Page 11 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter eleven

Mira

“ W anker!” I shouted to no one but myself, safely enclosed in the soundproof bubble of my car, after someone laid on their horn when I hugged the curb a bit too tightly in the roundabout just outside Kirriemuir.

I’d driven in the UK several times over the years, but I was still slightly hesitant behind the wheel—at least by American standards, since everything felt reversed.

On major roadways, it wasn’t so bad; the flow of traffic heading in the same direction seemed to lull my brain into a state of calm.

But the roundabouts? They were my nemesis.

“Look to the right,” “indicate where you're going,” “use your signals,” and “follow the path” —I chanted these phrases like a mantra every time I approached one.

But after the second nightmare in two days, my focus was frayed and my nerves were shot.

I flipped the driver the bird as they sped past, a small, petty gesture to reclaim a shred of dignity.

The drive to Kirriemuir had otherwise been smooth—just over two hours, most of it heading north on the M90.

But the unease lingered. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the visions and the dreams were connected.

Like I was caught between two opposing forces: one drawing me toward safety, the other into something dangerous .

I could only hope that meeting the Garvies would help me understand what, exactly, I was supposed to do with all of this.

As I drove through the center of Kirriemuir, it felt like I’d entered a storybook.

Whitewashed stone buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, their colorful shopfronts brightening the narrow cobblestone streets.

In the village square, a bronze statue of Peter Pan stood poised mid-flight, a tribute to the author, Sir James Matthew Barrie, the town’s most famous son.

A couple of miles north of the square, I spotted the hand-painted sign for the farm and turned onto a long crushed-rock driveway, flanked on either side by low stone walls blanketed with moss.

I passed a three-sided shed stacked with round bales of silage and a tractor barn that buzzed with activity, a few collies darting around the edges.

Evie George and her aunt, Morag Scott, were distant relations—descendants of Mary Garvie, my grandmother seven generations removed.

They’d seemed genuinely thrilled when I first reached out, and even more so at the chance to meet in person.

So was I, though a twinge of nerves fluttered in my chest as I rolled to a stop in front of the farmhouse.

Two smiling women stood waiting for my arrival, surrounded by a small parade of animals.

Three tabby cats and a terrier of questionable lineage darted in and out between their legs, tails flicking with excitement.

Evie, a freckled redhead in her early twenties with a sturdy, square build, smiled at me.

Her aunt Morag was an older version of Evie, her frizzy strawberry blond hair streaked with gray, but the same warmth and energy radiated from both of them.

I put the car in park and stepped out .

“Morag and Evie?” I called as I approached, just to make sure I hadn’t accidentally wandered onto the wrong farm.

“Yes—yes, Mira?” Morag asked. When I nodded, they both laughed and took turns wrapping me in warm hugs, making it feel as though we weren’t practically strangers, as though we were already family.

“Oi…boys! C’mere an’ meet the American Garvie lass I telt you’se aboot…

” Morag shouted toward the tractor barn, her accent so thick I could barely understand.

The three young lads—Finn, Avery, and Jack—emerged from the barn, each offering me a quick, hearty hug.

They looked to be somewhere between sixteen and twenty-one, their easy smiles and casual demeanor making me feel a bit more at ease despite the distance I still felt from all of this.

After the round of hugs, Morag and Evie pulled me away, eager to show me around the farm.

“These gals are maiden Blackface ewes,” Evie explained as I stopped to pat a couple of soft heads that lingered near the fence, apparently looking for a handout. “Fingers crossed, they will be lambing for the first time come spring.”

After the tour, we headed back to the house for lunch—baked lamb chops and something called "rumbledethumps," which turned out to be a comforting casserole made with mashed potatoes, cabbage, and onions, all topped with bubbling cheese.

It was as delicious as it sounded, hearty and satisfying, and I dug in with gusto.

Evie, a cheerful chatterbox, filled the room with her voice between mouthfuls.

Her sunny disposition was so contagious that I couldn't help but smile.

I imagined that no negative thought could ever take root in her brain, and I instantly liked her.

Her energy was like a warm breeze, making everything feel just a little lighter.

