Chapter 1
Charlie Douglas gingerlypeeled off her sodden coat and held it at arm’s length. She watched with distaste as rainwater dripped all over the floor of the bookshop in which she’d taken refuge, leaving a little puddle on the shiny floorboards. Oh dear. She hoped the owner didn’t notice that.
The place was large, with several floors, and she’d hidden herself on one of the top levels amongst the shelves, hoping to avoid notice. Although she could hear the low murmuring of the sales staff below, there was not another person in sight.
A little twinge of guilt pricked her as she looked at the puddle. Perhaps she ought to ask for a mop. But then she might get kicked out for making a mess and she most definitely didnotwant to go back outside. Although the long, billowy summer dress she was wearing was mostly dry thanks to her coat, it would not stay that way for long if she stepped into the street.
Summer? Ha! That was a joke if ever she heard one. It hadn’t stopped raining since she’d arrived in Edinburgh. So much for getting here a little early and doing some sightseeing! All she’d seen so far were gray streets filled with gray rain and puddles so big you could swim in them.
Coming here a day before she was supposed to meet Ruby had seemed like a great idea when she’d first thought of it. The flight up from Cardiff had been way cheaper on a weekday and she’d even been able to bag herself a decently priced hotel room—which was a minor miracle in Scotland’s ridiculously priced capital.
The plan had been to have some time to relax and take in the sights before she met her cousin at the bridal shop tomorrow. Let’s face it, she’dneedto be relaxed if she was to deal with Ruby’s Bridezilla tendencies. Her normally easy-going cousin had morphed into a full-on fire-breathing monster as they drew closer to her wedding day.
Charlie sighed, idly perusing the books as she walked down the row. She couldn’t see what all the fuss was about when it came to weddings. Who cared if the page boys had red roses or white for their button holes? What did it matter if dessert was tiramisu or cheesecake? And why did people get so wound up about marriage anyway? It was only a meaningless bit of paper, and it was no guarantee that any of the vows would be kept.
She shook her head with a wry smile. When did she get so cynical?When I stopped believing in fairytales, she thought.And grew up.
She reached the end of the aisle, and, looking around to check nobody was watching, put her wet coat on the floor and leaned on the window sill, gazing out of the narrow window. The panes were misted up and Charlie could only just make out the Edinburgh skyline framed by thick gray clouds in every direction. Ugh. It was July. It should be warm and sunny!
She found one of the leather chairs that were dotted around the bookshop—places where the customers could take their time perusing the books—and threw herself into it. She crossed her arms, annoyed with the world in general.
She examined her surroundings. The bookshop was tall and narrow, like most buildings in Edinburgh’s old town. She guessed it had once been a tenement building but had now been converted into a four-story bookshop with polished wooden staircases leading from one level to another, rugs on the floor, and easy chairs scattered around. It was quirky and inviting and no doubt the tourists loved it. For Charlie, it was just somewhere to escape the rain.
She sighed, reached up to one of the bookcases and pulled out the first book her questing fingers found. From the glossy pink cover, she guessed it was some sort of chick-lit. She opened it and started reading. Sure enough, the heroine soon turned out to be awkward and endearing and obsessed with finding a man. Totally unrealistic. She flipped to the end and read the last few pages. Predictably, the heroine found her dream man, they confessed their love in some idyllic setting, and lived happily ever after. Charlie rolled her eyes and closed the book with a snap.
“Yeah, right. Likethatwould ever happen. There’s no such thing as true love.”
“Oh my,” said a voice suddenly. “That’s a very pessimistic view of the world.”
Charlie looked up, startled. An elderly woman stood before her. Short and stout, with a neat bun of gray hair pinned to the back of her head, her face was a roadmap of wrinkles that hinted at a lifetime’s worth of stories. The eyes that regarded Charlie were warm and twinkling, although they were as dark as the night sky.
Charlie blinked, taken aback by the woman’s sudden appearance. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, ye have a very pessimistic view of the world, my dear,” the old woman said in a broad Scottish accent.
“Er... right,” Charlie replied. She looked around. Where had the old woman come from? There had been nobody else on this floor, she was sure of it. “I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”
The old woman chuckled softly, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. Her rosy cheeks and ready smile made her look like an elderly cherub. “Ah, the wisdom of youth!”
The woman lowered herself into an armchair across from Charlie, wincing slightly as she bent her knees. She placed her hands in her lap and regarded Charlie with a calm intensity that was slightly unsettling. Her eyes, Charlie noticed, seemed to be all pupil with hardly any iris at all.
“Let me introduce myself,” she said. “I’m Irene MacAskill.” She held out a hand, which Charlie leaned forward and shook.
“I’m Charlotte Douglas. But everyone calls me Charlie.”
“Delighted to meet ye, Charlotte Charlie Douglas. Seems an age I’ve been waiting for ye.”
“Waiting for me? What do you mean?”
Irene’s eyes twinkled as she settled back in her chair. “Exactly what I said. Ye’ve got the look of a woman in need of a good story.” She motioned towards the tome in Charlie’s lap. “Yer own story, lass. Not someone else’s that ye read about in a book.”
“My story?” Charlie asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And what kind of story might that be?”
Irene leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “A tale of love and loss, hope and regret. A story filled with magic and wonder and hardship and doubt. But one that, should ye choose to take the path that leads ye to it, will take ye to where ye are meant to be.”
“I’mexactlywhere I should be, thanks,” Charlie snorted. “Sheltering from that typhoon outside.”
Irene watched Charlie for a moment, her eyes seeming to bore right through her. Then she shook her head. “Nay, lass. Ye are not. Ye are far from where ye are meant to be, and drifting further every day, the more ye close yer heart to the possibilities. But it isnae too late to change course and find yer path again.”
