“I’m Sarah Eston,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Brendan Tulloch.” He hesitated, then spoke again. “You’re Morna’s daughter,” he said, studying her intently.
Was he experiencing the same bewilderment she felt?
“Did you know my mother?” she asked, moving aside so he could sit on the bench beside her.
He chose to stand, instead, never moving his gaze from her face. His scrutiny was so intense that she felt herself begin to warm with embarrassment.
“I didn’t know her,” he said, finally speaking. “My father did, though. He spoke of her often before his death.”
“I’m sorry. It’s difficult to lose your parent,” she said. “I know.”
He nodded. “Did she ever mention him? Michael Tulloch.”
“She rarely spoke of Scotland,” Sarah said. “And never of him, I’m sorry.”
He stared off into the distance, as if he were trying to decide on something. Finally, he directed his attention to her once more.
“Are you going to be staying here, then?”
“No,” she said. “We’re leaving soon.”
“Back to England?”
She nodded.
“You’re Scots, you know.”
Half, she almost said, but didn’t get the chance.
He turned to leave. “If you were staying, we might be friends, you and I.”
It was such a strange thing to say that she watched him as he walked away. When he was almost to the archway, he encountered her grandfather. They spoke, but they were too far away for Sarah to hear the words. Her grandfather leaned against his cane, looked first at Brendan, then at Sarah, and she wondered if he, too, were marveling at the resemblance.
A moment later, Brendan disappeared, and her grandfather walked toward her. She stood, hands folded in front of her, a calm, pleasant aspect to her face—the same appearance she wore when summoned to her father.
Donald stood in front of her, then sat on the bench, lowering his body with a sigh of relief.
She sat beside him.
“Dratted knees,” he said, folding his hands atop his cane. “Age is a series of failures. Failures of joints, and eyesight, and hearing.” He stared off into the distance, much in the way Brendan had done only minutes earlier. “Other failures.” He sighed.
He glanced over at her, leaned heavily on his cane, then angled out one leg.
Sarah looked away, glancing at the fountain with its wolf’s head.
“Why do I see a wolf everywhere? Is it a family motto?”
Donald smiled faintly. “You were telling the truth when you said you knew little of Kilmarin.”
Sarah nodded.
“Wolves travel in packs, hunt in packs, live in packs. Wolves are a reminder to the Tullochs that we’re a clan, as fierce and loyal as any found in the Highlands.”
“Except for my mother,” Sarah said. “Why did she leave Kilmarin?”
Donald looked down at the stone beneath his feet.
