Lara
Dear Kitty,
I’ve had the best afternoon ever. I went to Inary’s house for lunch, and it was great. She burnt our toasties and we ended up having cornflakes because she’d run out of everything else. Nonna would have had a fit, but I loved it. This is what I always imagined writers would be like, I think: they just focus on their work and forget about everything else. I mean, I’m sure Charlotte Brontë didn’t stop writing to make herself a nice risotto, don’t you think? They go on and on into the night as well and are completely possessed by their art. It’s all very romantic, and Inary has just the right looks for it: her hair looks like a painting, so bright and wavy. Not like mine. Frizzy. She said my hair is gorgeous. Obviously she was just being nice, but then she showed me in the mirror in her room, and it was weird but as she untied my ponytail and let my hair fall, it didn’t look so bad.
Inary’s house is exactly the way I’d like my house to be, one day. Full of books and with a study all for myself. I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up, be a writer or a teacher or a librarian, but whatever I’m going to do, it must have something to do with books. Also, Inary has a gorgeous boyfriend who looks like an actor. He’s had to go to London so I didn’t meet him, but I saw a picture and he has raven hair, like Damien in Bride of Shadows.
Inary is going to read my Bride of Shadows fan fiction. I’m so excited.
I so wish she lived in London, then I could speak to someone who understands. She used to live there, but she came to see her sister, who died young, and then she decided to stay. Her boyfriend followed her. She said she loves living here, though it’s so small. She told me that there are a thousand and five hundred souls living in Glen Avich, and a few more floating around. I think she means commuters.
After having been to Inary’s house, I decided to go down to the tree house at Ramsay Hall – Torcuil said I can go any time I like. I wandered around for a bit first because I was sort of hoping I’d meet that boy again.
As I walked, I felt strange, like he was just at my shoulder all the time. And then, there he was.
“Lara,” he said, and I was startled.
“Yes. Hello. You are silent as a cat!”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Where are you going?”
His eyes are really grey. As in, properly grey. A shade I’ve never seen before. I don’t even think that Damien has eyes as grey as that. And his hair is so black. I didn’t think someone with skin so white could have hair so dark.
“Up to the Ramsay Estate. Do some reading in the tree house.” I showed him my Wuthering Heights and the blanket I’d sneaked out from Nonna’s cupboard.
“I like reading too. There aren’t many books around, but the schoolmaster always lends me some.”
“You mean your teacher?”
“Yes. I go on Ailsa with my boat. I bring some food and a book and spend hours there, reading. Just me, alone with the loch. My father gets cross at me because I read instead of helping him. He says I’ll become a priest or a schoolteacher.” He smiled. When he smiles he looks different. He looks like he’s shining from the inside. It doesn’t happen often; usually he seems sad, or troubled. “Sometimes I write poems.”
“A priest?” Seriously?
“Yes. But I don’t enjoy the Bible much, so I don’t think that’s ever going to happen!”
Okay. Sometimes he says strange things. I mean, the Bible? What teenager reads the Bible? Unless you come from a super-religious family. I suppose that’s possible.
“Want to come up with me?” I asked, and then I was scared. In case he said no.
But he said, “Very well,” and we walked together in silence, and it wasn’t awkward, it was just peaceful. Every once in a while he looked at me and smiled.
And that was all, a walk with no words, until we climbed up the tree house and sat there cross-legged.
“Are you sure Lord Ramsay doesn’t mind we’re here?” he said.
“I’m sure. He told me—”
Suddenly he grew very pale, and once again he seemed scared. But why? Why was he so frightened again, like last time? It’s hard to explain; it was like the weather had turned all at once, like it does here in Scotland, going from clear to rainy in the space of a heartbeat.
“I have to go now,” he said in a voice so soft I could barely hear it, rising to his feet.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked, and I regretted it at once. Maybe he didn’t want to see me, maybe I was making a fool of myself.
“I hope so,” he said, and crawled to the little door.
Suddenly, I remembered. “Hey . . . you never told me your name.”
“My name is Mal.”
And who are your people? I was about to ask, just like he’d done to me the first time we met. But I didn’t get the chance, because he disappeared down the rope ladder. I crawled to the little door and looked out, but a thick white mist was rising from the fields. I could only make out a blurry shape for a few seconds – and then he was gone.
So now I know his name.