“Aye, it is.” Although lukewarm, the tea quenched his thirst.
A few weeks earlier, Cilla had said that when she acted for too long, she grew comfortable and forgot to act. And the truth came out.
Lachlan’s thumb rubbed the smooth porcelain of his saucer. Cilla had been at Dunnet Head for over six months. After their first chaotic encounter on the beach, her story had never changed. Not once.
Was she telling the truth about helping the Dutch resistance and joining the Abwehr only so she could escape? About her loyalties lying with the Allies?
Beside him, Cilla hummed and swayed to the music, occasionally bumping Lachlan without notice or apology.
If she was telling the truth, everything changed, and Lachlanforced himself to breathe evenly. More than anything, he wanted it to be true because he liked her and wanted to respect her. Did, in fact, respect her.
The song ended, and Mr. Fraser said the next dance would be “Petronella.”
Cilla set her cup and saucer on the bench behind them and grabbed Lachlan’s arm—so quickly, he struggled to set down his own cup—and dragged him to the center of the room.
“Hold on, lass. Hold on.” But he laughed and took his position opposite her. “Pay close attention to the steps. This dance is different.”
“Good. I like a challenge.”
“Aye. I’ve noticed.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bain started as first couple, twirling around each other in the Petronella turn, then they glided up the center and back.
Lachlan extended both hands to Cilla and guided her around in a circle as they did a quick setting step—rather, Lachlan did the step and Cilla simply hopped around, her blond hair bouncing and her eyes shining the same bonny greenish blue as her dress.
Lachlan returned to the line as the Bains continued their set, but soon it was his turn to take the lead with Cilla. They twirled around each other, gazes meeting, parting, meeting, parting. He took her hand and led her up the center, turned, and led her back.
She set her other hand in his and they danced in a circle, spinning, and he lost himself in her eyes and her smile and the warmth of her hands.
He could lose himself completely.
Wasn’t that how the selkie escaped in the legend? Once the man was hopelessly lost, he let down his guard, and she found her sealskin and abandoned him, brokenhearted and alone.
But if she wasn’t a selkie, if she was telling the truth, what then?
For the first time, losing himself held great appeal.
25
Dunnet Head
Saturday, January 10, 1942
Cilla carried a paraffin lantern up the spiral staircase for the start of her watch. With the sun rising so late during the winter, she’d work by lantern for the first hour of her shift.
In the lightroom, Mr. Palmer, the assistant keeper, gave Cilla his report and departed.
A half-moon lit the clear night sky and the dark sea, still and calm from a lack of wind. Cilla wouldn’t make her first meteorological readings until nine o’clock, the same time the sun would rise and allow her to observe shipping.
Fair weather meant the Luftwaffe’s planned supply drop would likely occur tonight. When Hauptmann Kraus transmitted to Cilla at midnight, he’d send the instructions and MI5 would prepare for reception.
Cilla scanned the waters but saw nothing for her log.
After she and MI5 received the explosives from the Germans, they could plan the fake sabotage for Burns Night. Cilladidn’t like the idea, but she certainly preferred it to returning to Germany.
At the worktable, she set down her lamp and pulled out her basket. Whilst cleaning, she’d found a box of fresh rags in soft blues and grays and greens. She’d never been artistic and had never had the patience for sewing, but a vision had flown into her head.
Cilla unfolded the fabric she was assembling into a seascape, with one shade of blue for sea, a lighter one for sky, gray for beach, and green for cliffs. Her stitches were too long and uneven for her mother’s taste, and Cilla could hear Moeder’s amused chiding in her head.
