Henderson’s eyes softened barely, just enough to reveal satisfaction. Gatekeeper pleased with her gates.
“Very sensible,” she replied in good humor. “Uncovering historical tidbits isn’t for everyone.”
Then, as if it had only just occurred to her, she added, “Though my family did name me Flora—a mantle, I suppose. To carry forward where others couldn’t!” Her eyes gleamed faintly. “Much like the MacDonald lass they wrote songs about.”
Something tight flickered in Heather’s chest.
She laughed—half a beat too late.
“Well. Big shoes…”
Henderson chuckled softly, clearly pleased. “Oh, quite.”
Heather shifted her weight. “Also, I just realized I still have the archival gloves I borrowed.” She fished them out of her hoodie pocket, sheepish. “Sorry. I’ll return them downstairs.”
Henderson waved a hand. “Erinn will let you in. And Ms. Campbell?” She paused, smile sharpening. “Do let me know if anything relevant to the gold turns up.”
“Of course,” Heather lied so sweetly angels would’ve blushed.
Turning on her heel, she felt Flora Henderson’s gaze still lingering uncomfortably as she swiftly made her way down the hall.
In the holds, the cool, filtered air wrapped around her like a warning. Erinn, the blonde, petite unit secretary, waved her through; a trolley squeaked somewhere in the distance.
Alone, Heather pulled the Blair Atholl box forward, lifted the lid, and slid the forged note into place—front of the bundle, obvious, boring, exactly the sort of thing Kerr would pounce on.
FIELD NOTE — E. CAMPBELL
Date: 12 April 2004
Location: Rannoch Moor perimeter, Bridge of Orchy approach
Subject: H.M. reference (unverified) in local oral account
Summary: Interview w/ crofter (MacN.) mentions “a Mackenzie man” hiding near the old drove road post–Prestonpans, awaiting word “from a prince’s friend” to move “south-by-west toward the Great Moor.”
Notes: Check rental lists (1746) for Orchy/Killin. Cross-ref w/ Blair Atholl household papers. E.M. to confirm archive code for “FS” alias set.
→Follow-up:Possible rendezvous point at Rannoch—not Arkaig. Requires weather window & escort.
— EC
The false note was perfect. Eilidh’s voice without revealing anything real. A breadcrumb pointing toward Rannoch Moor, not Skye.
She shut the lid.
Done.
As she passed a glass panel on her way to the lift, she caught the faintest smudge of movement on the other side—someone hovering, pretending not to hover.
She didn’t look twice.
Henderson met her at the corridor door. “All set?”
“All set,” Heather echoed. “Thank you again.”
“Sometimes,” Henderson said, smoothing invisible dust from her sleeve, “the wisest thing is to let the past be the past.”
Heather smiled sweetly. “Sometimes.”
