“That”—Nelle nods—“among other things. Story’s not over. On one of those harsh winter days when the loch beside the cottage was frozen over, Sam and Quill went out to skate. Quill threw a rock across the loch, testing the ice’s stability. It bounced and skidded across. Safe for skating. So they went out. Quill said he felt like a bird, his arms spread wide. About an hour later, face red and wind chapped, Quillheard a sound that would haunt him for years. The groan of continents wrenching apart. The ice under Sam caved in, and Quill had to watch as his little brother fell into the water. He saw Sam’s hand pop above the ice, his face frozen in a scream, then he was gone. Maybe taken by a creature, possibly shocked by the cold. Quill never found out.”
Nelle picks at a thread in her shirtsleeve.
“Leaving didn’t seem like an option—what if Sam resurfaced and needed his help climbing up?—so Quill screamed for their parents until his voice gave out. Jumping in after Sam didn’t cross his mind. That water was death. When Quill eventually returned to the cottage, he told his mother that Sam was dead. She didn’t cry. When his father came home, tired and sweaty, she broke the news to him. Quill stood behind her. His father dropped to his knees in the doorway. It was the first time he’d ever cried in front of them. And Quill hated it. Thelasttime he saw his father cry was a year later, at his mother’s funeral. On that awful day, he remembered thinking that maybe,maybe, his father really did love her, somewhere beneath his own layers of ice.
“A week later, Thomas claimed he had nothing to live for in Scotland anymore, so he moved them to Georgia, where he had family.Livingfamily. Quill never saw that cottage again, nor the lake that would forever serve as Sam Quill’s grave.”
James blinks as he processes all this. “That’s an awful story to tell a child.”
“Quill didn’t talk to me like a child. Unless he was being condescending.” Nelle watches out the window at the stone city rushing past. “He’s a twisted man, but I know he wanted me to understand why he did what he did. Why he was who he was to me. But it still makes me wonder why he told me about the cottage. Why I’m dreaming about it now. When he found me in DC, he said he saw me in a dream. What if I’m supposed to find the cottage? What if he meant for me to?”
The cold determination in Nelle’s jaw makes James’s stomach drop.
“He never told me any other stories about his childhood.Nothing.Think about it ... why would he have given me a birth certificate? Apassport?”
James doesn’t believe that a man who only allowed Nelle out of the house a handful of times in twenty-one years wouldeversend her alone on a scavenger hunt through Scotland.
“I can’t explain it.” She sits up straighter. “It’s just a feeling I have. I’m supposed to find this cottage. That’s all I know.”
James sighs. In the short time he has known Nelle, has she given him a reason not to trust her gut? If she wants to dance on a roof in a thunderstorm, they do it. If she is ready to leave New York, they do it. If she wants to track down her dad-captor’s childhood home, then damn it ...
He gives Nelle’s hand a supportive squeeze. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter 20
As the train eases to a stop and the doors slide open, James writes for Nelle in the leather journal. She notes that he is carrying the blue backpack they purchased in Paris, stuffed full with their clothes, as she follows him off the train into the heart of the station. Edinburgh Waverley is a mammoth of concrete and glass and people milling in all directions. Nelle looks through the ceiling at the overcast sky as they weave through the whirlwind of families and suitcases. Sharp, heavenly espresso hits her nose, but she doesn’t suggest they stop.
For the first time in weeks, something takes precedence over caffeine.
The cottage in the mists of her mind, hovering like a bad memory. A stony house on a hill. Flagstones crisscrossing up to the stoop. A lantern hanging from a post, a ring of gold light. Footprints in the snow. A lake, as clear as a mirror, undisturbed behind it.
When she woke on the train, she knew she had to find it. As natural a need as her next breath. She hoped that telling the story to James might help her understandwhyshe woke up with this powerful instinct, but reliving Quill’s past only soured her mood. On top of that, she can sense James’s skepticism through his optimistic acquiescence, and she can’t even blame him.
Out on the street, they blink at the dull evening. The road is lined with gray sandstone and limestone buildings, detailed with touches of medieval and Victorian architecture, crowstepped gables and palatial turrets.
“Where’s the best place to start our search?” Nelle asks.
James stands like a pillar among the people entering and exiting the station.
“A library.”
They walk farther into the city, people drinking at sidewalk tables, smoking cigarettes over dinner. With every pub they pass, Nelle’s stomach growls. The meaty, starchy, homey smells pouring out of the old oak doors whisper to her, but James leads them confidently, and if he can help them find the cottage, she isn’t going to suggest a pit stop to refill her stomach.
A cool, wet wind cuts through Nelle’s sweater.
“How’s that one?” She points to a granite building,National Library of Scotlandin silver across its facade and a stone-worked Royal Arms over the entrance.
“Almost too perfect.” He writes in the journal, and they dive into the sprawling, well-lit complex.
Historical artifacts line display cases between shelves upon shelves of books. People putter past, speaking low. James leads her, speed walking through the fiction section. She has never seen so many novels in one place. Thousands of worlds awaiting her visit, a treasure trove under one roof.
James finds a desktop computer and starts typing. “What was Quill’s middle name?”
“Jeremiah.” Nelle pulls up a chair. “Wallace Jeremiah Quill.”
James types the name in, and thousands of links appear. Headlines about Wallace Quill and his bestselling debut novel, outselling some of the big-name authors of the year. Announcements for film options that never came to fruition. Die-hard fans theorizing about why Quill suddenly disappeared from the publishing world, never releasing another book.
Nelle knows why. He stopped writing after her accidental conception, at least for publication. Is it possible that he feared creating something, or someone, else?