“You remind me of my dad,” I told Evie with a smile.

“He had the gift of gab, just like you. He could talk to anyone. I remember going to estate sales with him when I was younger, watching him work his magic with small talk. He genuinely relished pulling out stories from the sellers, like how someone’s great Aunt Lillith smuggled emeralds out of Colombia in her socks in 1932, or how exceptional the clarity was on some old mine-cut diamonds in Grandma’s platinum earrings.

If a seller was hesitant to part with something, he just seemed to know how to make them feel understood and convey that he truly appreciated their heirlooms.”

“Is that what yer doin’ now? What your mam and da did with the estate jewelry?” Morag asked.

“Sort of,” I explained. “I have an Instagram page, and I started designing my own jewelry after college. Now I source vintage and antique pieces and sell those, along with my original designs on our website. Most of the stuff I find, I get at flea markets or auctions; the private sales my dad was so good at are really hard for me. I’m more of an introvert.

I struggled for years to fit into my parents’ business, and I guess I slowly transformed it into something that works for me. ”

“Yer not married? No fella back home?” Evie inquired.

“Ha…no. I’m a walking disaster when it comes to men.

I have no trouble finding them, but I never like any of them enough to want to keep them around.

My therapist says I keep picking the wrong guys…

” I shrugged as we started clearing the kitchen table.

“Evie,” I said, my voice hesitant yet anxious to bring up the real reason I was here.

“Do any of you Garvies have what my dad called the Sight ?”

“Oh blimey, yes! Lass, do ye also?” Curiosity shone brightly in Evie’s eyes.

I nodded, “My father did too—he said many of the Garvies did—so I thought I’d ask. Since he’s been gone, I haven’t really had anyone I could talk to about this.”

Evie clapped her hands together in excitement.

“Oh, that’s nice. Not all of us do, and it’s rarer still among the men—the women though are well-known in the area.

‘ Nae chance, go ask a Garvie woman! ’ is what someone from aroun’ here might say if asked fer advice.

The Sight is a wee bit different for each of us—we don’t all see things in the same way.

I can see things that’s happened in the past, nae sure it’s verra helpful.

” Evie scrunched up her face as if to say she’d been dealt a useless hand.

I exhaled slowly, relieved to finally speak to someone who might understand.

“When I touch certain objects, I get these…visions. I see who owned them, or who gave them as gifts long ago. And I feel what they felt too—like their emotions are imprinted on me. But it always comes with this rush of panic first. Does that happen to you?”

“Auch, that’s nae but a hint frae above, we all have ’em.

I myself get a wicked sore head when it happens.

Morag dinnae have the Sight,” Evie explained, voice lowered, cocking her head in Morag’s general direction.

“But ’er sister Molly does, and she get’s boky.

” I had absolutely no idea what ‘boky’ meant, and it must have shown on my face because Evie continued.

“Ah, ye ken…sick at her stomach. Morag’s Mam’s sister gets sneeshin when she gets the Sight, so everyone knows it’s coming!

” Evie slapped her knee and laughed before adding, “Do ye see the past or the future, or both?”

“Mostly just the past,” I said. “But every once in a while, I’ll have a dream about something that’s about to happen—like my dad did.

I touched a portrait miniature I found in my parents’ safe deposit box, and everything changed.

I’ve been having these incredibly vivid visions and dreams ever since…

though ‘nightmares’ is probably a better word for them. ”

I paused, searching for the right words.

“Normally, in my visions, I’m just an observer—silent, detached.

But these are different. It’s like I am Agnes—back in 1785—Agnes Garvie, she’s the one in the portrait—and feel everything she felt.

There are two men around her—one strong and kind, someone who loves her deeply, but the other one, he’s dark, sinister.

I get the sense he was dangerous, that he posed a real threat to her. ”

I watched Evie, trying to read her expression. “That’s part of why I came to Scotland. I’m hoping to learn more about who she really was.”

It was such a relief to say it out loud—to speak the truth of it—and not be met with the look that usually followed: pity, doubt, or quiet judgment. Evie just listened.