He’s vaguely terrified of being back. Not that he’d tell Sienna.
As the familiar greens and grays of the Scottish countryside slid by the car window, and Sisi oohed and ahhed over the long-haired coos, he kept replaying the incident that had precipitated his departure all those years before. One that had started with a bottle of Macallan smuggled into the author yurt at the Edinburgh International Book Festival, and somehow progressed to trading drunken insults with a Booker Prize winner, swinging a punch at said Booker Prize winner, then being manhandled out of the tent by a poet laureate before being permanently and unceremoniously banned from the festival. For life.
It had been a mortifying end to a terrible week—a poorly attended talk, a derisive comment about the state of Scottish fiction, his pride grievously wounded and his reputation in tatters.
But it’s time to put the whole affair to rest.
To move on. To moveforward.
And he can’t think of a better way to close that old chapter, and start this new one, than in the company of Arthur Fletch.
A man famous for several things.
The first, of course, is his books, a mix of thriller and crime with his signature twists.
But the second, at least in bookish circles, is his salons.
Not for their frequency—he sometimes goes months, or years, between—but for the list of names that have come out of them.
“Who else do you think he’s invited?” asks Malcolm. “My money’s on that Pulitzer woman.” Sienna stares at him blankly. “You know... the one with the hair? Probably a National Book Award winner or two... maybe he’s thrown in a poet just for kicks.” He shakes his head. “Bloody poets... always thinking they’re better. Simply for using fewer words.”
“Hmm... And when was the last timeyoumet a poet?” chides Sienna as the boat docks. For a moment he assumes she’s trying to taunt him, before remembering he never actually told her about the laureate’s involvement in the Edinburgh Incident.
The captain doesn’t kill the engine, only idles long enough for Malcolm to hoist their luggage onto the dock, which he insists on doing himself—Sienna’s always found him unfailingly chivalrous. His back twinges with the effort, but he doesn’t let on. Nothing a hot bath and a wee dram won’t fix, he thinks as the boat pulls away, having deposited the two of them on Skelbrae.
“All those fancy famous writers,” murmurs Sienna. “None of them are going to have the first clue who we are.”
“Hey now, wedeserveto be here,” says Malcolm. “Penn Stonely has won awards!”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Of course we did.The Black Road HomewonStack Attack’s Thriller of the Year.”
Fine, it wasn’t the Edgars, or the Daggers, but it was something to bechosen. And by readers, no less. Sienna wouldn’t shut up about the fact it was only a blog, with 327 subscribers, especially when they asked for a video acceptance speech. He’d stepped up to the plate while she sat seething at his side like a feral cat, not even attempting to muster a smile for the fans.
Last time he checked—which he doesn’t do often—the video had twenty-nine views. And four comments. Only three of which were positive.
Sienna nods. “Right,” she says dryly. “How could I forget?”
Malcolm hoists up their bags and sets off down the jetty, shouldering the burden the way he did that day, the way he so often does, as Penn Stonely, when Sienna refuses to do her bit.
There’s one other boat moored at the jetty. Though it’s about as fitting to call the vessel in question a boat as the castle overhead a house.
“Ha!” says Malcolm. “Classic Fletch.”
The yacht’s name is inscribed on the side in a font he recognizes as American Typewriter:The Royalty Check.
Sienna rolls her eyes. “Wow, classy,” she says, and Malcolm catches the sarcasm—he always does—but he refuses to take the bait.
Then they reach the edge of the dock, and the real work starts.
He can’t tell if the path ahead used to be a set of stone stairs and has since decayed into a rocky slope, or a rocky hill from which someone has chiseled out steps. Either way, it’s treacherous. As they make their way up the slope, bits of rock and shale crumble under their feet, skittering back down the hill.
“Not exactly safe, is it?” says Sienna, but Malcolm doesn’t answer. It’s taking all his focus to keep his balance, and not let on that he’s already feeling winded. In fact, his chest is getting tight, and his left arm is tingling, and oh god, hecannothave a heart attack. Not here, not now, on the cusp of everything he’s worked so hard for, the doors to the inner sanctum of publishing in sight if not in reach.
“Are you okay?” asks Sienna, looking genuinely worried, and he musters a brave smile, as sweat runs down his neck.
“Peachy!” he says, as they trek upward toward the waiting house.
