Chapter 26
ALISTAIR
Fragments of the Past
There are a lot of ways to handle a breakup. Some people drown their sorrow in alcohol. Others throw themselves into meaningless flings. The more creative ones write tear-soaked songs or poetry they’ll regret later.
Me? I buried myself under a mountain of invoices, contracts, and financial projections.
It’s been three days since Keira ended our arrangement—as she so coldly called it. Three days of replaying her expressionless face telling me she feels nothing for me. Three days of wondering how I could’ve been stupid enough to believe there was something real between us.
Martha stopped asking if I was okay after the twentieth time I snapped at her for no reason.
The distillery staff avoids me like I’m radioactive.
Even my father, during our brief encounter yesterday, seemed surprised by my foul mood—which is ironic, considering he’s the undisputed master of foul moods in this family.
I stare at my computer screen, trying to focus on the numbers blurring in front of me.
It’s useless.
All I see is her face.
All I hear is her voice.
I don’t feel anything for you.
Those six words loop in my head like an infuriating song I can’t shut off.
The worst part? I don’t believe them. Not after what happened in the warehouse. Not after the way she kissed me. Something changed during that dinner at my parents’ house—something that made her walk away.
Did my father say something? Do something? She swore he didn’t, but the denial felt too forceful to be honest.
Then again… if a few words from my father were enough to make her leave, maybe she didn’t feel the same way I did.
I shove my chair back and stand abruptly, unable to sit still another second. I need air. Space. Anything to escape the thoughts clawing at me.
Without really thinking, I head toward the fermentation building—the one Hamish broke into. The one where we discovered that hidden underground passage. Maybe exploring it will give me the distraction I desperately need.
The ventilation grate is still there, bent out of shape thanks to that overachieving sheep. I crouch down, pulling out my phone and switching on the flashlight. The beam cuts into the darkness, revealing the tunnel stretching ahead.
What kind of sane person crawls into a potentially dangerous underground passage with no proper equipment just to escape his emotional problems?
Apparently… me.
I squeeze through the opening, my dignity—and my tailored suit—protesting equally. Inside, I can almost stand upright, though I have to keep my head lowered to avoid hitting the stone ceiling.
The air is cool and damp, thick with the scent of earth and time. My footsteps echo softly against the uneven ground as I move forward, guided by the narrow beam of light.
The passage is remarkable. Carefully constructed, reinforced in places with wooden beams that have somehow survived the decades.
For a while, it works. The exploration distracts me—exactly what I needed.
About fifty meters in, the tunnel splits. I stop.
To the right, the passage continues toward the McGregor estate—the barn. I know that path.
So I turn left.
The corridor stretches deeper into darkness. And with every step, I begin to question my sanity.
After another stretch, the tunnel ends.
A dead end.
I stand there, staring at the stone wall.
— Guess that means I turn back.
I pivot on my heel—then pause.
Something catches my eye.
To the left, a small recess has been carved into the wall. I raise my phone and step closer. It’s deeper than it first appeared. And at the back—
A wooden shelf.
And on it… a metal box, rusted and coated in dust.
Who would leave something like this here?
I pick it up. It’s heavier than it looks. The lid is stuck, but after a few tries, it gives with a protesting creak.
Inside are four objects, neatly arranged: two yellowed documents, a strange hazelwood rod, and a small cloth pouch. When I open it, I find ancient barley seeds—perfectly preserved.
Beneath them, wrapped in protective fabric, lies a small leather-bound journal.
I open it carefully, expecting the pages to crumble—but though aged, they hold.
On the first page, in elegant, steady handwriting:
Personal Journal of Archibald McKenzie, 1897.
My heart stutters.
Archibald McKenzie—the ancestor Keira and I uncovered in the archives. The man whose initials were carved into that old barrel alongside Elspeth McGregor’s.
I sit down right there in the dirt, forgetting entirely about my expensive suit, and begin to read.
May 10, 1897. I saw her today at the Inverness market. She wore a blue dress that mirrored the loch on a clear day. Our eyes met for a brief moment before her father pulled her away. Just a moment—but enough for my heart to remember why it beats.
I turn the pages, captivated. Entry after entry reveals fragments of a forbidden love between Archibald and Elspeth—written in stolen moments days, sometimes weeks apart.
June 12, 1897. We met in secret by the old oak at the border of our lands. Her hands trembled as she gave me the letter, but not her voice. “I will not give up on us,” she said. “Even if the whole world stands against us.” I kissed her trembling fingers and made the same vow.
July 20, 1897. The southern McGregor fields are the most fertile I’ve ever seen.
The barley grows stronger there—denser. Elspeth says it’s due to the soil, enriched by an ancient lake.
If only I could combine that barley with our spring water…
the whisky we could create together would surpass anything that exists.
August 5, 1897. We now meet in the underground passage. Tensions between our families have worsened—my father accuses hers of diverting water. The irony… they fight over water, when that very element, combined with McGregor barley, could create something extraordinary.
Page after page, their dream unfolds. A bold one—to create a whisky that blends both legacies. Proof that together, McKenzie and McGregor could build something greater than either ever could alone.
But their dream collided with pride. With stubbornness. With fathers who refused to bend.
The final entry is dated September 15, 1897.
My father discovered our plans. His fury was…
formidable. He has given me an ultimatum: renounce Elspeth, or be disinherited.
How can he ask me to choose between my heart and my heritage?
I have hidden our work in the passage—the map, the recipe, the rod to find pure water, and the seeds of that miraculous barley.
I gave the other half to Elspeth. If we cannot fulfill our dream, perhaps one day, someone else will.
