Chapter 17 #2
“I know exactly what you wanted,” Ewan cuts in with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But now you’re all going to return to your shopping and leave Cameron and Clementine alone so they can shop like normal people. Agreed?”
There’s a brief pause.
A tense silence where nobody seems quite sure what to do.
Then, little by little, people begin to disperse.
Not far.
They stay nearby, continue watching us from the corners of their eyes, continue whispering.
But at least they’re no longer circling us like prey.
Ewan turns to me and lowers his voice.
“You okay?”
“I... yes. Thank you. Really.”
His gaze drops to our joined hands.
Then to Cameron.
Then back to me.
His expression sharpens.
“Do either of you know what you’re doing?”
“No,” Cameron answers with startling honesty. “Absolutely not. We’re making it up as we go.”
Ewan sighs deeply, like a father confronted with particularly stubborn children.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Look, I don’t know exactly what kind of... strategy you’ve come up with, but it’s completely out of your control now. You do realize that, right?”
“Yes,” we answer in unison.
He shakes his head, looking both amused and concerned.
“Good. Do your shopping. Try not to fuel the rumors any further. And for the love of God, don’t encourage that damned sheep if he decides to perform any more ‘mystical demonstrations.’”
He walks away shaking his head.
Hamish watches him go with what almost looks like amusement—assuming a sheep is capable of feeling and expressing amusement—then calmly rises to his feet and starts walking.
Toward the vegetable stand.
We follow him.
Because at this point, what exactly do we have left to lose?
Our dignity?
Already gone.
Our credibility?
Buried beneath ten feet of village legends.
Our ability to control our own narrative?
Completely obliterated.
The sheep heads straight for a large wicker basket overflowing with fresh thyme.
He stops in front of it.
Sniffs the herbs with particular attention.
Almost ceremonially.
Then looks at us.
“He’s showing them the thyme,” someone whispers behind us, their voice trembling with emotion. “Just like in the story...”
I must be dreaming.
This is a waking nightmare.
Any second now I’m going to wake up in my Paris apartment, it’ll be six in the morning, my alarm will go off, and all of this will turn out to be a bizarre dream caused by eating too much Scottish cheese before bed.
But no.
I don’t wake up.
I’m really here.
Standing in front of a vegetable stand in Glenfield Market.
Holding hands with Cameron McGregor.
Accompanied by a sheep who apparently possesses mystical soul-reading abilities and a direct line to ancestral messages.
While the entire village builds a legend around us that we have absolutely no control over.
The vendor—a round woman with rosy cheeks and a maternal smile that vaguely reminds me of my grandmother—extends three bundles of fresh thyme tied neatly with twine.
“These are for you,” she says softly, almost reverently. “For the tea. It’s important to honor traditions. To carry on what should be carried on.”
I stare at the bundles.
Cameron stares at the bundles.
Hamish yawns as though all of this bores him immensely.
“Thank you, but that’s really not necessary,” I begin weakly.
“Oh yes, it is,” the woman insists, pressing the bundles into my arms. “Herbs must be fresh. And gathered with intention. Mairenn knew that. Now you do too.”
Why is she giving me herbs I could literally gather near the manor myself?
It makes absolutely no sense.
And yet, to her, it seems perfectly logical.
Cameron takes the bundles, probably because he notices my hands shaking so badly I’m on the verge of dropping them.
We’re trapped inside our own lie, and every attempt to escape only drags us deeper into the narrative quicksand.
“Thank you,” he says. “That’s very kind.”
We move away from the stand as quickly as politeness allows.
Hamish follows us faithfully like a fluffy white shadow.
Around us, I can still feel the stares.
Hear the whispers swelling once more.
See phones discreetly photographing us.
Or not so discreetly, for that matter.
Cameron leans toward me and murmurs,
“Maybe we should have planned this better after all.”
I look at him.
He seems completely lost.
Overwhelmed.
Vulnerable.
And despite the total absurdity of the situation, despite the chaos, despite the stares and whispers and ridiculous theories, I find myself smiling.
“You think?”
He smiles back.
“The worst part is that we’re giving them exactly what they want to see.”
“Meaning?”
“Two people who still don’t know what’s happening to them.”
My smile disappears.
Because he’s right.
Because we’re standing here in the middle of this market, playing a role that no longer feels like a role.
Because somewhere between last night’s tea and this exact moment, the line between truth and fiction has completely vanished.
And that is far more terrifying than any ghost story.
An hour later, we return to the manor.
With Hamish at our heels.
Naturally.
We’re loaded down with bags of vegetables, bread, cheese, and the fresh thyme bundles.
We walk in silence.
When we reach the manor, I stop to unlock the front door.
“Cameron?”
“Yeah?”
“What just happened?”
He sets down the bags he’s carrying.
Runs both hands over his face.
I pull the door open to let Hamish inside.
“I think we completely lost control of our own story,” Cameron says.
“And now what?”
He looks at me with an intensity that makes me forget how to breathe for two full seconds.
“Now we live with it. And hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”
I nod slowly.
Hamish lets out a bleat that sounds suspiciously like a weary sigh before heading to his usual spot near the entrance.
Even the sheep knows we’re trapped.
I pick up my bags and step inside the manor.
Cameron follows me.
And somewhere deep inside my tote bag, the bundles of thyme perfume the air with the scent of a story a hundred years old.
A story that, apparently, isn’t finished being written yet.