.
“Aye,” he said. “Lots of folks tell the tale. Just changes who did the killing and with what.” He winked at me again. “Most Orcadians tell the tale of the boy who carried a burning bit of peat into the beast’s belly and burned it from the inside out.”
“Sort of like Jonah and the whale but with monster hunting,” I said.
The man looked at me askance for a brief moment and then said, “Precisely, lass. Precisely.”
For the next hour, the fatigue was swept from my limbs as I listened to the men around us tell tales of selkies and dragons, ghosts and kelpies from their parts of Scotland. Each of the tale-tellers was different in brogue and style, but every one of them had such a natural flair for the telling that I began to wonder which demographic trait gave them the ability—their nationality or their profession. I expected it was some of both.
By the time Beattie and I dragged ourselves out the door, I was full of culture and story, cider and crisps, and I was certain my first trip to Scotland was not to be my last.
The beds at the B&B felt like clouds, given my level of exhaustion, and I slept hard all night, only waking when Beattie nudged me to say that if I wanted breakfast, I had fifteen minutes. She, of course, was up and dressed, makeup done and hair styled, and already fed. I stumbled downstairs with my hair in the messiest of buns and a sweatshirt thrown over my T-shirt and pj pants.
Our host came to the table in a kilt, knee socks, and a loose white shirt, and images of Jamie Fraser at age seventy came into my head. “Mornin’, lass,” he said in a far stronger accent than he’d had when we met him the day before. “On your first morn here, we always serve our most traditional fare.”
“In your most traditional wear,” I said with a smile.
“Indeed, lass.” He set a plate with sausage, tomatoes, toast, baked beans, and two eggs on it and said, “I suppose you will tell me you’d like coffee.”
I shrugged. “I am American, so yes. Thank you.”
He winked at me and turned back toward the kitchen with a flourish just as Beattie sat down opposite me. “Eat up,” she said with a wink.
The food looked amazing, even if I wasn’t quite used to having tomatoes or beans for breakfast. The crisps from the night before had worn off, however, and I was starving. So I ate every bite and three cups of coffee with heavy cream and sugar.
When I was done, my belly was perfectly full, and my excitement was growing. We were going to the Highlands today. Beattie had her UK driver’s license, and she’d already been out to pick up our rental car, a little Fiat that made my heart skip with even more enthusiasm. It was going to be a great day.
Our host bade us farewell and told us he looked forward to our return in a few days. “Don’t be expecting to see me kilt again, though,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s just to put you in a wee bit of the Scottish spirit. Nessie will do the rest.”
I laughed as we waved goodbye and stepped into our car for the drive north.
Once I got over the expectation that we were going to die every time we got to a roundabout and went to the left instead of to the right like we did in the States, I relaxed and let myself get lost in the gorgeous landscape. It was rugged and vast, but not like the plains of the US, not like anywhere in America that I’d seen anyway. In some ways, it felt like coming home, which was a feeling I couldn’t quite place since I’d never been here before. I figured it must have been some kind of epigenetic memory. My ancestors speaking to me through my cells.
About two hours into our trip, I started seeing signs for Loch Ness, and I begged Beattie to detour west and let us see the water—and hopefully the monster—before we finished our drive. She reminded me, however, that we had an appointment at two. “If you’d gotten out of bed earlier, we might have been able to stop there, but as it is, we’ll have to build that in after our work is done.”
I sighed. She was right, but it didn’t make me any less grumpy. And when, just outside Inverness, I saw signs for Culloden battlefield, my mood worsened. We weren’t going to have time to visit that famous site either, not now, at least, and I didn’t even ask my driver. She had her serious face on, and I wasn’t about to press my luck with her mood. I needed her upbeat attitude to help me through this first client meeting in my new profession as a book acquirer.
My mood began to lift as soon as we entered the older city center at Inverness. A river ran right through the center of town, and I couldn’t stop looking at the bridges that crossed back and forth across its span. It felt magical in a way I couldn’t quite name, but it felt ancient and old. In that place, I found myself quite ready to also believe in sea monsters.