Tonight, I must give my answer. May God grant me the strength to choose wisely.
And then… nothing.
The journal ends.
But the history between our families fills in the silence.
Archibald chose his inheritance. Not his love.
Just like I’m about to do.
The realization hits like an explosion.
Am I repeating history? Letting pride and expectation dictate my choices the same way he did?
I sit there, holding the remnants of a broken dream. A love sacrificed on the altar of family legacy.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I found these fragments while trying to escape my own pain.
And the parallel? It’s almost laughable.
Or maybe fate just has a twisted sense of humor.
I carefully place everything back in the box. These pieces of the past deserve more than to be forgotten again. They deserve to be understood.
My mind feels clearer than it has in days.
Keira needs to see this. She’ll understand—not just the history, but what it means.
Then the reality hits.
We’re not speaking anymore.
She ended things.
The thought drags me back under as I crawl out of the tunnel, covered in dust and cobwebs—but carrying a treasure untouched for over a century.
Back in my office, after making myself somewhat presentable again, I examine the contents more closely.
One document is half a map—showing the McKenzie estate, with a line drawn from the distillery to a marked point near the McGregor border.
The other is a partial recipe—ratios of barley and water, but missing key elements. The rest must be with Elspeth’s half.
A knock interrupts me.
My mother steps in, her expression tight with concern.
— Alistair, she says. Martha called me. She’s worried about you.
— Martha should mind her own business, I reply more sharply than I intend.
— She is. And you’re part of it—whether you like it or not.
She steps closer, her gaze falling on the items spread across my desk. Her eyes widen slightly.
— Where did you find this?
— In the underground passage connecting our property to the McGregors’. Why? Do you know what it is?
She picks up the journal gently, opening it.
A sad smile touches her lips.
— So it’s true, she murmurs.
— You knew? About the passage? About Archibald and Elspeth?
She nods, sitting down across from me.
— Of course. It’s part of our family history. Even if your father prefers to ignore it. Archibald was your grandfather’s great-uncle.
— Then why has no one ever talked about it?
— Because it’s a story of failure. Of pride winning over love and reason. Not exactly something the McKenzies like to celebrate.
She studies the hazelwood rod thoughtfully.
— Archibald chose his inheritance over Elspeth, I say.
— That’s what people believe, she replies. But the truth is more complicated. He tried to find a compromise—to convince his father the union of both families could benefit everyone. But Robert McKenzie was as inflexible as Duncan McGregor.
— What happened to Elspeth?
— She married a distant cousin—to consolidate McGregor land. They say she never smiled on her wedding day. As for Archibald… he never married. Devoted himself entirely to the distillery. Created remarkable whiskies—but never the one he dreamed of making with her.
I sit there, absorbing the weight of it.
— History has a nasty habit of repeating itself, Alistair.
She looks at me—really looks.
— What happened with Keira?
I blink, caught off guard.
— How do you know something happened?
— I’m not blind. The way you looked at each other at dinner… and then how she shut down. And the fact you’ve been acting like a feral bear for days.
I hesitate. Where do I even begin?
— It’s complicated, I settle on.
— Love always is.
The word hits like a punch.
Is that what this is?
Is that what I feel for her?
— Did your father speak to you? she asks.
— About what?
— William Fraser. The new proposal.
I frown.
— He mentioned exploring options. I thought it was pressure tactics.
She shakes her head, suddenly tired.
— He signed a preliminary agreement with Fraser. Without consulting you.
My breath catches.
— When?
— Before dinner.
Everything clicks into place.
If he signed before dinner… he could’ve told Keira. Told her her project meant nothing.
— Did he speak to her privately? When I took that call?
My mother’s expression gives me the answer.
— He took her to his study. They were gone about fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
More than enough time for my father to do what he does best—manipulate, intimidate, control.
A cold, steady anger rises in me. Not explosive. Not chaotic.
Focused.
— He threatened her, didn’t he? To make her walk away from me.
It’s not really a question.
— I can’t be certain, my mother says carefully.
She doesn’t need to say more.
I look down at the fragments on my desk—Archibald and Elspeth’s unfinished story. A love lost to pride and expectation.
History repeating itself.
Except this time—
— I won’t be another Archibald, I say firmly. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life wondering what if.
My mother smiles, something like pride shining in her eyes.
— What are you going to do?
I gather the items, placing them carefully back into the box.
— First, I’m going to talk to my father. Make it clear I’m not a pawn he can move around his chessboard.
— And then?
— Then I’m going to find Keira. And I’m going to get the truth. And if he threatened or manipulated her in any way, I’ll make it clear I’m willing to walk away from everything—the inheritance, the distillery, the McKenzie name itself—before I walk away from her.
My mother steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder.
— You love her that much?
The answer comes without hesitation.
— Yeah. I do.
— Then you’re making the right choice.
She turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
— You know, she adds with a small smile, I think Hamish figured all of this out before any of us.
— Hamish?
— That sheep found a passage no one had used in over a century just to reach his beloved. He wasn’t weighed down by generations of family rivalry. He just followed his heart. Maybe we should all take a lesson from him.
With that, she leaves me alone—with my thoughts, and my decision.
I look down at the box again.
These aren’t just relics.
They’re a warning.
I won’t make the same mistake.
I won’t let my father—or anyone else—decide my future. Or my heart.
Somewhere on the McGregor estate, Keira might have the other half of this story. The other half of the map. The missing piece.
Together… we could finish what Archibald and Elspeth never could.
I pick up my phone and call my father.
It’s time.
History won’t repeat itself.
Not this time. Not with us.