“Are ye certain ye’ll be alright on yer own?”
“Certainly. I’ll establish order and be ready to toast an armistice by the time you return.”
The shops were only a few streets away, Aila reasoned. On her own, it wouldn’t take long. Nodding her assent, she turned and jogged up the street.
“Go to that wee shop down at the far end,” Violet called. “They’ll know what’s best for a situation like this.”
Chapter 2
A Fyne Auld Whisky Shoppe.Aila appreciated the play on words as she pushed open the door. A tinkle of a bell roused a massive black German shepherd lying in a shaft of sunlight near the shop windows. He lifted his head and she stopped at the sight, more from surprise than wariness of the dog’s size.
“Dinnae mind Rab,” a deep, heavy brogue spoke from the far side of the shop. “He willnae harm ye.”
“I wouldnae think so.” She dropped down on her haunches as the dog hefted himself to a sitting position, their eyes now on the same level, his dark brown and somber as he considered her almost thoughtfully. Scratching the underside of his jaw, she offered a smile and cooed softly, “Ye’re no’ a fighter, are ye lad?”
Thump, thump. His tail knocked against the wooden floor twice in agreement, his mouth opening far enough to let his tongue loll in appreciation.
“He likes ye, lass.”
“Dogs always ken who likes them.” Aila loved them really, despite the fact she’d never had one of her own. With a regretful sigh, she gave Rab one last scratch. “Wish I had time to play,” she whispered for his ears only. “But I cannae leave Vi alone too long. Who kens what mischief she’ll get into, aye?”
Climbing to her feet, she absently stroked the dog’s head as she looked over the whisky bottles and branded boxes displayed on rows of shelving six high behind the long wooden counter. The light from the windows reflected off those closest to her. The rest of the shop, however, was dimly lit leaving those farther on cast in shadows. More were arranged in glass cases around the two remaining walls and on tables set in front of the windows. There had to be hundreds of them.
“Can I offer ye any assistance, lass?”
She scanned the shelves, doubtful that choosing one by merit of the prettiest bottle or label would be her best option. Whisky wasn’t wine. “Aye, what do ye have that’s good for making peace?”
A rough chuckle echoed through the space. “Bessie’s kin clamoring for the treasure already, are they?”
With a blink of surprise, she tore her eyes from the infinite stock of scotch and peered toward the far end of the counter. An old man sat on a stool behind the worktop, one elbow propped on the scratched surface and the other holding a small tasting glass with a fair amount of amber liquid in the bottom. A grey wool flat cap covered the top of his head, leaving his ruddy ears free to stand out. His cheeks were rosy as well. Too much drink? Then what could one expect of someone surrounded by whisky all day? He looked like he could have been sitting there, just like that, for the past century or more.
He also looked somewhat familiar, though Aila couldn’t immediately place him. Odd, her memory rarely failed her.
“They are,” she responded. “My friend asked that I come here and find something to soothe the greedy beasties, as it were.”
“It’ll take something exceptional to calm that bunch down.” He slid off his stool and paced the length of the counter with a thoughtful frown that further creased his wrinkled face as he perused his inventory. “How is Vi doing? Foot still giving her trouble?”
“She’s…” She paused with a frown of her own. “How did ye…?”
“Ken that Violet Graham was the one who sent ye?” the shopkeeper finished for her with an impish smile. “Who else would think to combat the dregs of the Clan Boyce wi’ a bottle of Islay’s finest?”
Her brow rose, not quite believing his excuse. He waved away her skepticism and continued his evaluation. “Nay, no’ that one.” Bypassing another row, he reached for a bottle only to draw back with a firm shake of his head. “Nay, that willnae do a’tall.”
“Do ye—”
“Wheesht, lass. I’m thinking.”
He continued to mutter to himself as he moved on. Aila glanced down at the shepherd who’d taken up position by her side. “Is he always like this?” The dog’s head tilted to the side with a gurgling half-growl. “Aye, I thought so.” She turned back to the merchant. “Listen, I need to—”
“Aha! I’ve got it!” The old man snatched a bottle off one of the shelves and held it high in triumph. “Perfect for mollifying frayed tempers and mending family squabbles. Also known to allow hard truths to sink in more palatably.”
“Truths? Such as the harsh reality that there is, in fact, nae treasure to be found?” Aila eyed the bottle doubtfully. She’d never been one for miracles. Or fairy tales, for that matter.
“Ye think it isnae real, lass?” He swung the bottle away as she reached for it.
“Folklore rarely is.”
He chucked his tongue with obvious disapproval. “Ye dinnae believe in the fey folk then? The kelpies?”