After grabbing a quick sandwich at a takeaway deli—cheese and butter on some of the best bread I’d ever had—Beattie and I headed to our appointment at a local solicitor’s office. Beattie had reminded me that lawyers were called solicitors here. “Don’t get to snickering because of your association with all the crime shows that arrest people for ‘solicitation,’” she cautioned with a firm gaze.
I had watched enough British crime dramas to know this, of course, so Beattie’s caution only served to make me unable to think about anything else as we walked into the small house that served as the solicitor’s office. But then, when I saw the huge, red-headed man behind the desk, I lost all train of thought because he looked precisely how I imagined a Highlander would look, the old TV show with the guy and the sword notwithstanding.
When Seamus Stovall stood up, he towered over me by more than a foot. His shoulders were almost double the breadth of mine, and when he shook my hand, I felt like a child putting my fingers into my father’s meaty palm. He was gentle, though, when he greeted me, and while I now could see why the caber toss was not an impossible feat for some men, I found myself immediately liking the colossal man.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Stovall,” I said, suddenly concerned that there was some form of proper address besides “mister” that I was fumbling.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Baxter,” he said. “Thank you for traveling all the way up here to meet with me about our beloved book.”
I smiled. Any man who called a book beloved was a friend to me. “My absolute pleasure. It’s my first time in Scotland, and I love it here. Feels like a homecoming.”
“Aye,” he said. “You have roots here, I expect.” His smile reached all the way to the edges of his crinkling eyes, but for just a moment, I saw the shrewdness that Adaire had been talking about at the Library. This man was kind but not gullible. That, I could already tell.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m one of those American mutts that has ancestors everywhere, I think.” I was at a bit of a loss for how to carry the conversation forward from here, so I did what I’d learned in the classroom—I waited. Silence usually did a lot of work if you let it linger.
Unlike my students, however, Mr. Stovall didn’t fidget. He simply reached below the desk between us and brought out a collection of photographs of a blue book, the cover of which was by now quite familiar. As he lay the photos on the desk, I leaned forward, eager to see more of the beautiful volume.
I set the photos down on the table and took a deep breath. “It’s a beautiful book, Mr. Stovall. If all is in order, I see no reason why our client might not be inclined to procure it. Provided that we can come to terms on a price and that we are able to see the actual book, that is.” The one bit of clear advice Uncle Fitz had given me was that I should let the seller know immediately if the book met our standards and confirm that our interest was sincere, but under no circumstances was I to talk money until I had clear provenance.
Mr. Stovall’s mouth tipped up at one corner, and once again, I saw that I was clearly negotiating with a man who knew the rules on these sorts of transactions innately. I was going to have to be at the top of my game.
“I’m glad you find the book to be what you expected. I am prepared to retrieve it from secure storage for you, but in the meantime, here is a copy of the terms of sale from when I came to acquire the book. I cannot, of course, vouch for anything before my purchase, but given how many people know the book, I think you should be able to find that information easily enough.” He passed me a sheet of cream-colored paper.
I picked it up and read the legal jargon that proved he had, indeed, bought the book from Davis MacDonald. He’d paid 25,000 pounds just four years ago. I was authorized to pay up to 40,000, so I assumed that this would be an easy conversation.
I should have remembered the saying about what happens when someone assumes.
“This looks to be in order,” I said, passing the paper to Beattie, who had reviewed far more provenance documents than I had. “I’m prepared to offer you 30,000 pounds for the book if it is in the same condition it appears to be from the photos.”
Stovall’s eyes grew very wide, and he sat back so far in his seat that I thought he might tip over backward. “Ms. Baxter, I am certain you feel this is a generous offer, but the book, of course, is worth far more than that.”
I kept my gaze steady while my brain whirled around what my next steps might be. My intuition lit on a memory from last semester when a young man had tried to negotiate a D in my class, even though he had not turned in a single paper and had slept through most of the class. “Ms. B,” he’d said, “I’m a good guy. I made some poor choices this semester, but you know I know this stuff. You know I don’t need to take this class again.”
The student wasn’t wrong. He did know the stuff. All the writing he’d done in the class had been solid, very good, actually. But having the knowledge and demonstrating the knowledge were not the same thing. He had failed and then egged my office door as a response. I had been furious, and a bit hurt, but I had also reported him, and when the security footage from the office hallway had been reviewed, the student had been expelled. Demonstrating poor restraint and bad judgment had even more consequences than laziness, this man had learned.
