At last the hellish ascent is over, giving way to a flat pebbled drive.
He stops, mostly to catch his breath, and looks up, basking in the view.
Some great hand has swept the fog away, exposing a blue expanse of sea, the Scottish mainland in the distance. From here he can see not only the castle but a quaint little cottage across the drive, and a path—not a proper road but a swath of dirt wide enough for a cart, or two bodies walking side by side—unspooling like a ribbon down the gentler slope before curving out of sight.
The surrounding grass is overgrown, throwing runners across the path, and he catches a flash of movement, a small animal darting through the tangled green—a rabbit, or maybe a stoat?—there and then gone, swallowed again by the grass.
Before Malcolm thinks to mention it—Sienna has a fondness for small creatures, hence the bloody Chihuahua, which as far as he’s concerned doesn’t deserve to be called a dog—his eye is drawn up to the castle.
My god, the castle.
It looked so impressive at a distance, Malcolm honestly feared it might lose some of its grandeur up close and be revealed as a modest if oversize house, locked in a battle with age and elements, sinking and, like a body, slowly losing.
But he needn’t have worried.
Up close it is even grander, all turrets and peaked roofs, two wings and a dozen windows and a stained-glass transom over the doorway, one of those ornate thresholds where the door parts in the middle, swinging open like a pair of gates.
Malcolm shakes his head in wonder. “So this is what fifty million copies sold will buy you.”
“Not howI’dspend the money,” says Sienna as they cross the drive.
“Speak for yourself,” says Malcolm, lifting the bags and trailing in her wake.
“I was,” she mutters, climbing the steps.
Fletch’s initials are carved into the wooden door, along with the same words that appear at the front of every book.
He who holds the pen tells the truth.
Magnificent, thinks Malcolm as he rings the bell, the sound echoing through the cavernous house. He shifts the luggage to one hand and clasps Sienna’s with the other, a silent reminder that they’re in this together.
“This is going to change everything,” he says.
Sienna’s hand tenses in his. She glances over, clearly about to speak, but to Malcolm’s relief, the door swings open first.
* * *
“WELCOME TOSKELBRAE!”
Sienna takes an involuntary step back, stunned by the pure force of the enthusiasm coming off the young woman who opens the door. American, obviously, like her, tan skin marked by a smattering of freckles and a mane of blond curls piled on her head. She’s pretty in that Girl Scout sort of way. And she really does seem closer to agirl, with that thousand-watt smile and boundless energy.
Sienna realizes she’s frowning, like the young woman is a plot hole, something to be solved. She quickly rearranges her face.
“Hello!” she says brightly. “You must be...”
“I’m Millie!” says the young woman, as if that explains everything. She’s bouncing lightly on her toes, as if she can’t contain her energy, and as she turns that high-beam smile on Malcolm, Sienna waits to see which way he’ll go: flirty or fatherly?
“Well hello, Miss Millie!” he says. Fatherly, then. “I believe you’re expecting us. We’re Penn Stonely.”
Sienna grits her teeth. Malcolm knows full well that she doesn’t like to be introduced like that—as if she’s one half of a person.
“I’m Sienna,” she amends, freeing herself from his grip. “This is Malcolm.”
He winks. Maybe not so fatherly, then. “Sorry we’re late. We missed our connecting flight... terrible fog. You couldn’t see a bloody thing. Not. A. Thing! Anyway, we’re here now! Better late than never and all that. You must be Arty’s assistant.”
Arty, as if they’re old friends, when the truth is, Malcolm’s met Arthur Fletch exactly twice in his life, the first time when Malcolm went to a book signing and the second time with her, five years ago, in a hotel bar where Fletch was holding court mid-conference. The third Petrarch novel had spent a month on the NYT list by then, the first was being filmed. He was surrounded by a dozen sycophantic writers, all hoping some measure of his talent or success would rub off on them.
Fame by osmosis.
