Chapter 3
Heather—Present Day
T he streets of Inverness spilled out before them in a jumble of cobblestones, slate rooftops, and narrow wynds that twisted toward the river.
Afternoon light cut through the mist in soft shafts, gilding the edges of old stone buildings and setting the shopfronts aglow.
The city was alive with sound: bells chiming from the cathedral, chatter spilling from cafés, gulls squealing overhead as the River Ness pushed on, steady and sure.
Heather drew her coat tighter, though not from the cold. Her pulse hadn’t settled since Eleanor’s words; it fluttered like a live wire beneath her ribs.
You’re your mother’s daughter.
The phrase clung to her. She scanned the faces of strangers as if one of them might offer more answers.
Flynn nudged her elbow, breaking her trance.
“Careful, Campbell. You’re staring like you’re plotting to rob the place.”
Heather startled, then laughed, the sound spilling out lighter than she felt. Only then did she realize she’d been staring intensely into the pastry window of a bake shop.
“I was just… thinking.”
“Dangerous habit, that.” He tipped his head toward a shop window next door crowded with tartan scarves and novelty flasks. “You sure you don’t want a ‘Kiss Me, I’m Scottish’ mug? Might win over the locals.”
She elbowed him back, rolling her eyes.
“I think I’ve mortified myself enough in public for one day.”
They wandered toward the bridge, the River Ness glinting below.
A busker played the bagpipes near the railing, the tune light and quick, clashing against Heather’s memory of the haunting melody that had slipped from her lips that morning.
She slowed, caught between music and memory, her eyes tracing the water’s restless surface, the tune snagging somewhere deep in her chest.
Her mother must have walked here before; she was sure of it. The thought made her chest ache, a mix of longing and possibility.
A prickling sensation crawled across her neck. Heather shifted, glancing back over her shoulder.
A man lingered near the edge of the square, half-hidden by the shifting crowd. His dark coat was turned up against the wind, his gaze angled unmistakably their way. The moment her eyes met his, he pivoted and disappeared into the crowd.
Heather blinked, breath catching.
Flynn noticed immediately. His voice dropped low.
“What is it?”
“I—nothing. Just thought…” She shook her head, trying to laugh it off, though her skin still tingled. “Felt like someone was staring.”
Flynn’s gaze swept the street anyway, sharp despite his casual stance. When he didn’t spot the man, he slung an arm over her shoulders, steering her toward the bridge.
“Town’s full of eyes, Campbell. Dinnae borrow trouble yet.”
She nodded, though her stomach knotted all the same.
They crossed the bridge together, the bagpipe’s tune thinning behind them.
On the far side, a small bookshop caught her eye, tucked between a wine bar and a butcher shop, its display crowded with Jacobite histories and leather-bound volumes. One cover showed a sketch of Bonnie Prince Charlie, bold beneath the title:
The Lost Gold of the Highlands.
Heather froze, her chest snagging at the sight.
Flynn followed her gaze and gave a low whistle.
“Well now… how serendipitous.”
Her fingers itched to reach for the book, to press it open and devour every page, but she forced herself to step back, fingers curling against her palm. Tomorrow. Eleanor had promised tomorrow.
Flynn nudged her shoulder gently.
“Go on, Campbell. Look at ye… already drawn like a moth to a tartan flame.”
Heather huffed a laugh, tension easing. “I’m not drawn. I’m cautiously interested!”
“Aye,” he teased, “and I’m the king of Scotland.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she tore her attention from the shop window.
A bell chimed overhead as Heather pushed open the door of the little shop. The scent of old paper, leather bindings, and dust-warmed wood rose up to greet her. Shelves leaned with age, stacked floor to ceiling with books whose spines bore the faded gold of long-forgotten titles.
Flynn trailed in behind her, ducking under the low lintel with a bemused look.
“This seems dangerous.”
Heather shot him a sidelong smile.
“For your wallet?” she retorted.
“For my arms. You’re going to make me carry half the shop back to Glenoran, aren’t you?”
She hushed him with a wave, already drawn toward a display table at the center of the room. Jacobite histories lay spread across it—pamphlets, maps, brittle-edged journals. Her fingers hovered above the nearest one, the paper browned and crinkled with age.
The shopkeeper, a stooped man with spectacles perched on his nose, glanced up from behind the counter. His eyes flicked from Heather to the Jacobite display, curiosity sparking, but nothing more dramatic than a man watching someone hover over his favorite section.
Heather’s cheeks warmed anyway. She tucked a curl behind her ear, pretending she definitely wasn’t about to spend too much money on old books.
Flynn stepped a little closer, his voice low and amused.
“Relax, Campbell. You’re allowed to nerd out in public. It’s encouraged, actually,” he teased.
She shot him a look, but her smile betrayed her.
“I’m not nerding out.”
“Aye,” he murmured, “and I’m not about to carry a whole library home.”
Heather huffed, but her laughter softened the knot in her chest. With careful hands, she lifted a thick volume. An illustration inside depicted a tattered battle standard, its emblem half-lost to time.
It tugged something in her—familiar, like the flag she’d uncovered at Glenoran—but she didn’t let herself sink into the feeling. Not here. Not yet.
She closed the book gently and turned back to the display, her excitement winning out over caution. Before she could second-guess herself, she gathered the volume she’d held, the book from the window— The Lost Gold of the Highlands —and another on the history of Culloden.
The shopkeeper’s brows lifted as she approached the counter, but he only rang her up with a knowing little hum, as if he’d seen a thousand customers fall prey to the same irresistible shelves.
“Ooh, look at this one.” Heather excitedly pointed to an embossed hardcover emblazoned with the title, Nordic Dialects and Ancient Poetry, as they headed out arm in arm. “I took a seminar for my university lit course on old Norse and it’s use in storytelling—”
“Campbell…” Flynn jokingly warned, “if we grab any more wee tomes, I’ll have to build ye a new library off-site.”
“Ugh… fine.” Heather laughed and stuck out her tongue in mock defiance. “Though not your worst idea.”
Once outside, Flynn easily hefted the bag from Heather’s shoulder and shot her a sidelong grin.
“Told you this would be dangerous.”
Heather rolled her eyes, though her lips curved upward.
“It’s not dangerous. It’s research.”
“Mhm,” Flynn said. “And I’m only here for emotional support.”
Mist drifted low over the street as they walked on, the bag of books bumping against Flynn’s leg.