However, this student had taught me two things that I could use in this moment as Mr. Stovall pushed to get more than he had demonstrated his item was worth. First, I didn’t have to do anything in this moment because I had done what I had done well and in good faith. Second, arguing this point was not going to result in a better outcome, even if I went up to my full authorized offer of 40,000 pounds. From his reaction to my initial offer, he clearly thought the book to be worth far more—perhaps exponentially more—than I could offer, and given the wealth I could see displayed prominently around me, he wasn’t in a position to need to sell.
I took a deep breath and said, “I see. Well, if I may, I’d like to take a couple of days, gather more research, and discuss the situation with our client. If it suits, I will come back on Friday to see the book in person and to provide you with our best and highest offer.”
Mr. Stovall smiled and leaned forward. His kind expression was still there, but now, I could see the steely glint of victory and satisfaction behind his eyes. “Very well. I will look forward to continuing this discussion at the end of the week.” He reached across the table, and I shook his giant hand.
“Thank you,” I said and felt quite content to let him believe he had just successfully lobbed the first volley. In reality, my researcher’s resolve had firmed up immensely, and I knew Beattie and I were about to go deep to find out more about this book so that we could either indeed offer more money while still guaranteeing our client a great return on her investment or we could find anything that might make the book worth less than what Mr. Stovall believed it was. Either way, we had plenty of time to find a lot of information.
As Beattie and I walked back out onto the High Street of Inverness, I was feeling a swirl of emotions beneath my tornado of plans. I was a bit disappointed that I hadn’t been able to secure the book in this first meeting, but my intuition was telling me there was much more to be had in many ways if we took our time here.
I was just turning to propose a plan to Beattie when a woman’s voice called my name from behind us. When I turned, I saw a slip of a girl in jeans and a thick wool sweater jogging toward us. Her red curls were bouncing as she approached us, and as soon as she got closer, I could see that she was kin to Mr. Stovall. She had the same kind, square face and strength but in a tiny frame. “I’m sorry to bother you. Elsie Stovall.” She put out her hand, and I shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Stovall,” Beattie said. “Did we just meet your father?”
“Uncle, actually. I spend summers here when I’m off from school in Edinburgh.” Her smile was wide, and her accent was softer, somehow, than her uncle’s. “I wanted to ask if he sold you the book.”
I glanced at Beattie and then back at Elsie. “Don’t you think that’s something you should ask your uncle directly?”
She sighed. “I understand. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. I’ll see if he’ll tell me.”
I studied her face for a minute and had a sense that her way of “seeing” was going to be a little snooping in his office. “He doesn’t share his business with you?” She was young, but not a child, maybe sixteen. Old enough to understand business, I figured, but then again, I didn’t have the care for any children, so what did I know?
Elsie’s face brightened. “Actually, most of the time he does, but not about the book.” She shook her head. “Too many curses.”
Once again, I looked at Beattie, and the small wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened. “You believe in the sea monster curse?” she asked.
“I don’t,” Elsie said with a violent shake of her head. “But Uncle Seamus does. Very much so.”
I frowned. “But if he believes the book curses who owns it, why didn’t he want to sell it as quickly as possible?” I realized as soon as I spoke that I’d told Elsie just wanted she wanted to know.
She smiled. “Well, that’s a good question. See, Uncle Seamus doesn’t technically own the book. I do.” She winked at me. “But since I am not of age yet, I cannot make my own decision about selling, you see.” Her face grew somber. “If I could, I wouldn’t sell, not for any amount of money. I’d simply donate it to the National Library. Let it go back where it belongs.”
“So Seamus Stovall is your guardian?” Beattie asked.
“He is. You can think of me like his ward, the Scottish Jane Eyre.” She smiled again, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
I shook my head. “I do hope this doesn’t mean you’ve fallen in love with your uncle.”
When the young woman’s face blanched, I laughed. “You might want to read the book before comparing yourself to its heroine.” I patted her arm. “Although, this book does seem a bit like Bertha Mason.”
Beattie laughed and then said to Elsie, “Jane Eyre’s guardian Rochester keeps his insane first wife locked up on the top floor of their house.”
