“Keats.” I said his name aloud, thinking that it fit him. “Thank you for your warm introduction today, Keats. I was nervous. Leith is so big and dark, but you brought a ray of sunshine.”
Keats’s grin widened. “Thank you, lass. As a matter of fact, you’re not the first to say so.”
I waved back at him before he disappeared around the corner. Returning to my carry-on case, I unpacked the few shirts, sweaters, and plain pants I’d packed and tucked them neatly into the small bureau at the bedside. Finishing with my socks and undergarments in the top drawer, I zipped and tucked the case under the metal bed frame and replaced the white ruffle so it was out of sight. A cloud of dust spun into the air and forced me to sneeze and dodge the remaining motes. I stood, unlocking the window with one hand and then breathing deeply as fresh air filled the stuffy corner of the keep.
My eyes cast along the heathered moor and over the decaying gravestones at the base of the abbey ruins. One ray of bright sunshine split the puffs of cotton overhead and directed my attention to Keats, his head bent as he stood at the roadside and spoke to a neighbor walking their dog.
The sun seemed to shine down with an extra intense light on the man who’d just welcomed me to Leith. My gaze trailed farther along the wooded edge of the loch, its distant base riddled with boulders of granite and limestone. Clouds of cool smoke hung over the taller Celtic crosses that adorned some of the more prominent gravesites. I blinked away the fog that clung to the gravesites in the foreground when it looked as if a shadow darted between the stones. Another blink of movement caught my attention.
“This place is unreal,” I breathed, half expecting the old hall to answer me.
I clamped down on my teeth, eyes following the opposite edge of the shoreline of the loch when movement in the far distance held my attention. A man—there was no doubt about that, given the broad stretch of his shoulders and wide gait of his powerful legs—held something equal in size to him over his shoulders as he walked along the woods that bordered three sides of his cabin. A wisp of white mist obstructed him from my view for a moment before he returned. He looked around my age or a little older, his bronzed skin and dark hair a stark comparison to the many other locals I’d seen since I’d arrived at Kylemore.
I lingered a moment longer at the window, eyes crossing to Keats, the halo of sunshine still enveloping him and the neighbor as they conversed. The dog was now lying at their feet in the tall heather, eyes tracking something in the distance. My gaze followed his, surprised when something quickly darted between two gravestones again.
Without thinking, I turned and shuttled my way down the stairs of the keep. I pushed through the front door of Leith Hall, eyes on the old graveyard that was nearly hidden by the ruins of Heathermoor Abbey. Only one wall remained, the entryway arch half collapsed, and another wall covered in ivy and vines working up the stone. I was careful to pick my way around the exposed foundations; large pieces of the crumbling stone that’d fallen as the abbey lapsed into decay were now covered in a layer of heather and tall grass. The mounds resembled fairy hills, if only they weren’t such a pain to walk around.
I slowed when I finally reached the opposite side of the ruins and approached the graveyard. The graves varied in size and height, but nearly all of them were cloaked in shadow, mist curling around the headstones in the far corner that bordered the base of the loch. I glanced back at Keats, his welcoming smile fading as he and the neighbor watched me with interest. I waved to them and hoped that when Keats had said I had full access to Leith, it also meant its graveyard.
I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small notebook I used to make notes when I was researching something. I pressed my lips together, eyeing the first headstone.
Fr. Maclean, Loyal Soul
I scribbledMaclean, Fr.in my notebook and then moved to the next gravestone. I had every intention of researching each of the names I found here, but the closer I got to each gravestone, the more I realized what a problem that might present. Most of the stones were moss-covered and blackened by the unforgiving Scottish climate. The stones were beautiful in their own way, but it only took me examining the next illegible three to know that I would have my work cut out for me this summer. If I had any hope of reading these stones, I’d need to wash all of them first.
I tucked my notebook and pen back into my pocket and stood. I remembered then what had lured me out here in the first place. A broken gravestone rose from its position in the far corner of the graveyard, the top turned on its side as the angled granite shot angrily into the air. At some point a while ago, the top of the stone had broken in half. It wasn’t hard to imagine with the wind and rain that pelted this coast. My eyes lingered on the engraved part of the stone, but too much of it was covered in moss and lichen to be recognizable. I paused, letting my fingertips drift along the worn, pockmarked granite as I took in what looked like the oldest section of the graveyard.
Beyond the rambling wooden fence that at one time enclosed the headstones stretched the vibrant navy and turquoise loch. It shimmered in a single ray of sunshine, lighting up the previously shadowed corner and revealing two intense eyes peering back at me.
A chill splintered my spine before I shook the fog from my mind and cut my gaze from the intriguing stranger’s.
I didn’t know anything about the man I would be sharing the loch with this summer, but I wanted to know more. So much more.
Fable
With the last rays of misty sunshine setting over Leith Hall, I wandered the first-floor library. My fingertips chased the spines as I imagined what kinds of stories I might find nestled within the deckled edges of the hardcovers.
Lost in Leith’s library, I tried to make rhyme or reason of the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that covered two walls. I lingered at the end of one shelf, fingers on a dusty paperback, when a giant head poked up from the crimson sofa that anchored the wide windows along the far wall.
“Hey there, buddy.” As soon as I cooed to the old dog, another head popped up, nose in the air as it searched for my scent.
I smiled, hand outstretched as I walked to the dogs. Their giant muzzles were covered in wiry gray fur, eyes large chocolate pools that made me want to curl up with them while I read my next book.
“What do you recommend I start with?” I mused as I patted the first dog on its head. The second curled back into itself, unconcerned with the stranger now wandering Leith. I turned back to the shelves, finding a copy of Robert Burns sandwiched between two beaten-up volumes of Shakespeare.
I picked up a book of strange Scottish tales and legends, flipping open the cover and inhaling the layers of dust that plumed around me. I fingered through the first few pages, surprised when I found a signature of its one-time owner scribbled along the top margin of one of the pages.
“Maclean, Alder,”I read aloud.
One of the dogs perked up with my voice, glancing from me to the stretch of heather and loch out the window. The graveyard was dark with the setting sun; I’d noticed it almost in permanent shade since I’d arrived at Leith a few hours ago.
I hadn’t seen Keats since his initial welcome. The shift in his eyes and the friendly but concise cut of his words made me smile even now. Living at a place like Leith, with only the dogs and the draft to keep a person company, was destined to make anyone a little quirky. I appreciated the old man’s quirks, though, his love for this place clear in the way he ambled around its grounds, giving all his attention to whatever spot he tended at the moment. The deep shadows and rocky crags played tricks on my eyes, the sun perpetually shining on Keats as if he made a point to follow it around all day while the graveyard was shaded in permanent mist and shadow. It seemed stranger now that I viewed it from Leith, the shadows casting longer, the granite cold and unforgiving enough to leave a chill in my veins.
I appreciated that Keats left the curtains open and the old eight-paned windows cracked to allow a breeze. Leith was homier than what I’d expected. From this angle, I could close my eyes and almost hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet running its halls, shrieks of joyous laughter from any one of the families who must have called Leith home over the generations. Dozens of stories must have been born of its walls; a big, drafty house like this anchoring the tiny village of Kylemore must have generated enough gossip to make Granny blush.
I grinned, tucking the Robert Burns at my elbow and about to share the blood-red couch with the two giant hounds who currently claimed it, when a throat cleared, the hard consonants and quick delivery of the words making me jump with surprise.
“Aye, you don’t want to read ole Rabbie Burns. If you want a taste of the Highlands, you’ll want this one.” Keats shoved an old, leather-bound book into my palms.
