Page 1 of Memory of a Highlander (Arch Through Time #27)

C harlie Douglas gingerly peeled off her sodden coat and held it at arm’s length. She watched with distaste as rainwater dripped all over the floor of the bookshop in which she’d taken refuge, leaving a little puddle on the shiny floorboards. Oh dear. She hoped the owner didn’t notice that.

The place was large, with several floors, and she’d hidden herself on one of the top levels amongst the shelves, hoping to avoid notice. Although she could hear the low murmuring of the sales staff below, there was not another person in sight.

A little twinge of guilt pricked her as she looked at the puddle. Perhaps she ought to ask for a mop. But then she might get kicked out for making a mess and she most definitely did not want to go back outside. Although the long, billowy summer dress she was wearing was mostly dry thanks to her coat, it would not stay that way for long if she stepped into the street.

Summer? Ha! That was a joke if ever she heard one. It hadn’t stopped raining since she’d arrived in Edinburgh. So much for getting here a little early and doing some sightseeing! All she’d seen so far were gray streets filled with gray rain and puddles so big you could swim in them.

Coming here a day before she was supposed to meet Ruby had seemed like a great idea when she’d first thought of it. The flight up from Cardiff had been way cheaper on a weekday and she’d even been able to bag herself a decently priced hotel room—which was a minor miracle in Scotland’s ridiculously priced capital.

The plan had been to have some time to relax and take in the sights before she met her cousin at the bridal shop tomorrow. Let’s face it, she’d need to be relaxed if she was to deal with Ruby’s Bridezilla tendencies. Her normally easy-going cousin had morphed into a full-on fire-breathing monster as they drew closer to her wedding day.

Charlie sighed, idly perusing the books as she walked down the row. She couldn’t see what all the fuss was about when it came to weddings. Who cared if the page boys had red roses or white for their button holes? What did it matter if dessert was tiramisu or cheesecake? And why did people get so wound up about marriage anyway? It was only a meaningless bit of paper, and it was no guarantee that any of the vows would be kept.

She shook her head with a wry smile. When did she get so cynical? When I stopped believing in fairytales , she thought. And grew up.

She reached the end of the aisle, and, looking around to check nobody was watching, put her wet coat on the floor and leaned on the window sill, gazing out of the narrow window. The panes were misted up and Charlie could only just make out the Edinburgh skyline framed by thick gray clouds in every direction. Ugh. It was July. It should be warm and sunny!

She found one of the leather chairs that were dotted around the bookshop—places where the customers could take their time perusing the books—and threw herself into it. She crossed her arms, annoyed with the world in general.

She examined her surroundings. The bookshop was tall and narrow, like most buildings in Edinburgh’s old town. She guessed it had once been a tenement building but had now been converted into a four-story bookshop with polished wooden staircases leading from one level to another, rugs on the floor, and easy chairs scattered around. It was quirky and inviting and no doubt the tourists loved it. For Charlie, it was just somewhere to escape the rain.

She sighed, reached up to one of the bookcases and pulled out the first book her questing fingers found. From the glossy pink cover, she guessed it was some sort of chick-lit. She opened it and started reading. Sure enough, the heroine soon turned out to be awkward and endearing and obsessed with finding a man. Totally unrealistic. She flipped to the end and read the last few pages. Predictably, the heroine found her dream man, they confessed their love in some idyllic setting, and lived happily ever after. Charlie rolled her eyes and closed the book with a snap.

“Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen. There’s no such thing as true love.”

“Oh my,” said a voice suddenly. “That’s a very pessimistic view of the world.”

Charlie looked up, startled. An elderly woman stood before her. Short and stout, with a neat bun of gray hair pinned to the back of her head, her face was a roadmap of wrinkles that hinted at a lifetime’s worth of stories. The eyes that regarded Charlie were warm and twinkling, although they were as dark as the night sky.

Charlie blinked, taken aback by the woman’s sudden appearance. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, ye have a very pessimistic view of the world, my dear,” the old woman said in a broad Scottish accent.

“Er... right,” Charlie replied. She looked around. Where had the old woman come from? There had been nobody else on this floor, she was sure of it. “I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”

The old woman chuckled softly, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. Her rosy cheeks and ready smile made her look like an elderly cherub. “Ah, the wisdom of youth!”

The woman lowered herself into an armchair across from Charlie, wincing slightly as she bent her knees. She placed her hands in her lap and regarded Charlie with a calm intensity that was slightly unsettling. Her eyes, Charlie noticed, seemed to be all pupil with hardly any iris at all.

“Let me introduce myself,” she said. “I’m Irene MacAskill.” She held out a hand, which Charlie leaned forward and shook.

“I’m Charlotte Douglas. But everyone calls me Charlie.”

“Delighted to meet ye, Charlotte Charlie Douglas. Seems an age I’ve been waiting for ye.”

“Waiting for me? What do you mean?”

Irene’s eyes twinkled as she settled back in her chair. “Exactly what I said. Ye’ve got the look of a woman in need of a good story.” She motioned towards the tome in Charlie’s lap. “Yer own story, lass. Not someone else’s that ye read about in a book.”

“My story?” Charlie asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And what kind of story might that be?”

Irene leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “A tale of love and loss, hope and regret. A story filled with magic and wonder and hardship and doubt. But one that, should ye choose to take the path that leads ye to it, will take ye to where ye are meant to be.”

“I’m exactly where I should be, thanks,” Charlie snorted. “Sheltering from that typhoon outside.”

Irene watched Charlie for a moment, her eyes seeming to bore right through her. Then she shook her head. “Nay, lass. Ye are not. Ye are far from where ye are meant to be, and drifting further every day, the more ye close yer heart to the possibilities. But it isnae too late to change course and find yer path again.”

