He grinned. “Till the credits roll.”
Heather slipped from the sheets, wrapped in his shirt, and padded to the window. The light outside was thin and clean, turning the harbor to quicksilver. “Do you think Mom ever came this far?”
Flynn joined her, resting a hand at her waist. “If she followed the thistle, aye. She’d have gone where it led.”
Heather sipped her coffee, eyes on the boats rocking below. “Then so will we.”
He squeezed her hip gently. “Eat first, then sleuth. You can’t fight legends on an empty stomach.”
The dining room smelled of toast and wood polish and sea air that refused to stay outside. A fire crackled in the grate though the morning wasn’t cold enough to need it. Flynn had already claimed a corner table, sleeves rolled, newspaper open but unread.
Heather joined him, hair still damp, notebook tucked under one arm. “You look suspiciously respectable,” she teased, sliding into the seat opposite him.
He glanced up, mouth curving. “Tryin’ to look like a man who restores roofs instead of conspirin’ to unravel centuries-old mysteries.”
“You’re failing spectacularly.”
“Good. I’d hate to lose my edge.” He reached for the teapot and poured her a cup, the action so domestic it almost startled her. “Eat. We’ll hit the road before the lunch crowds clog the ferry roads.”
She buttered toast mechanically, eyes roaming the window. Portree was shaking off sleep: delivery vans idling, shopkeepers flipping signs, gulls dive-bombing the pier for scraps. For once, it looked like a place untouched by secrets.
“Feels weird,” she murmured.
“What does?”
“Being still. Being normal.”
Flynn smiled into his coffee. “Normal’s a costume, lass. Wear it when ye need to.”
They left the hotel mid-morning, the truck rattling out of town as the sky cleared by degrees. The road North twisted along the coast, skirting cliffs and sheep-dotted fields. The Cuillins fell behind them, pale blue ghosts in the rearview mirror.
Heather kept Eilidh’s journal open on her lap, reading notes aloud between turns. “She mentions Kilmuir Parish more than once. Mentions a ledger and something called ‘the widow’s promise.’”
“Sounds ominous,” Flynn said.
“Or poetic.” She tapped her pen against the margin. “Mom said the old parish kept marriage and baptismal records for the whole northern isle. If Harris and… whoeverFwas… were connected, maybe we’ll finally place them.”
Flynn whistled low. “So the lady historian becomes the family detective.”
Heather smiled, eyes on the road curling toward a glint of sea. “Guess it runs in the family.”
They fell into comfortable silence after that—the kind built from shared air and motion. The truck smelled of coffee and rain and faint metal; the radio hummed low with some Gaelic ballad neither of them knew but both listened to anyway.
A hand-painted sign eventually pointed them toward Kilmuir:
OLD PARISH CHURCH & HERITAGE CENTRE → 2 MI.
Flynn slowed, gravel crunching under the tires. “Reckon the roof’ll hold another hundred years,” he deadpanned.
Heather laughed softly, nerves easing. “Let’s find out what else is still standing.”
The road narrowed to a single track hemmed in by low stone walls and wind-bent grass. When they crested the last hill, theparish came into view; a small stone church crouched against the horizon, the sea spread wide and pewter behind it.
Heather pressed her palm to the window. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
“Beautiful and forgotten,” Flynn said. “My favorite combination.”
The sign out front was half-swallowed by ivy:
