Chapter 17
Clementine
The Anatomy of a Spontaneous Legend
I’m standing in the middle of Glenfield’s market square, my hand in Cameron’s, while Moira MacTavish explains—with actual tremors in her voice—how the herbal tea I made last night is exactly the same one Mairenn Fraser used to make.
Around us, at least fifteen people have stopped to listen.
Because of course, in Glenfield, there is no such thing as a private conversation. Everything is public. Everything is discussed. Everything instantly becomes a legend.
“My sister-in-law heard it directly from Mrs. Finley herself,” Moira continues, leaning toward me with eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Lemon balm, chamomile, lavender... and wild Highland thyme. Gathered around Fraser Manor.”
I desperately search for something to say, anything at all, but my brain refuses to cooperate.
Beside me, Cameron goes rigid. His fingers tighten around mine.
I don’t even remember how our hands ended up intertwined.
I think it happened automatically when we arrived in the square, some kind of survival reflex in response to the collective gaze of the village.
Holding Cameron’s hand while people tell you you’re the reincarnation of a nineteenth-century couple.
Yeah. That’s definitely going to fuel the rumors.
“It’s just herbal tea,” I finally manage. “A blend of calming herbs. Nothing more.”
Moira shakes her head with a knowing smile.
“My dear, coincidences don’t exist in the Highlands. Especially not when Fraser Manor is involved.”
Angus, her husband, nods solemnly beside her.
“My grandmother always said Mairenn Fraser knew the old traditions. And wild thyme is never chosen by accident.”
“In the old beliefs,” a voice behind me adds, “offering thyme tea to someone meant...”
I turn around.
Mrs. MacLeish stands there with a shopping basket hooked over one arm, wearing a gentle, enigmatic expression that somehow makes me uneasy.
She looks at both of us—Cameron, then me, our hands joined—and her smile widens.
“It meant: I take care of you. I want you to stay,” she finishes clearly, repeating Mrs. Finley’s exact words.
My heart performs three consecutive somersaults inside my chest.
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
Cameron coughs discreetly.
Around us, the murmurs grow louder. I see heads turning, glances being exchanged, smiles spreading.
“Did you know,” Angus suddenly asks, frowning, “that in the old Highland beliefs, wild thyme was associated with both love and death?”
Wonderful.
Now we’re talking about death.
This just keeps getting better.
Cameron takes a deep breath.
I can tell he’s about to say something.
Probably a perfectly calibrated line designed to amplify the rumor.
After all, that’s what we wanted, right?
Except he never gets the chance.
Movement catches my attention at the edge of my vision.
Something white.
Something familiar.
Something horrifying.
Hamish is crossing the market square with determined purpose.
Heading straight for us.
Silence spreads around us.
Gradually.
Like a wave rising inexorably higher.
Conversations stop.
People turn.
The sheep comes to a halt about three feet away, lowers himself onto his haunches, and fixes me with those impossible-to-read black eyes.
“My God,” Moira whispers. “He never comes to the market.”
“Never,” Angus confirms in a strained voice.
I stare at Hamish.
Hamish stares at me.
Beside me, Cameron holds his breath.
Around us, the entire market has frozen.
“It’s a sign,” someone whispers from the crowd.
“The guardian sheep...”
“He’s protected the manor for generations...”
“He recognizes soulmates...”
The whispers multiply, growing into theories, interpretations, stories that have absolutely nothing to do with reality anymore.
I watch a woman pull out her phone and take a picture of us.
Then another.
Then three more.
This is going viral.
Locally, admittedly.
But still.
Cameron leans toward me and murmurs quietly,
“Don’t move. Let them create their own narrative.”
I stare at him.
“Are you serious? That’s your plan? Do nothing?”
“Sometimes the best storytelling is the kind you don’t control.”
I look at him in disbelief.
“Cameron, they’re inventing a legend in real time. About us. And a sheep.”
“I know.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His gaze shifts from Hamish to the crowd and then back to me.
“It does. It’s a massive problem. But I don’t see how we stop it now without making things worse.”
He’s right.
Hamish chooses that moment to stand and come even closer.
He sniffs my free hand—the one not holding Cameron’s.
His nose is damp and cold against my skin.
Then he sniffs Cameron’s hand.
After that, he calmly returns to the exact same spot and sits down again, as if he has just validated something.
Confirmed a theory.
Stamped a mystical seal of approval on our fake relationship.
“He accepted them,” a voice breathes from the crowd. “Just like his ancestor did with Brodie and Mairenn.”