Elsie looked puzzled for just a moment and then cackled. “That’s exactly right.” Then she turned to me, “But please, I’m not falling in love with my uncle. Ew.”
This time, I laughed. “That’s good to know for a number of reasons, Elsie,” I said. Then, I looked her right in the eye and said, “I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but if your uncle believes this book is cursed, doesn’t it seem a bit cruel to leave you with the curse when he could get you out from under it?”
Elsie sighed. “He doesn’t see it that way. I don’t believe the curse, you see, and I definitely don’t feel plagued by sea monsters. Uncle Seamus has decided it’s because I’m not of age yet and, thus, am not affected.”
Beattie rolled her eyes. “That’s a lot of mental gymnastics to get himself more money.” Then she winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to speak ill of your uncle.”
“No, that’s what most people think about him. He does care about money, but only inasmuch as he can use it to help other people.” She moved her gaze from Beattie to me as she said, “He’s paying for my education as far as I’d like to take it, and he does the same for all the children of people on his staff. Plus, he gives a great deal to various charities. His goal is not to get rich, but instead to share his wealth.”
I studied the girl’s face for a moment, trying to decide whether she was well-informed or incredibly naive. I decided to go with informed, only because it felt better to believe that both about her and her uncle. “All right, then, so we’ll just have to see if we can get Uncle Seamus his due for this book,” I said to Beattie.
She nodded slowly. “Any tips on things we should look into?”
A slow smile spread across Elsie’s face. “Well, if you want my opinion.” She paused and looked from Beattie to me.
We both nodded, and she continued. “I’d start with Mr. MacDonald, the man who sold Uncle Seamus the book. He knew loads about it, and he believed in the curse. I mean, he really believed in it.” Her eyes grew wide, and she sighed. “Sometimes he doesn’t make much sense, but when he does, it’s fascinating.”
“You’ve talked to him?” I asked with surprise.
“Oh yes, many times. He lives just over the hill in Dalneigh. Loves visitors, but don’t call ahead. His nurse is a cretin and won’t let you in.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a receipt wrapped around a lip gloss, unrolled it, and scribbled out MacDonald’s address on the back. “You’ll let me know what you find?”
Beattie and I exchanged a look. “If your uncle says it’s okay, absolutely,” I said. “We’ll be back on Friday at two. Maybe we’ll see you?” This was the best I could do to give her information without betraying her uncle’s trust.
“Oh, definitely. I’ll plan on it,” she said. Then she turned and walked back toward her uncle’s house.
“Well, that was a good bit of information to gain on the sidewalk,” I said.
“The pavement, Poe. They call it the pavement here,” Beattie said as she slipped her arm through mine.
I rolled my eyes and let her lead me back to our car.
Despite my eagerness to meet with Mr. MacDonald right away, Beattie insisted we slow down, strategize our plan for the week, and have a pint. “Let’s enjoy the town a bit and get our bearings.”
I sighed. She was right, but I was never one to plan. I liked to charge ahead and live with the consequences, good or bad. That life philosophy had gotten me into trouble more than once, and more often than not, that trouble had meant Beattie needed to rescue me. Her desire to slow down would save me some pain and her a whole heck of a lot of trouble.
We checked into our new B&B for the night, and once again, the bed began calling to me as soon as I saw it. The loss of an entire night’s worth of sleep weighed heavy, but when Beattie reapplied her lipstick, tossed me a sweater, and dragged me out the door for dinner, I didn’t resist. She was a world traveler and the best foodie I knew. If dinner was in the plans, I wasn’t going to miss out on what Beattie picked.
And I wasn’t disappointed. She had located a quaint restaurant in a refurbished church. They had a great wine selection, and the food was delicious and all locally sourced. Our table was up on a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the River Ness, and by the time I had begun sipping my second glass of wine, I was absolutely enamored with this city.
While something in my gut was saying the meeting with Davis MacDonald wasn’t going to be my favorite hour of the next day, I was glad the need to visit him had required another day in this town. The bridges across the river were lit with golden bulbs, and I could almost imagine the Loch Ness Monster, or her children, swimming upstream just to celebrate in town once in a while.
