Page 1 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

Freya Sinclair watched the wind snatch the ashes, sucking them greedily into the air, and she prayed that her mother’s soul flew with them.

Most landed in the loch, lying on the water’s rippling surface like a shroud, but some drifted upwards, and it was these last few fragments which held Freya’s anguished gaze.

It was hard to see clearly through her tears. They welled and fell in a steady trickling stream she feared might never end. She seemed to have been crying forever.

Her father stood resolute and grim by her side, holding the now empty urn in his hands.

A private moment: they were the only two to witness the scattering of Sandra Sinclair’s ashes.

They were the only two who mattered. Freya’s mother would have loved the turnout for the brief service in the kirk, but she would have loved this intimate goodbye even more.

Her wishes had been explicit and simple: When I’m done with this world, give me to the loch.

Already the fine film of ashes on the surface of the water was dispersing, the last vestiges being carried out to sea by the retreating tide. Soon they would be gone, and Freya didn’t know what she was going to do or how she would cope now that her mother was no more.

She wanted to wait until every speck had disappeared, but her father drew her away with an arm around her shoulders.

‘It’s done, hen. It’s over.’ His voice broke and she bit back a sob.

It didn’t feel over. To Freya, it felt as though it was beginning. She would have to live in a world without her mother. How could such a thing be possible?

She put her head on her father’s shoulder and, arms around each other, they made their way along the rocky shoreline.

Once, she lifted her head and looked back. She didn’t know what she was hoping to see – a sign that her mum wasn’t truly gone, perhaps? But there was only the swell of the waves and the call of a wheeling gull.

All that was left was the memory of her mother… Promise me…

And Freya had promised, because what else could she do?

‘Have you got everything?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘They do have shops in London, you know.’

‘I don’t want you to have to buy anything if you can take it with you.’

Freya was fairly sure she wouldn’t need the spanner set he’d tried to foist on her, or the spirit level. She was going to college to study ceramics, not construction. And if there was any DIY to be done in the halls of residence, she was sure the uni would have maintenance staff for that.

‘I can’t fit anything else in the car,’ she said.

‘I wish you could fit me in it,’ her dad grumbled. ‘I don’t like the thought of you driving all that way on your own. You’re not used to motorways.’

‘Neither are you.’ Skye was motorway-free, and her father rarely left the island.

By road, that is: he left it most days by water because he had a trawler just up the way on Muirporth Quay.

Thankfully, he fished the loch and not the open sea beyond, but her mum nevertheless worried every time he went out.

Had worried.

Freya swallowed, the ever-present grief threatening to erupt into tears.

‘I’m going out for a bit,’ she said.

This was her last day in Duncoorie; she would leave in the morning.

With everything packed, apart from the clothes she would be wearing for the journey and a few toiletries, there was nothing left to do.

She couldn’t breathe in the house. Every nook and cranny reminded her of Mum.

Everywhere she looked, everything she touched was awash with memories of her, and suddenly Freya had to escape.

But not to the loch. She hadn’t been down to the water’s edge since…

She didn’t want to speak to anyone or see anyone, and the hillside was the best place to avoid people.

There was only so much sympathy and pity she could take.

Besides, she’d said goodbye to everyone, apart from her father.

The hardest goodbye had been the most final and had broken her heart.

It was a goodbye she’d had to say, because there was no arguing with death.

Every other parting paled in comparison.

The path was steep, the gradient making her thighs cry out for mercy as she stomped upwards, breathing hard. With the need to escape her grief driving her onwards and upwards, Freya pushed herself to her limit. Her misery was making the climb more brutal, but she had to reach the top one last time.

She would be able to see more clearly up there.

Maybe she’d be able to see her future, because right now a future without her mother in it was a dark and frightening place. But she’d made a promise, and she intended to keep it.

Fly, little one, promise me you’ll fly. They were her mother’s last words, before the pain meds had stolen her voice and before death had silenced her for eternity.

Gasping, Freya battled on, almost bent double, her hands on her thighs helping to push her legs up the path.

She didn’t stop to catch her breath, she didn’t pause to take in the view, and her attention didn’t veer from the narrow trail through the heather and tussocky grasses as she focused on the next step and the next.

Finally, she reached the top and only then did she allow herself to stop.

Collapsing on a boulder, her chest heaving, her legs weak and aching, she sat on the sun-warmed rock and gazed down at the home she would be leaving behind.

Coorie Castle, with its white walls shimmering in the late-afternoon sunlight, was the most prominent feature. Built on a rocky outcrop some eight hundred years ago, it gave the village of Duncoorie its name.

Beyond it lay the loch, its waters a deep unfathomable indigo with ribbons of navy, cobalt and sapphire. And near the shore, where the sea was shallower, the water swirled in swathes of turquoise and green.

The mountains on the opposite shore were purpled with heather and looked almost dove-grey in the distance. Overhead, wisps of white cirrus clouds feathered the sky.

Freya felt so small up here, insignificant in the face of the vastness of nature, yet Duncoorie was an anchor she was about to set herself adrift from.

It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

As her eyes roamed over the village, her gaze was caught by the old stone kirk with its spire and vaulted windows, and she remembered the sombre tones of the vicar as he asked the congregation to pray for her mother’s soul.

‘Oh, Mum…’ she whispered. It was a familiar refrain. Since her mother’s death, she’d found herself saying it often, the rest of the sentence always choked by grief and regret.

Freya was keeping her promise.

Against the odds, she’d obtained a place at one of the best art colleges in the world. She was going to follow her dreams and make a name for herself.

She had also promised her mum that she wouldn’t mourn her, that she would move beyond grief, but how could she do that when everything here reminded her of her loss?

London was a new beginning, a new life. And in that city where no one knew her, she hoped she would be able to keep that promise, too.