“Oh my God, are you okay?” the girl asked, coming out from behind the counter to inspect the damage.
Adrenaline surged through Nora as she stood frozen, staring down at the large ornament broken at her feet. The metallic taste of fear lingered on her tongue while the hair on her arms prickled with the remnants of the close call.
“I’m fine,” she said after a moment, “but it looks like your bells have seen better days.”
The bells, crafted from cheap tin and bearing the weight of the garland and giant bow, had hit the tile floor from a considerable height, causing them to crack down their centers.
“I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt. If you’d left just a few seconds later, it might be you on the floor,” the girl said as she dragged the broken decoration out of the doorway and back behind the counter.
Nora smiled at the girl and reassured her again that she was fine before heading out of the bakery and back into the quickly fading day. Her heart had not stilled from the scare and was still pounding in her chest as she walked up the street toward her rental.
The dimming light had triggered the streetlamps and Christmas lights throughout the city to come on, and the sight stilled her racing heart. The city around her transformed as the snow still fell softly, picking up the glow of the twinkle lights around her and making them look as if they were sparks of magic floating in the air. The collecting snow gave the streets a thin layer of slush that made the walk a bit slippery.
Glancing at her phone, she was surprised to find that it was only three forty in the afternoon. Fatigue was starting to set in, a combination of the early sunset and lingering jet lag. While she was accustomed to the shorter days of winter in Vermont, the darkness setting in even earlier in Scotland was playing tricks on her internal clock, urging her to head home and crawl into bed.
Once she arrived back at her rental, she set the bottle of wine on the counter and went to look for a bottle opener. Three drawers and two cupboards later, she found one tucked behind a set of wineglasses. Once she uncorked the bottle, she poured herself a glass of wine, broke off a large hunk of bread, and headed into the living room to relax. She picked up her notebook and pen, ready to write down the events of her day, but nothing came out. She was too tired but didn’t want to give in to sleep just yet. If she did, it would mean a three a.m. wake-up call from her internal alarm clock.
Instead, she got up, walked over to her jacket resting on the kitchen counter and pulled the small red book from her pocket. Returning to the overstuffed chair by the window, she flipped on a lamp and set her glass of wine on the side table.
Running her fingers across the gold-embossed vine that wound its way around the entire cover, she admired the small book’s elegance. Oddly, there was no title or author’s name on the cover, just the intricate design and a small dent in the upper right-hand corner, where it had taken an impact, leaving its almost perfect cover damaged. Intrigued, she turned the book over to check the spine, but it, too, was devoid of any text. She opened the book only to find a marbled first page followed by nothing but emptiness. Fanning through the rest of the book, all she discovered were more blank pages. It wasn’t a book at all; it was a journal.
“I do believe this is a sign, Nora Cameron, to write down your thoughts from the day,” she told herself as she got up and grabbed the pen off the table.
She flipped the book open again, but this time, instead of blank pages, there was page after page of print. Her heart sank as she quickly closed the book and looked around the room in alarm, as if someone had just played a trick on her. What had justhappened? She could have sworn those pages were blank.
“What the hell?” she muttered to herself as she frantically flipped through the book again. “Maybe I should go to bed. This time change is messing with me.”
Instead of following her own advice, she turned to the first page. Still no title, author’s name, or publisher information. The thick paper held a font likely imprinted by an antique press, its elegant script featuring slanting text and a graceful transition from thick to thin letters. It smelled of old paper and aged ink, and Nora spotted a darkened stain, reminiscent of a cigarette burn, in the same spot on almost every single page. It wasn’t enough to block out the text, but the book was certainly worn as if it had been read many times.
“It was a cold December night when my heart broke. Shattering into a thousand tiny shards like a smashed Christmas bobble upon a marble floor,” she read aloud. Captured by this first line she rested back into the chair and continued to read.
Chapter Eleven
The Little Red Book
The tale began with my solo voyage from my home in Edinburgh to my beloved Grandmother Mary’s cottage in Oban in the winter of 1667. The journey was a long and solitary venture, with only the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creaking of the carriage to keep me company. As I watched the snowy landscape unfold outside the carriage window, my apprehensions, along with the cold, began to tighten my neck, growing worse with every hoofbeat upon the frozen unforgiving ground.
I loved my grandmother dearly, but this was not a social visit. I was to attend a Christmas ball hosted by Duke Campbell of Argyll in an attempt to procure a husband. Despite my grandmother not being of noble birth, she had once saved the duke’s wife and newborn son during childbirth. In gratitude, he had treated her kindly ever since, extending invitations to all his gatherings. However, this was the first time mygrandmother had accepted one of his invitations, doing so as a favor to my mother.
