Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-four
Edinburgh, Scotland
We depart Paris the next morning using a complicated, follow-proof path to the airport.
But I feel like I’m looking over my shoulder more than ever.
The idea that Allard may be tracking us has freaked me out, and I startle every time I see a large man at the airport.
It’s never him, but my nerves remain frayed.
The direct flight from Paris to Edinburgh is uneventful, and we emerge into Scotland under gray, wet skies. The streets are sloshed with rain, and while it’s certainly atmospheric, it’s also cold and unpleasant.
I can’t help gazing at the castle looming above the city from atop its craggy rock.
Edinburgh is gorgeous, with old, dark stone buildings and sharp spires creating a varied skyline that makes me immediately want to see more of the city.
Crammed-together buildings, worn cobbled streets, and a sense of both heaviness and history permeate the air.
We stop at a little shop on our way to the hotel and purchase jackets, sturdy walking shoes, and other activewear.
I look out the shop’s window as Dane pays for our gear, my mind on the puzzle.
We know we need to hike to the top of Arthur’s Seat, which dominates the skyline to the east, but we don’t know what happens when we get up there, or what the Sunshine on Leith part means.
We could hike up there now, but it’s almost seven p.m. and we want to spend a little more time trying to research the puzzle.
I’ve been searching online, but the only thing that comes up is that movie with the name and the Proclaimers song, just as Xhan said.
I’m four search result pages deep and still seeing reviews on the movie (and before it was a movie, a play) and no closer to figuring it out, although now I can easily recognize the song.
It’s a slow, crooning melody, but there’s no clue in the lyrics.
I’m frustrated with the lack of answers.
“Do you want to get dinner together tonight, or do you want some time to yourself?” Dane asks as we approach the front desk to check in.
I picture an uninterrupted evening of research, room service, and whatever’s on Scottish television. It’s tempting. “I think we’ll be better served if we try to work out the last part of the puzzle.”
“Here you are, sir,” the clerk says, sliding over two room keys. “I’ve included a key for both you and the missus.”
I give Dane a single arched brow at missus.
“Two rooms, right?” Dane says.
“Ah, no, it’s just the single one, as booked,” the clerk says.
Dane looks at me, and I shake my head and laugh. He bites his top lip, like he’s considering how far he wants to take it, but I pull on the crook of his arm and steer us to the elevator. “It’s fine. We’ll get you earplugs for my snoring.”
“Do they make industrial ones? I’ll need those headset ones they use in helicopters.”
I pinch his arm.
Our room has a gorgeous view of the castle up on the hill.
Below on the street, buses and cars honk and whoosh in the rain.
I suddenly want to be out there, walking those streets and experiencing the city instead of running from place to place like in Paris.
Maybe a short walk before I get back to researching.
“I want to take a walk before dinner and work,” I say as Dane fishes out our new purchases and rips tags off.
“I’ll lace these shoes and come with you.”
I consider pointing out that I can go on my own, but it’s probably safer if he’s with me.
Anyway, the difference between Dane coming with me and someone like Eric, who often and loudly stated he didn’t like it when I walked alone on campus after dark, is that it isn’t about control.
I put on my newly purchased walking-hiking shoes and jacket, and we go back outside.
We cross to Old Town, passing by gray-tinged brick buildings with charming corner turrets and corbeled soffits against the walls.
The rain has stopped, but the light is grayer and heavier, casting a dark gloom over everything.
I breathe in deep lungfuls of petrichor.
We work our way up to the Royal Mile, just next to the late-Gothic splendor of Saint Giles’ Cathedral.
I’m out of breath by the time we reach the top of the hill where the castle sits.
Dane trails a few feet behind—close enough to be with me, but far enough to give us both space.
It’s past five, so the castle is closed, but I linger in the cobbled space ahead of the gatehouse. In the distance, the green and brown of Arthur’s Seat looks formidably huge. I start my way back down the hill as it begins to rain again, Dane following.
The walk affords me time to think about everything that’s happened.
I think about how weird it will be to go home after this.
I should call Christine and let her know I’m still alive.
I should find out if she’s managed to collect the things I had in Eric’s condo.
Maybe give some thought to what happens if I am deleted.
I want to mentally replay that kiss in the Louvre.
