Under the Scottish Sky

Chapter 1 Fleur

I’ve always loved the smell of melting snow—that crisp, clean scent that lingers in the air as ice recedes and the earth begins to wake beneath it.

The first snowfall has always been my favorite, its soft, silent blanket a symbol of fresh beginnings.

But this year, as the snow fades beneath an unseasonably warm breeze, the air feels…

off. As if something is breathing beneath the thaw.

There’s something strange in it—a mix of cold and damp, undercut by the faint scent of soil and budding life. It’s fleeting, but it lingers just long enough to unsettle me. The first snow of the season, already melting away before it truly had a chance to settle.

We’re only a few days from the Winter Solstice.

After that, the days will stretch longer, the sun will hang higher, and I’ll finally be able to return to my herb garden or wander deeper into the forest. Both near impossible during the dead of winter, not with wolves—and other things I haven’t yet named—skulking just beyond the tree line.

It’s been nearly three lunar cycles since my last visit to town.

I don’t make the trip often, and I rarely enjoy it.

But in winter, errands become necessary.

During the warmer months, my garden yields enough to sustain me, each leaf and root harvested with care.

But now, with the frost creeping in and my jars half-empty, I have little choice.

Not that I didn’t have help in depleting my stores.

A few days ago, my familiar, Jinx, a blur of calico fur and chaos, decided to prance across the shelf where I keep my dried herbs, sending my most precious jars crashing to the floor.

You can probably guess how he got his name. He’s the most accident-prone cat I’ve ever met—though I’m starting to suspect it’s all intentional.

“No,” I mutter, fastening the clasp of my burgundy cloak, pulling my long brown hair free of the velvet. “I can’t handle you breaking anything else this week, Jinxy.”

He blinks up at me from the table, tail twitching innocently. I scoop him up, hands cradling his warm belly, and lower him gently to the floor.

Before stepping into the crisp embrace of the morning air, I meander back to the cozy confines of my kitchen.

The room is a delightful jumble of enchanting oddities: herbs hang in fragrant bunches from the low wooden beams, and jars filled with ingredients and concoctions line the shelves.

The worn oak table, bathed in the soft glow of the early light filtering through the lattice windows, holds my wicker basket, a trusty companion for my ventures into the village.

Last time I forgot it, the journey back was quite the trek as a result, juggling parcels and jars. Only about half of my haul made it home that day.

As I reach for the wicker basket, a flicker of movement catches my eye. Jinx is already back on the table, of course, but his tail is puffed like a bottlebrush. Not in mischief this time, but…something else.

Agitation.

His green eyes dart toward the shadowed corner by the fireplace, then snap back to the shelf of herbs in front of him. Back and forth. Watching. Waiting.

I still my hands.

It’s unlike him to hesitate, especially when there are things to knock over.

“Jinx, no!” I scold, but it’s too late. With a swift movement, he jumps onto the shelf, sending jars tumbling down around him. The sound of breaking glass fills the room, mixing with Jinx’s surprised meow.

I shake my head in exasperation, knowing I should have anticipated this second attempt at chaos. But despite the mess before me, a small smile tugs at my lips as I watch Jinx peeking out from behind a fallen jar, his bright green eyes wide with innocence.

With a resigned sigh, I scoop up the unharmed jars and place them back on the shelf. I finish cleaning up the mess before picking up my wicker basket and heading toward the door. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a warm glow over the snow-covered landscape outside.

As I close the door behind me, something shifts. The hair at the nape of my neck prickles. I pause, forcing a smile that might be enough to shake it off. Probably nothing. Just nerves.

The snow crunches beneath my boots as I start down the path toward the village, cold air biting at my cheeks. Morning stretches quiet around me. Even the birds seem reluctant to break the silence, as if the woods know something I don’t. I tug my cloak tighter.

I reach the edge of the village, greeted by the familiar sight of quaint cottages with smoke curling from their chimneys.

The villagers are just beginning to stir, some faces brightening with warm smiles while others cast wary glances as they see me passing by.

I acknowledge them with a nod and a knowing smile, aware of the mixed feelings my presence evokes in this close-knit community.

My first stop is the apothecary, where I trade a few jars of dried herbs for some rarer ingredients I’ve been itching to hunt down for weeks.

The shop is steeped in the scent of crushed leaves and sweet oils—earthy, warm, familiar.

It always calms something in me. The apothecary greets me with a smile that crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

She passes me the neatly wrapped parcels, her expression just shy of amused.