Silence extended between them, broken only by the distant hum of the customers below and the soft patter of rain against the windows. Charlie sat back against the leather of her chair. She suddenly felt uneasy, as if Irene’s words had stirred feelings inside her that she’d rather not look at too closely.

“I see,” she said slowly. “Then where exactly am I meant to be?”

Irene shrugged, her gaze turning towards the rain-streaked window. “That, lass, is for ye to discover. I am only here to show ye the way.”

Charlie crossed her arms over her chest. This wasn’t exactly how she’d envisioned spending her afternoon—talking in riddles with an elderly woman in a bookshop.

Irene’s dark gaze fixed on her. All her earlier good cheer had vanished and now she leaned forward, her eyes as dark and consuming as the rain clouds outside.

“Ye have a choice coming, my dear,” she said. “A choice that will decide the story ye write. Will it be one of dissatisfaction and loss or one of courage and hope? Will ye stay on this path, the one of cynicism and loneliness, or will ye take a chance and walk the path that will lead ye to the one who will help ye open yer heart and heal? Yer choice will soon be here. Choose wisely, my dear.”

With that, she leaned over and patted Charlie’s knee before heaving herself to her feet.

“Oh my,” she said, glancing at the rain lashing the windows. “I really must be going. Poor Baxter willnae be happy I made him wait outside. He so hates the rain.”

Charlie had no idea who this Baxter was, and Irene didn’t bother to explain. Giving Charlie a beaming smile that dimpled her cheeks and made her look years younger, she turned and shuffled away, soon disappearing amongst the bookcases.

Charlie sat in silence, watching her go. What had that all been about? Just her rotten luck to be accosted by a batty old woman in a bookshop! And what had Irene meant about choices? Charlie scoffed inwardly. The only choice she’d have to make today was whether to order pizza or curry for dinner.

She glanced at the book she still held in her hands, and Irene’s words echoed in her mind. Yer own story, lass. Not someone else’s that ye read about in a book.

With a sigh, she reached up, put the book back on the shelf above her head, and stood up. She suddenly felt a need to be moving, to get away from this particular corner of the bookshop and its disquieting thoughts.

She wandered aimlessly through the rows of bookcases, her hand trailing against the spines of books as she passed them. The smell of old paper and dust filled her nostrils and, under normal circumstances, would have soothed her. Today, though, it did nothing to quell the unease that gnawed at her. As she walked, she tried to shake off Irene’s words. They were just the ramblings of an eccentric old woman. They didn’t mean anything. Did they?

She was not cynical and lonely. She was realistic . Experience had taught her that there was no such thing as a happy ending. After all, she’d always taken her relationships seriously, hadn’t she? Done stupid things like plan for the future? But that future had never materialized and she’d been left heartbroken more times than she cared to remember. So excuse her if she wasn’t about to let a batty old woman lecture her about love!

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the bookshop had grown quiet, the steady hum of people browsing and talking having slowly faded away. Then the lights suddenly went out and the sound of the bell above the door startled her out of her thoughts. She glanced at her watch.

Five O’clock. Closing time.

“Shit!” Charlie ran to the railing that overlooked the shop’s central atrium and shouted, “Hang on! I’m still up here!”

There was no response except the sound of a key turning in a lock.

“Wait!” Charlie shouted. “Don’t lock me in!”

Panic surged through her as she heard the faint click of the lock echo through the empty shop. She dashed towards the nearest staircase and took two steps at a time, skidding on the smooth wooden steps in her haste.

She reached a lower level only to find herself facing more aisles of books. She hurried through them, expecting to find the staircase leading down to the ground floor. Instead, she found herself facing a wall lined with books on ancient history and mythology. She swore, spun on her heel, and hurried off in another direction. The place was a warren, and her stomach sank as she realized that she was lost within this literary maze.

Oh well done, Charlie! she admonished herself. Getting locked in a bookshop. This really takes the biscuit!

She turned down another aisle and nearly collided with a large leather armchair. Cursing softly under her breath, she skirted around it and sped down the row, her eyes flickering over the titles of books as she passed— The Great Gatsby , To Kill a Mockingbird —classics that she’d read and loved. But they offered no comfort now.

She clattered to a halt as she heard something. Music. It was faint at first, barely audible, but as she came to a stop, it became clearer. It sounded like a three-piece string quartet. And overlaid atop it, Charlie could hear the sounds of murmured conversation and the clinking of glasses.

She cocked her head, trying to determine the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from her right. With renewed hope, she followed the melody until she found another staircase, which she quickly descended. It led to an open doorway that was wide and arched into a point like the doorway of a church. It was from beyond the door that the music was coming. This was not the front door that led out into the street, but an internal door. Perhaps it led to the owner’s private apartment?

“Um, hello?” she shouted. “Anyone there?”

No answer. Charlie squinted, trying to see what lay beyond, but the view was obscured by a strange shimmer that filled the air like heat haze. Perhaps there was some sort of heating duct above the door, but it meant Charlie could see nothing but the vaguest outline beyond.

She stepped closer to the door. Warmth washed over her skin and something like electricity ran up her arms. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

For a reason she couldn’t quite name, she suddenly thought of what Irene MacAskill had said. Ye are far from where ye are meant to be, and drifting further every day the more ye close yer heart. But it isnae too late to change course and find yer path again.

She took another step. From beyond, the sound of music and laughter grew louder and she felt herself drawn to it, despite the odd sense of disquiet that murmured in the back of her mind.

Yer story.

Charlie reached out her hand, feeling goosebumps rush up her arms as she touched the strange, swirly air.

Nobody else’s.

With an intake of breath, Charlie stepped through.