I consider whether to go over to Cowgate or down the Royal Mile and head back to New Town, but my wrist is aching and I realize I’ve left the pills in the room. Don’t run in pain, Luca said.
“I’m going to go into that small market and get some paracetamol,” I tell Dane.
He nods. “I’ll be right there, outside Saint Giles’.” I look where he’s pointing to the huge spires of the cathedral, which is just across the lane from the shop.
The market has a slender section of tourists’ needs between the rows of fascinating Scottish junk food and castle souvenirs.
Luckily they have paracetamol. I plunk the package on the counter at the back of the shop.
The cashier is sitting slumped on a stool, watching something on his phone.
He rings me up mechanically, without looking at the pills or the pound coins I slide over.
I just turned to go when I hear the familiar sounds of the Proclaimers crooning “Sunshine on Leith” coming from his phone, but it sounds different, like there’s a crowd singing it. I turn back.
“You’re um—watching the movie? Sunshine on Leith?” I ask.
“What’s that?” The cashier looks at me with a scowl. “No, I’m no’ watching that shite. Watching the highlights here. Last season.”
“What highlights?” I see someone pass the window of the shop. Twice. As though trying to see whether I’m in here. That can’t be right—Dane’s outside.
“Hibs highlights. From the Scottish Cup final, one of the best.” The cashier turns his phone toward me.
A football game is on the screen. The song blares from the phone as the camera pans the crowd in the stands, everyone holding green-and-white-striped scarves stretched between their hands as they sway and sing.
“Oh,” I say. “The song. It’s their song.”
“Aye,” the cashier says, the bulk of his focus back on his phone. “Our song down Easter Road.”
“Easter Road?” I’m still looking at the guy pacing back and forth outside.
“Aye, in Leith,” the cashier says, but his tone is a bit testy now. He’s definitely done with me. “Home to the Hibees.”
I move so I’m behind an aisle divider with a tempting display of Cadbury chocolate and pull out my phone to text Dane. Someone might be outside the market. They know I’m in here.
Dane: I’ll be right there.
I stay by the door, watching out the shop window, but there’s no one on the street, except a few tourists walking by. I don’t see Dane. I wait a minute, two, and text him again.
Zoe: Where are you?
There’s no answer.
A zip of fear goes through me. What if they got him? What if he’s hurt or worse? Horror sears through me. I push open the door and step out. No one is out here, and there’s no sign of Dane. My heart thumps painfully in my chest.
I make my way on the downhill slant of the cobbles, keeping an eye on my steps so I don’t lose my footing on the slick cobblestones. No one is around—and Dane’s nowhere, not by the cathedral. The 1982’s note about us being next flashes before my eyes.
“Dr. Wilder,” someone says in a heavy French accent, their fingers making a grab for my shoulder. “Someone wants a word with you.”
I leap forward and veer away, not risking the time it takes to look back. There’s nowhere to go on this road except down; the tall brick buildings hem it in.
From my left, Dane appears from around the side of the enormous cathedral. “Zoe!”
I don’t bother yelling; the guy behind me is too close. But all Dane has to do is cross the street. He runs at full tilt and sends a kick at the guy behind me, who goes sprawling. The guy recovers almost immediately, springing up and pulling Dane back from me.
Nope, my brain yells, and I dart back, jump to the side, and kick the man’s lower back. He lets go of Dane with an oof, and I grab Dane’s hand.
I don’t know where else to run but down the hill of the Royal Mile, but Dane urges me to the side, under an almost inconspicuous brick arch nestled between shops with a sign above it that reads Advocate’s Close.
The doorway is a tunnel to cement stairs, and we fly down them.
The guy after us has righted himself, and he’s not far behind; I can hear him stumbling and yelling.
In any other circumstance, the little passage would be charming, with its compact streetlamps lighting the brick underfoot in the growing gloom.
Thank God for Edinburgh’s stairs between streets—they’re trip hazards but provide excellent getaways from people chasing you.
Another stumble comes from behind, followed by a hissed “Merde!” I chance a look back to see the man tripping on an uneven step.
Dane tugs my hand, and I get it: Don’t waste time by looking back.
But he’s close, having gained on us. There’s a tight turn before more stairs appear, and we have to slow to take it.
I chuck the bottle of pills at the man’s head and somehow aim right; it pops his forehead, and he recoils with an oof.