Page 22 of The Last Kelpie

I followed Áedán to the front door. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Once inside, he hung his coat on a hook by the door. I stepped up but stopped in the doorway, watching him go to the fireplace and bend to coax the flames back to life. He added wood from a stack beside the hearth, set a kettle over the flames, then glanced toward me.

I dripped on his threshold. “You have a house.”

Áedán looked genuinely puzzled. “Where did you think I lived?”

“The loch.”

He burst out laughing. “So in your mind I just surfaced dramatically from the loch every morning, shook the water from my mane, and went aboot my day?”

I shrugged.

“Thank goodness the Velasca sent me a clever one.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Come inside, Ethan. You're letting the heat out.”

I stepped over the threshold and closed the door.

The cottage was beautiful. Not in a magazine way, but in a lived-in way. Hand-woven rugs on stone floors, a faded blue sofa near the fireplace with needlepoint cushions, and copper pots hanging from a rack over a counter that served as a border between the living room and the kitchen. Bookshelves covered every available wall, with books standing vertically and stuffed horizontally into the spaces above.

Then smaller details caught my attention. A collection of smooth stones arranged on the windowsill, each one a different color. Pieces of driftwood on the mantle, twisted into strange shapes by water and time. A jar of sea glass catching the light, shades of green, blue, and amber. A little watercolor painting of thistles propped against books on a shelf.

I moved to the bookshelves. Books filled them in no particular order. Leather-bound first editions next to cheap paperbacks. Old Irish volumes with crumbling spines next to Latin texts and Scots Gaelic poetry. Modern English novels with creased covers beside picture books. There were a lot of mystery novels—Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and more recent ones I recognized from bookshop displays.

“You read mysteries.” I glanced at him over my shoulder.

“I like puzzles.” Áedán stood at an ancient stove, pulling vegetables from a basket. “And I like knowing the answer before the detective does.”

“How do you pay for these?” I looked around. “For any of this? Do you work?”

He grinned at me. “In a way. I patrol the loch. It's amazing how much those numpties lose. All sorts of things fall into the water, and other things slip out of pockets right in front of me.”

“You're a pickpocket?”

Áedán scowled at me. “I am a treasure hunter. I cannae help it if people are careless.”

Shaking my head and chuckling, I went back to perusing his books and noticed several were damaged, their pages warped and covers stained. I pulled one out and found the pages rippled and stuck together.

“Some of these are water-damaged.” I held it up.

He glanced over. “Sometimes I forget they're in my pockets.”

“You take books into the loch?”

“I take books everywhere.” He was chopping vegetables, moving the knife with practiced ease. “Sometimes I remember to take them out before I shift. Sometimes I dinnae.”

I put the book back carefully and moved to the window. The view was breathtaking—the loch stretching out below, mountains rising in the distance, the sky turning the water into a mirror.

“Come help me cook,” Áedán said.

I went over, and we cooked together over the wood-burning stove. Áedán had vegetables, fresh bread, butter, and cheese, none of which came from a grocery store. He stored the butter in water, and coated the cheese in lard. There was no refrigerator. Instead, he had a slate-lined pantry where he had stored the butter and cheese. He moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, handing me things to chop, adjusting the heat, tasting, and adding salt.

I was terrible at it. I cut the vegetables unevenly and didn't know what to do with the cheese. Áedán found this endlessly amusing.

“Did your grandmother not teach you to cook?” he asked.

“She tried. I was better at reading her books.”

“That explains so much.”

I motioned at the cheese. “Did you make that?”