“Oh yes.” Cilla’s hands flew apart, fingers wiggling in the air. “Every time he tries to write a poem, it ends up rhyming. He hates that.”
Lachlan laughed. “Robert Burns rhymes.”
“But no self-respecting modern poet does. Poor Fergus.”
“Poor Fergus indeed.” Lachlan rested his forearms on the table. “If Fergus is twenty-eight, why is he not in the Forces?”
“Did he go to prison?”
“That sounds too much like Neil. I dinnae want to draw attention to him or my family.”
Cilla pursed her lips. “Does Fergus have a bad heart?”
Lachlan circled his finger around the rough rim of his biscuit. “He needs to be strong enough to commit sabotage. We should give him a reserved profession, like farming. His father died—or his father is the one with a bad heart. He needs Fergus’s help.”
“Even as he grumbles about farming in poetic terms.” Cilla’s smile unfurled even more. “This is such fun. Fergus needs friends, yes?”
“Aye.” It was fun, wasn’t it? Working with her, their ideas stacking on each other’s, like stone blocks building a lighthouse.
“If only I could go to the Claymore and Heath and meet the real Free Caledonians.” Cilla pressed one finger to her chin. “What sort of men would belong? How about a scholar in his fifties? He wants to be a politician, thinks he’ll be the first prime minister of Scotland, but no one would ever vote for him.”
“Aye, and a workman with a criminal past.”
“Add some hotheaded youth.”
“Too young for the Forces, but willing to get dirty.”
“What would our fictional version of Free Caledonia do if they had explosives?” Cilla tapped her chin. “Sabotage Dunnet Head? The RAF fields nearby? Maybe the boat that ferries troops to Scapa?”
Yardley cleared his throat—he was still in the lightroom, was he? “We won’t do any of those things.”
“Of course not,” Cilla said. “These are ideas to play with, to inspire us for the fake sabotage we’ll commit.”
“Burns Night.” Light beamed from the tower they’d built. “On the twenty-fifth of January, we celebrate the birth of Rabbie Burns with a grand meal and the reading of poetry.”
“Oh!” Cilla’s eyes enlarged. “That would be the perfect time for Free Caledonia to do something big and dramatic and symbolic.”
“Aye.” A strange sense of anticipation took hold of him, and he fell deeper into the green-blue sea of Cilla’s gaze.
He blinked and sat back. A selkie. She was a selkie.
But what if ... what if she wasn’t?
23
Wednesday, December 31, 1941
Although Cilla had spent most of 1941 despising solitude, now she relished being alone as her bicycle sped down the slope of Dunnet Head.
Brilliant pinks and oranges from the setting sun edged the clouds and cast opalescent light across the sky.
Alone. Outside. And on her way to a party.
Cilla whooped, disturbing a trio of birds, and she laughed.
Over the years, she’d treasured gifts from family and friends, but none had delighted her like the gift from Commander Yardley on Christmas Day.
A key to the lighthouse.
