Page 26 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)
Chapter twenty-five
Mira
I drew back the curtains to find another sunny day and whispered a silent prayer of thanks. What I had planned would be far easier without the rain—or the relentless drizzle that had defined my first three days in Scotland.
Next, I made my way to a market the locals affectionately called the Pitt.
This place was much more my speed—a chaotic, colorful sprawl of pop-up tables, vendor tents, and food trucks.
It had everything: tag-sale treasures, bins overflowing with old vinyl, racks of vintage clothing, and a few sellers who dealt in exactly what I loved—old, forgotten jewelry just looking for someone to give it new life.
I pulled up to one booth and let myself pause, taking in the jumble of colors, textures, and forgotten treasures laid out before me.
It was a glorious mishmash—vintage advertising signs, abstract art, empty ornate gesso frames, knock-off Eames chairs, Lucite side tables, and a chesterfield couch that had been reupholstered, regrettably, in a hideous striped velveteen.
A lamp with a taxidermy squirrel as its base—standing upright in sunglasses—stood proudly as if it belonged in a gallery of the absurd.
But what really caught my eye were the cardboard trays scattered across every flat surface, overflowing with old and broken jewelry. My heart did a little skip.
The seller was as colorful as his wares—trucker cap perched atop a weathered face that had likely seen a lot of life between forty and fifty years.
His salt-and-pepper beard was wild and uneven, longer at the sides than in the middle.
His sun-exposed arms were covered in tribal and Celtic tattoos, the ink faded but still bold.
He greeted me with a warm smile and handed me a felt-lined tray without a word, like he knew exactly why I was there. I started picking through the pieces: a few kinked gold chains I could scrap, a large emerald-cut aquamarine, and a well-made gold-filled locket that had potential.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through an album of reference photos I’d saved—pieces I’d admired, designs I wanted to recreate, fragments of inspiration. When the seller finished up with another customer, I stepped forward and introduced myself .
“Hi, I’m Mira,” I said, holding up my phone. “I’m a jewelry designer—I wonder if I could show you a couple of things I’m interested in? I’ve been looking for a sourcing partner in the UK.”
I showed the gentleman a few photos of Victorian-era engagement bangles that had been flying off my website lately, along with examples of the 14K gold charms I was hoping to find more of.
He leaned in, squinting at the screen with interest, nodding slowly as he studied the images.
“Oh yeah, I come across these from time to time,” he said, squinting at my phone. “Let me get your contact info, Mira.”
I gave him my cell number and email. A moment later, my phone buzzed with a text:
(Unknown): This is Honey
“Honey?” I laughed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure there’s a story behind that.”
“Wouldn’t ye know it,” he replied with a wink so exaggerated it made him look like Popeye. “Name’s actually Colby, but everyone calls me Honey.”
“Well, all right then, Honey. If you come across anything like this—or anything you think I might like—send me a few pictures. If we can agree on a price, I’ll Venmo you and tack on enough to cover shipping to the U.S.”
I gestured to the tray in my hands. “What’s the best you can do on this lot?”
Honey ran a hand thoughtfully down his beard, eyes scanning the tray as he did a bit of mental math. “I’d let that lot go for five hundred quid.”
I didn’t need to think long; the aquamarine alone could bring that much, set in one of my original pieces .
“Done,” I said, reaching out to shake Honey’s hand to seal the deal.
As he counted the cash and began wrapping the pieces in tissue paper, something tugged at my attention. I glanced up—and saw a man standing beneath an awning about twenty feet away, partially hidden in the shadows.
The skin on the back of my neck prickled. A cold ripple slid down my spine.
He was slim, just under six feet tall, with close-cropped dark hair and an olive complexion.
Sunglasses obscured his eyes, and he wore a dark raincoat despite the sunshine.
Something about him felt…off. It wasn’t how he looked—it was the heavy, crawling feeling in my gut, like I’d been seen in a way I didn’t want to be.
I stared back for a moment, unsettled. He didn’t move.
The irrational urge to get away from him surged in me. I quickly took my package from Honey, thanked him with a wave, and turned away from the market, heading toward my next stop on Dalmeny Street—my pace just a little too quick.
My final stop was just under a mile away—another indoor venue where vendors set up inside a large event space.
I spent some time rummaging through bins at a few tables and managed to find two gold-filled Victorian engagement bangles and a handful of loose cabochon stones.
But the selection was thinner here, with fewer sellers overall, and not much else caught my eye.
On the walk back to the hotel, I stopped at a street vendor for a gyro. As I tapped my card to the point-of-sale terminal, I glanced up, and there he was again.
The same man I’d seen earlier when I was talking to Honey.
Across the street .
I quickly looked away, tucking my card into my wallet like nothing was wrong. But something was .
Same close-cropped dark hair. Same black raincoat. Sunglasses— still —even though the sunny morning I’d woken up to had faded into a gray, overcast afternoon.
Twice in less than two hours. That wasn’t coincidence.
And he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t pretending to head somewhere or fiddle with his phone.
He was watching me .
When I glanced up again—just seconds later—he was no longer across the street.
Now he was here .
Leaning against a brick wall ten feet away. Not walking. Not browsing. Just standing there.
Facing me.
Staring.
My head spun. How had he crossed the street that fast?
Something wasn’t right.
A primal instinct surged in my chest, slamming into me like a wave.
Predator.
Prey.
Fear crept into my chest, slow and cold, settling there like something ancient and instinctive. I turned quickly, stepped off the curb, and flagged down a passing cab, giving the driver the name of my hotel as soon as I slid into the back seat.