SKYE
I’ll be the first to admit this castle can be a lonely place. Growing up as an only child, I often imagined people filling the halls, but they were never quite so nosy. In the fantasy, they just hung on my every word, enjoyed my company, more interested in me than these old stone walls.
A tug on my sweater stops me, and the group stops too.
“So, are you a princess?” The little girl with blonde ringlets asks me for about the fifth time before wiping her nose on her shirtsleeve. “Like Merida inBrave?Are you Merida?”
Her cherub face is so earnest I swallow my laugh. “No, I’m Skye Ainslie."
The girl squints her eyes. “Are you sure? You look a lot like her. Why do you live here?”
I keep leading the group through the hall as I answer. I don’t want this tour to take any longer than it needs to. “Well, when I was about your age, my grandma needed some help. So, we moved from LA here.”
Her mother, with matching blonde hair, hands her a tissue. “Is your family Scottish royalty?”
I shake my head, wrapping my sweater closer around my torso.It’s only early September, but a chill is seeping in through the cracks in the ceiling.
“Why do you live in a castle then?”
“Well…” God, what a long story. “The answer varies depending on who you ask,” I tick these off on my fingers to get the number right, “great-great-great-great grandfather Maxwell Ainslie won the castle from the Mortimers in a card game. The Mortimers claimed the game was rigged. They said the transfer wasn’t legally binding, even got local officials involved, but it was legal, and Loch Ness Castle has been in the Ainslie family ever since.”
I walk past the library I use as my writing room, wanting to keep my private spaces for myself.
“The joke was on Great-great-great-great grandad, though. The castle was in such disrepair it was hardly livable and stayed that way for generations. My grandmother did a ton of renovations and moved her family in. Then, my mother continued the work after we moved here.” I run my hand along the wall, the stone rough under my fingertips. “This hallway used to be covered in cement. She spent an entire summer chipping away at it to reveal the original stone.”
We head to the staircase and one of the guests points to the right. “What’s down that hall?”
“It’s our private bedrooms. We still live here.”
The man with greasy hair and sensible sneakers thrusts his shoulders back. “We paid good money for this tour. We should get to see.”
Forcing a smile on my face, I stop myself from questioning what exactlygood moneymeans to him. Instead, I say, “There’s plenty more to see, don’t worry.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it to continue the tour. We head down the stairs to the kitchen, then through the main dining room, always an impressive stop with the carved wooden fireplace, hunting trophies on the wall and an enormous chandelier made from elk antlers. Next stop is the library on the main floor, which was my mom’s favorite room.
I open the heavy wooden door to the warmsmell of fires in the hearth, slightly dusty books, and the whisky-ginger candle I light before every tour.
My group walks around checking out the carved plaster ceiling, the shelves of heavy leather-bound books, and that’s when I notice the group is smaller than it was a moment ago. The man who asked me about the rooms upstairs is missing.
My pulse pounds like a war drum on the side of my throat, my cheeks hot. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Running up the stairs, I head straight for the hall to the right. I peek through every open doorway with no luck. As I get closer, I see my bedroom door at the end of the hall is open. I know I closed it.
I take a deep breath.
I will not yell at the paying guest. I will not yell at the paying guest. Think of the online reviews. We need this income. I will simply ask him to rejoin the group.
Inside my room, standing next to my dresser, is the greasy-haired man, his grubby hands holding my green satin bra. A scoff comes out of my mouth. It is unbelievable.
The man drops the bra. “It was on the floor; I was just putting it away.”
“Out!” All my well-intentioned plans soar out the window. “Get out!”
I stand aside as the man storms past me. “We deserve the whole tour.”
“Thewhole tourdoes not include my pants drawer, sir!” I yell after him as he walks down the stairs and thankfully out the front entrance.
I run my hands over my face, my fingers cool against my flushed cheeks. I’ll show the rest of the group the grounds and then send them on their way. We’ll skip the ballroom; I haven’t fixed the broken tiles in the corner, anyway.