My mother, harboring hopes that my grandmother might succeed where she had not, sent me on the journey with the expectation of her finding me a suitable match at the ball. At the age of twenty, I was certain my marital status bore the weight of my mother’s disappointment, and my grandmother, ever the diplomat, accepted the responsibility of helping to find me a suitor. My mother claimed that I thwarted every well-to-do man she sent my way, and she wasn’t entirely mistaken. I had no desire to become someone’s wife, paraded around at social gatherings like a possession upon some man’s arm. I knew it was unavoidable, but I longed for more time. Perhaps another year or two to explore my passion for writing would give me solace before submitting to the expectation of being someone’s wife. Yet, my time had been stretched to its limits, and there were no more extensions to be granted. Nevertheless, I would do my duty and play my part while I was here, solely to please my grandmother, who had always been more than kind and loving to me.
I had only just arrived in Oban at my grandmother’s cottage long enough to warm myself by her fire and indulge in a slice of her homemade bread with berry jam and a hot cup of tea when one of the duke’s carriages pulled up to her quaint home to take us away to the grand castle in Inverary. Festivities were planned two days prior to the ball, and the duke had requested our presence. A raw mixture of excitement and dread floated around inside me as we climbed in and ventured on. The ride took almost an entire day, given the condition of the roads, and my back pained me to be sitting in another carriage again so quickly. Although short in comparison to the trek from Edinburgh to Oban, the ride was still frigid. Even in the duke’s finest carriage, the frost seemed to be working its way in, nipping at our fingertips and noses. My grandmother began coughing and pulled her cape tighter around her frail frame. Just as I began to fear she would not be able to endure much more of the cold that had permeatedinside the carriage, the hoofbeats slowed, and the castle finally came into view.
We had arrived just before the sun had begun to set, and the world outside was a cold wintry white. The castle grounds had been festooned with every fancy frill and bauble for the festive season. Giant wreaths and evergreen garlands hung above every window and doorway, along with clusters of holly and ivy serving as fine decorative touches on each of the fence posts. Crimson flags waved in the cold winter breeze from the turrets, and above the main doors, a strip of red fabric adorned with the Campbell clan crest hung neatly on display. The grandeur of the castle laid out before me was both impressive and a little daunting. Yet, as I gazed upon it, I couldn’t help shake the feeling that I was a mere speck in its vast shadow, questioning my presence here at all.
For the three-day event, the duke had graciously offered us a guest cottage on the castle grounds. The carriage came to a stop in front of the cottage, a humble stone house with smoke gracefully billowing from its chimney. Eagerly, we stepped out of the frigid carriage and hurried inside, escaping the cold. The footman followed, carrying our bags into the cozy space. The cottage welcomed us with warmth from a generous fire blazing in its sizable hearth. After warming up near the fire, we unpacked our modest belongings in preparation for dinner in the castle’s main hall.
Despite my grandmother’s age, she still had the strength to pull my corset strings so tight that I could scarcely breathe, ensuring I looked every bit a lady, a role I despised. After pinning up my hair and smoothing out my modest dress made of dark burgundy wool, I realized it lacked the luster that would likely embellish the other women at the dinner. Nonetheless, it was one of the finest dresses I owned, and I wore it well.
Any flicker of excitement I had felt during the ride from Oban to the castle quickly faded with the familiar sound of the horse’s heavy hoofbeats outside the cottage. Doubt crept in, and I questioned my suitability to grace this grand hall among such well-to-do guests. I felt likean imposter, lacking a significant social standing. Nerves churned in my stomach, and my corset seemed to constrict even further as I held my breath, the coachman’s knock on the door intensifying my nervous belly.
The carriage took us the brief distance from the cottage to the main entrance of the castle, where a line of carriages had gathered, delivering the duke’s guests who had journeyed in for the event. Following suit, we disembarked from the carriage and passed through the grand doors that were opened by two finely dressed men.
While I had stood on the edges of lawns and gazed upon the grounds of many castles from afar in my childhood, the reality of Inverary Castle’s exterior surpassed my youthful dreams. My heart quickened as we entered, and a nervous energy surged through me, a vibration that I feared was visible to any who might cast a glance in my direction. Sensing my unease, my grandmother gently squeezed my gloved hand, offering me reassurance that all would be well.
“Be at ease, my child. You appear as if you’re a frightened rabbit,”she whispered as we ventured further into the grand castle. A soft, nervous laugh escaped my lips, and I surveyed the well-dressed attendees streaming down a long hallway, making me acutely aware of the lackluster quality of my own attire.
The castle’s interior exceeded the grandeur of its exterior. Large decorative bells, holly, and paper ornaments adorned the ceiling. Evergreen garlands, trimmed with holly berries, gracefully wound their way up the banisters of the two grand staircases that led to the second floor.