After finishing up the best crème brûlée I’d ever had, Beattie and I decided to take a walk and enjoy the city. It was one of those places where it seemed like time overlaid itself. At moments, I felt like I was in a medieval town with stone walls and cobbled walkways. The castle, of course, helped solidify that impression.
But sometimes, I also felt like I was in a modern city with all the bright storefronts and crowded side—I mean pavements. The night was chilly, and the more warm pub doors we passed, the more I was longing for a night like the previous one where we could enjoy some stories and maybe a cider or two.
When we circled back toward the center of town, I convinced Beattie to step into a place called MacCallum’s, and we both immediately smiled when we stepped in. The place was filled with live music and laughing people, and when we got two pints and took a table in the corner, I felt myself relax even further. There was just something about a classic pub that we didn’t have in the US—at least, that was what my two nights’ worth of experience was telling me. The coziness. The community. Even the best dive bars in the oldest neighborhoods in American cities just didn’t compare.
The two of us sat for a while, watching the band play. The music was good—sort of folksy with a drummer behind it—and if I hadn’t been so tired, I might have wanted to stay longer. But again, the sleep was catching up with me, and when I looked at Beattie, she gave me a nod. It was time to go.
I stood, a little wobblier on my feet than I had expected, and almost fell over the chair behind me. When I righted myself on the shoulder of the man whose lap I’d almost landed in, I was surprised to see Adaire Anderson looking up at me.
“Oh, hi, Adaire,” I said as I felt my face flush. He looked even more handsome than before in a dark green sweater and khakis.
Beattie stepped up behind me and subtly removed my hand from the man’s shoulder. “How interesting to see you here, Mr. Anderson,” she said as she shook his hand and then nodded to the other man at the table.
“I suppose it does seem odd,” he said as he looked from her to me. “But I am from here in Inverness and come back as often as I can. This is my brother Aaran. Aaran, meet Poe and Beattie.” He gestured to each of us in turn. “We met this weekend to discuss an acquisition for the Library.”
I took Adaire’s offhand way of describing our conversation as a signal to leave Aaran out of the details. But my curiosity was piqued. It seemed far too coincidental that we’d run into Adaire—not only in Inverness but in the very pub we had chosen for our evening’s entertainment. And if he didn’t want to talk about the book in front of his brother . . .
“Aaran is a fisherman, lives out on Skye,” Adaire said as if reading my mind and giving me an explanation in response to my skepticism. “My work bores him to tears, so we make it a point not to talk fish or old papers when we get together before he heads off for the main season.”
“Please sit,” Aaran said in a deep, rich voice. “Let me get you another pint.”
I looked over at Beattie to see what she was thinking about this invitation, but she was already taking the chair nearest Aaran. And the flush in her own cheeks made me think she might have more than just a desire to be civil in mind as a reason to stay.
While Aaran went to the bar, I turned to Adaire and said, “Did I forget you were from Inverness?” I knew right well I hadn’t forgotten. I only knew about five places in Scotland, and if Adaire had told us he was from the next town we were visiting, I would have remembered.
“Oh, no, I don’t think I said anything. Seemed a little selfish to push my love for my home on you when you were coming up for business.” He slid his chair a bit closer in toward the table and, thus, to me, “but I can’t say as I’m sad to have run into you. Or for you to have run into me, rather.”
I blushed and laughed. “It is a nice surprise. So you said you came up because your brother is leaving? Did I understand that right?”
“Aye,” Adaire said just as Aaran came back with the pints and set them on the table. “Aaran fishes for crab, and the last month of the season is coming up.”
Aaran nodded as he swallowed almost half his pint in one gulp. “But no one wants to hear about me and a boat, Ade,” he said.
Beattie leaned way forward and tilted her body toward Aaran. “I do,” she said with a bit more breath in her voice than usual.
I looked over at Adaire, who winked conspiratorially at me. A flush of heat spread from my shoulders up to my scalp, and I winked back. Then, I turned to him and asked him to tell me what we should do with our afternoon in Inverness.
Two hours later, I had a whole plan for museums and galleries that would allow Beattie and me to enjoy what I now thought of as Adaire’s city and region and let us meet up with the two men for dinner on our way back to Edinburgh. As the brothers walked us out, I tried hard to keep both my head and my body level. I was feeling swoony in a lot of ways, and I was determined not to embarrass myself.