Lachlan and Arthur pushed their bicycles on a path arounda cluster of wee houses dug down into earthen mounds, each house lined with flagstone walls and hearths and shelves.
“Thousands of years old,” Arthur murmured.
“Aye. Buried for millennia and uncovered by a storm.” No one knew why the villagers had abandoned Skara Brae. Perhaps they’d died in a plague or in battle, or perhaps they’d moved to another area and built more modern homes.
Lachlan wouldn’t have left unless forced to. Green grasses and white sea campion flowers waved on the mounds, and gray stones stacked in sturdy walls—sturdy enough to stand for thousands of years.
Walls such as those provided warmth and protection. Within those walls, the people of Skara Brae would have felt free.
He inhaled sea air, scented with ancient earth and stone. His job was to build walls of defense such as these—thick and firm. So the British people could remain free.
17
Dunnet
Sunday, August 17, 1941
When Lachlan Mackenzie announced at the Saturday morning meeting that he’d be returning to Scapa Flow in the afternoon, Cilla assumed attending church the next day would be safe.
She hated being wrong.
She squirmed in the pew beside Gwen as the minister spoke about Zacchaeus, despised by all. Yet Jesus had chosen to dine with him.
All Cilla wanted was a break from the monotony at the lighthouse, pretty music, and a chance to see what the ladies were wearing.
The minister’s gaze threaded between all the ladies’ hats and found Cilla. “Do you ever feel all alone in this world?”
Yes, she did, and her eyes misted. Bother. That was even worse than being wrong, and she whipped her handkerchief from her coat pocket.
“Never forget,” the minister said withRs rolling, “Jesus is your truest friend.”
All her life, Cilla had plenty of friends.
Now she didn’t.
At last, the service concluded. Cilla dabbed her eyes, stood, and put on her coat and her best smile.
Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie barreled up the aisle toward her. The lieutenant’s mother shared his coloring, and his father shared his general look—sturdy and square jawed.
Mrs. Mackenzie clasped Cilla’s hand, all warmth and softness, unlike her son. “Miss van der Zee, we are so glad to see you again.”
“Thank you. I’ve been—busy with my duties.”
“I hope you’re not too busy to join us for dinner.”
Oh no. She’d never hear the end of it from the fiery lieutenant. She motioned with her handkerchief toward Gwen. “Officer Reese and I are dining at Dunnet Head.”
Mr. Mackenzie frowned, a trait he’d passed down. “The station has no mess.”
Yes, and the men brought their meals from their billets in the village. “We ladies cook for ourselves.”
Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head, and the feather on her brown hat swayed. “That willnae do at all. Please, both of you, have dinner with us. A simple fare of cock-a-leekie soup and bread, but we have more than enough to share.”
A horrible idea, and Cilla glanced at Gwen for an excuse. Any excuse.
Gwen’s eyes rounded. “Yes, thank you.”
Mrs. Mackenzie burst into a smile, with wrinkles fanning around her mouth and eyes. After she gave directions to their home, the Mackenzies went their way.
