Eilidh ate the oranges, each one more delicious than the last. Despite Kieran’s words, no memories came of it. Just the smell of citrus and bright orange juice licked from her fingers.
And for a moment—averybrief moment—Eilidh regretted that she hadn’t shared the moment with Kieran.
As the daysdissolved into a week and then two, Eilidh’s sparse efforts at remembering yielded equally sparse results.
Just a handful of memories worked their way free.
Mr. Chen carefully watching her pack a firework tube, talking about the fireworks they would let off in Vanuatu.
Captain Cuthie scowling and threatening to have her flogged if she didn’t have his favorite footstool repaired by nightfall.
Kieran laughing, his head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut, teeth flashing.
Ewan sitting on a beach, his head bent over a sketch of a bird mid-flight.
Yet for every scene, there was no emotional memory. No sense of affection for Mr. Chen. No loathing for Cuthie. No love for Kieran.
They were simply scenes from a play acted before her eyes.
Eilidh passed the days with Mrs. McKay, chatting and reading. Occasionally, they would walk up to Kilmeny Hall and visit Ewan as he painted in his studio.
She saw Kieran every day, too. They talked and interacted but little more. She deliberately didn’t ask him any further personal questions.
It felt like the more she knew, the more the black terror loomed.
Kieran was wrong.
Sometimes, numbness was better than feeling.
Sometimes, the pain was simply too much to bear.
And no matter how much Kieran insisted the opposite, she still doubted the veracity of Cuthie’s accusations. She simply had not been responsible forThe Minerva’s demise. She had not deliberately killed all those men, no matter what anyone said. Moreover, the captain would not commit perjury—and risk gaol himself—to falsely name her the guilty party.
The one thing she did embrace, however, was the revelation that she was handy with a knife and wood.
As Mrs. McKay embroidered away the hours, Eilidh whittled.
She took a block of rosewood Kieran gave her and carved a wee kelpie—a creature of Scottish folklore. The mythological water spirit had the head of a horse, a mane of serpents, and the body of a fish. It was whimsical and when rubbed smooth, gleamed in the sunlight.
Kieran had studied it with reverent awe.
“It’s bonnie work, lass.” He turned it over, running a hand over the burnished sides. “Ye havenae lost your touch.”
“Do you think it would be appropriate to give it to Ewan? He is the one who taught me how to see a shape within wood. I remember that much, at least. Perhaps it could be a gift for the new babe?” she asked. “Or would that be too odd?”
“I ken that Ewan and Violet would treasure it.”
Additionally, another letter from Simon arrived—usually a joyous thing—but this time, its contents sent Eilidh’s thoughts into disarray.
I heard word earlier today that Reverend Gillespie and his wife had returned. Overjoyed, I immediately trekked over to their cottage to call upon them (and therefore, yourself). But imagine my dismay to learn that you had not returned with them. They did not tell me why. In fact, the Gillespies were uncertain as to when, or even if, you would return. The reverend went entirely tight-lipped when I broached the subject of our potential nuptials. He even went so far as to encourage me to abandon my suit of you. I left their house in a bit of a state, as you can well imagine.
My dearest Miss Fyffe, clearly something is amiss. My heart is all anxious palpitations for your safety. I pray that you are happy and well. I also pray that you have been honest with me, as I have been with you. A marriage can only go forward if both parties trust and hold faith in the other.
You know of the depth of my regard for yourself. I long to spend the rest of my life with you. You have always been, first and foremost, a good friend. If my affections are only a diversion or amusement for you, please set me free. Or at the very least, let me know the state of your heart as it pertains to myself.
Eilidh pressed her hand to her forehead, letting the foolscap fall.
Guilt pounded through her.