“How do you know that?” someone asks.
“My great-grandfather worked at the manor. He always said the sheep followed Mr. and Mrs. Fraser to the market. He would sniff them before letting them leave, as if making sure they’d come back together.”
“It’s a protection ritual...”
“He recognizes bonded souls...”
“Look how calm he is around them. He knows they belong to the manor.”
I close my eyes.
Take a deep breath.
When I open them again, Mrs. MacLeish is watching me with an expression that’s gentle, almost sympathetic, but also faintly amused, as though she’s witnessing a show she predicted from the very beginning.
“Do you know what my grandmother used to say?” she asks loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
“She said sheep are never wrong. They see what humans refuse to see. They sense the invisible bonds that connect souls.”
Fantastic.
Now the sheep is an all-knowing oracle with supernatural powers of perception.
“And what exactly did he see?” asks a young woman I don’t recognize, her eyes shining with curiosity.
Mrs. MacLeish smiles.
A smile that is somehow both kind and terrifying.
“Love. Even when the people carrying it haven’t recognized it themselves yet.”
My heart stops beating for one full second.
Cameron coughs.
A tiny nervous cough that fools absolutely no one.
Hamish yawns broadly, exposing his teeth, completely indifferent to the emotional and narrative chaos he has just unleashed through his mere existence.
And around us, the market explodes into frantic conversation.
Theories fly in every direction like verbal fireworks.
Versions multiply at a staggering speed, each one more extravagant than the last.
Some people are talking about literal reincarnation.
Others about benevolent possession by ancestral spirits.
Still others about an “ancestral bond passed through blood and place.”
A woman in her fifties approaches us, her eyes glittering with excitement that borders on outright hysteria.
“Is it true you made Mairenn Fraser’s tea last night?” she asks with enthusiasm that honestly scares me a little.
I stare at her, mouth open, unable to produce a coherent response.
She doesn’t give me the chance.
“Mrs. Finley told my sister, who told my mother-in-law, who told me this morning when she came to the market. You used the exact same recipe. With wild thyme gathered around the manor. The same place Mairenn picked it a hundred years ago. It’s... it’s extraordinary. Moving, even.”
“It’s just a coincidence,” I attempt weakly.
My voice lacks conviction.
No one listens.
People are already moving closer.
Forming an increasingly tight circle around us.
Asking questions.
Demanding details.
Confirmations.
Stories.
“How did you know the exact recipe?”
“Have you seen anything at the manor? Apparitions? Shadows?”
“Did Mairenn’s ghost speak to you? Did she guide you?”
“Do you hear their voices at night?”
“Does Hamish follow you everywhere in the manor?”
“Have you found any belongings that belonged to them? Letters? A journal?”
“Do you experience emotions that aren’t your own?”
The questions come from every direction like machine-gun fire.
I look desperately at Cameron.
He seems just as overwhelmed as I am.
His eyes are slightly widened, and I can see a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“Maybe we should... start,” he says weakly.
“Start what?”
“The shopping?”
The shopping.
He wants to do the shopping.
While we’re standing at the center of an uncontrollable narrative explosion involving a century-old herbal tea, an oracle sheep, and reincarnation theories that grow more insane with every passing second.
A man I vaguely recognize—possibly the butcher—approaches with a grin so huge it shows every tooth in his mouth.
“My wife said you came together this morning. Hand in hand from McGregor Castle. Exactly like Brodie and Mairenn used to every Saturday when they came down from the manor.”
I take a deep breath.
I need to say something.
Anything.
Something that will stop this collective madness before it becomes completely, irreversibly uncontrollable.
We were supposed to be fooling the villagers.
Not becoming victims of their imagination.
But what exactly am I supposed to say?
Sorry, everyone. It’s all fake. We’re just playing a role to prank you. Haha. Great joke.
That would go over wonderfully.
That’s when a male voice rings out from the other side of the square.
“For heaven’s sake, let them breathe! You’re going to suffocate them if you keep crowding around them like this.”
Everyone turns at once.
Ewan strides through the crowd looking thoroughly annoyed.
When he reaches us, he places a protective hand on my free shoulder.
“My cousin arrived in Glenfield only a few days ago. She doesn’t need to be bombarded with questions about ghosts and mystical tea on her first visit to the market. At least give her time to get used to the village before turning her into a tourist attraction.”
Embarrassed murmurs ripple through the crowd.
Several people take a step back, looking vaguely guilty.
“We only wanted to—”