“These should do the trick for what you’re working on,” she says, voice soft but pointed, as if she knows exactly what kind of spell I’m planning, and maybe even why.

I thank her with a grin, tucking the parcels securely into my basket before making my way to the next stop on my morning rounds.

Despite the unsettled air clinging to me since I woke, I can’t help but feel a fleeting sense of contentment at the sight.

Even though I seldom meander into town these days, this small community has become my home in every sense of the word.

A scent of warm bread spills into the street as I pass the bakery, curling through the air and mingling with the sharper aromas of herbs and spices from nearby shops.

The baker, a stout man with flour-dusted sleeves and a laugh that echoes down the lane, catches my eye.

There’s warmth in the gesture, but also something else. Amusement, maybe. Or caution.

I smile back, even though we both know where we stand. Much like many in the village, he doesn’t quite trust me. Not fully. Not with what I am. It’s a truth I’ve grown used to—the sideways glances, the whispered prayers behind closed doors.

Still, when the coughs worsen or the livestock fall sick, they come. Quietly, humbly, asking for tinctures and teas. And I give them what they need. A poultice here. A charm there. Small acts of care, even as the weight of their doubt settles deeper into my bones.

Time slips by as I drift from one shop to the next, half-lost in the rhythm of errands and the bright clutter of shelves. The village hums softly around me—familiar voices, the scuff of boots on cobblestone, the occasional bark of laughter.

It isn’t until something cold kisses the tip of my nose that I pause. A snowflake. It vanishes on contact, but leaves a chill behind that doesn’t quite fade. I blink and look around.

The street, once busy and bustling, has fallen strangely still. Shopkeepers bolt shutters, ushering customers out with quiet urgency. No one meets my eye.

The air feels…wrong. Heavy. Waiting.

I glance up. The sky that had been bright just moments ago is now blanketed in a wall of gray, clouds tumbling over one another like waves. And then the snow starts in earnest—thick and fast, a white blur swallowing the path ahead.

I lurch toward the nearest doorway, one hand shielding my face, the other fumbling for something solid in the storm’s sudden, suffocating grip.

The wooden door is heavy as I push it. Its hinges groan softly as it swings inward.

I step into the tavern’s welcoming heat.

The scent of stew drifts from the hearth, thick and savory, laced with rosemary and garlic.

A fire crackles steadily in the stone fireplace, casting flickering light across the room and painting the walls in amber glow.

Garland strung with dried orange slices and sprigs of holly winds along the ceiling beams. Candles flicker in windows, their glass panes fogged from the warmth inside.

Above the hearth, a woven wreath of pine and juniper hangs with a deep red ribbon, while bundles of cinnamon sticks and star anise are tucked into corners, scenting the air with something faintly sweet and spiced.

The tavern is empty but for a single redhead wiping down a table in the center. Her head lifts when she hears me. For a moment, our eyes meet—hers a striking green—and then a warm, easy smile spreads across her face.

“We’re closing early,” she says, her voice soft and melodic. “Storm’s picking up.”

I nod, still taking in the space. “I understand completely. But…would it be all right if I stayed for a bit? Visibility’s nearly gone out there, and I’d rather not get turned around in the storm.”

Her smile widens, a glint of mischief flickering in her eyes.

With a graceful tilt of her head, she gestures toward a nook near the hearth, where a plush armchair sits nestled beside the fire, its cushions promising warmth and rest. I return her smile with quiet gratitude and make my way over, sinking into the chair with a soft sigh.

The flames dance in the grate, casting golden light across the walls, shadows swaying in rhythm with the crackle of the wood.

A moment later, she approaches with a steaming mug in hand.

The gentle aroma of chamomile and lavender reaches me before the tea itself does, and I feel the chill begin to ease even before I take it.

She sets the cup down beside me with care, her fingers brushing mine in the handoff—just enough to send a quiet flutter through my chest.

“I hope this keeps you company while the storm passes,” she says, her voice low and warm, as though it belongs to the fire itself.

I manage a small nod, cheeks flushing as I wrap my hands around the mug’s comforting heat. “It already is. I’m Fleur, by the way.”

She responds, “It’s lovely to meet you, Fleur.”

I take a sip, letting the tea’s gentle calm settle into my bones as I watch the flames flicker and snap. The wind howls beyond the tavern walls, but in here, it feels far away—muted, like a memory.

My gut tells me I’ll be here for a while. And normally, I’d bristle at the inconvenience. But with her nearby, the storm feels less like an obstacle…and more like a gift.