Page 13 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)
Chapter twelve
Mira
A sign stood in front of the gravel parking lot, identifying the twin peaks of Goat Fell and Cìr Mhòr, towering near the island’s northeast corner.
The two mountains were separated by a pass locals called the Saddle, with a deep, jagged gap in the eastern ridge known as Ceum na Caillich , or the Witch’s Step.
I snapped a few photos to capture the moment for Instagram Reels before I got back in the car, continuing on the coast road toward the harbor town where, according to Mr. Blackwell, Agnes Garvie Campbell was buried.
Even through the messy sobbing, through the tears and the runny nose, I could feel her.
Like she was still there somehow, holding me up.
And without thinking, I started singing—just the way she used to.
Lyrics about a love so solid it could endure a hundred lifetimes, joy that can’t be worn down, and a heart that stays open no matter what.
A hundred lifetimes, huh? I’d settle for just one if I could find the kind of love my mom and dad had been blessed with.
I pulled into the parking lot of the inn and sat there, immobilized for several minutes.
The weight of the grief still clung to me, thick and suffocating.
Finally, I checked my face in the rearview mirror—red, bleary eyes, mascara streaked down like a raccoon’s mask beneath my lower lashes. I looked like a mess.
I dried my eyes with the fast-food napkin I dug out of my tote bag, blowing my nose before grabbing my suitcase, feeling the weight of everything settled in my chest.
The woman at the front desk greeted me with an air of professionalism, but there was a look in her eyes, a subtle shift in the way she held herself, that said she knew I’d been crying.
She mentioned dinner would be served in the dining room from 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m., trying to sound nonchalant, but I could tell she felt sorry for me.
The room I booked was small but comfortable, with a window that looked down past the parking lot to the small harbor.
A thin jetty of land like a finger bisected the harbor, with an imposing gray ruin of a castle, originally built in the thirteenth century, situated at the jetty’s halfway point, a couple of sailboats moored out in the placid waters.
It was a perfect picture.
I made my way down to the small dining room, where a handful of other guests milled around as the innkeeper brought out a self-service buffet of shepherd’s pie, homemade rolls, and salad.
I was starving now for absolutely no good reason, so I lined up and grabbed a plate, taking a seat at a small table that overlooked the scenic harbor.
The evening sun was low in the sky as I finished my dinner, and I decided to take a walk down the coast road, heading south toward the old graveyard—where Mr. Blackwell’s research had indicated an Agnes Garvie Campbell was buried.
The road was narrow and winding, but traffic on this end of the island was almost nonexistent, so I walked down the center, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the evening’s westerly sea wind .
After about twenty minutes, the graveyard came into view, perched on a windswept point overlooking the sea.
On a hill directly across the road stood an old stone cottage, still in good repair.
Dim light glowed behind wavy glass windows, the frames and front door painted a cheery yellow that reminded me of home in Marblehead.
I crossed the low stone fence surrounding the cemetery and stepped inside.
There was still some daylight left, but the sandblasted, moss-covered inscriptions were nearly illegible.
I pulled out my phone and switched on the flashlight, angling the beam carefully to catch the faint etchings on each weathered headstone.
I examined each of the ten graves, one by one, but none bore the name I was looking for.
A flicker of doubt crept in. Had I misunderstood Mr. Blackwell’s directions?
There were other cemeteries on the island, but I was sure this was the one he’d pointed to on the map.
Disappointed, I turned back toward the road—then stopped.
Just beyond the fence, about fifty yards away, under the bowed limbs of a stooped rowan tree, I spotted a small headstone. Lichen-covered, it sat apart, forgotten. I walked toward it, lighting the way with my phone. The inscription was crude, roughly carved, but unmistakable:
Agnes Garvie Campbell
Born 1762 – Died 1785
My breath caught. I had found her.
An overwhelming urge to kneel overcame me, pulling me down into the soft, wet grass. A familiar anxiety surged through me, as if leaching from the earth into my bloodstream.
My chest tightened; I struggled to breathe.
I reached out, fingertips brushing the carved letters—and the world went dark once again.
I am looking at a man, kneeling in front of the same grave, but the headstone is new; edges crisp and sharp, not worn down by wind and time, and the tree next to it is just a young sapling.
He is racked by grief, his body heaving in silent sobs.
His linen tunic is untucked and wrinkled, stretched tight across a muscular back, and he wears deep brown breeches and tall leather boots, the soles covered in mud.
I want to reach out to comfort him, but it feels like an intrusion.
A gentle wind blows in from the sea, and I smell damp cedar, like the forest floor after rain.
I walk closer and bend down to touch his back, and he startles briefly, aware now he isn’t alone. He slowly turns toward me…