Chapter 20
As the train eases to a stop and the doors slide open, James writes for Nelle in the leather journal.
She notes that he is carrying the blue backpack they purchased in Paris, stuffed full with their clothes, as she follows him off the train into the heart of the station.
Edinburgh Waverley is a mammoth of concrete and glass and people milling in all directions.
Nelle looks through the ceiling at the overcast sky as they weave through the whirlwind of families and suitcases.
Sharp, heavenly espresso hits her nose, but she doesn’t suggest they stop.
For the first time in weeks, something takes precedence over caffeine.
The cottage in the mists of her mind, hovering like a bad memory. A stony house on a hill. Flagstones crisscrossing up to the stoop. A lantern hanging from a post, a ring of gold light. Footprints in the snow. A lake, as clear as a mirror, undisturbed behind it.
When she woke on the train, she knew she had to find it.
As natural a need as her next breath. She hoped that telling the story to James might help her understand why she woke up with this powerful instinct, but reliving Quill’s past only soured her mood.
On top of that, she can sense James’s skepticism through his optimistic acquiescence, and she can’t even blame him.
Out on the street, they blink at the dull evening. The road is lined with gray sandstone and limestone buildings, detailed with touches of medieval and Victorian architecture, crowstepped gables and palatial turrets.
“Where’s the best place to start our search?” Nelle asks.
James stands like a pillar among the people entering and exiting the station.
“A library.”
They walk farther into the city, people drinking at sidewalk tables, smoking cigarettes over dinner.
With every pub they pass, Nelle’s stomach growls.
The meaty, starchy, homey smells pouring out of the old oak doors whisper to her, but James leads them confidently, and if he can help them find the cottage, she isn’t going to suggest a pit stop to refill her stomach.
A cool, wet wind cuts through Nelle’s sweater.
“How’s that one?” She points to a granite building, National Library of Scotland in silver across its facade and a stone-worked Royal Arms over the entrance.
“Almost too perfect.” He writes in the journal, and they dive into the sprawling, well-lit complex.
Historical artifacts line display cases between shelves upon shelves of books. People putter past, speaking low. James leads her, speed walking through the fiction section. She has never seen so many novels in one place. Thousands of worlds awaiting her visit, a treasure trove under one roof.
James finds a desktop computer and starts typing. “What was Quill’s middle name?”
“Jeremiah.” Nelle pulls up a chair. “Wallace Jeremiah Quill.”
James types the name in, and thousands of links appear.
Headlines about Wallace Quill and his bestselling debut novel, outselling some of the big-name authors of the year.
Announcements for film options that never came to fruition.
Die-hard fans theorizing about why Quill suddenly disappeared from the publishing world, never releasing another book.
Nelle knows why. He stopped writing after her accidental conception, at least for publication. Is it possible that he feared creating something, or someone, else?
She points at an article. “‘Wallace Quill Sells His Soul to the Devil’ is a funny headline, but not helpful. Nothing here connects him to the cottage. He never talked about his childhood.”
James scrolls through an interview. Another. All surface-level questions with surface-level answers. Nothing about Quill’s past, where he grew up, his family, his love life. Nothing. Half an hour passes, then a full hour. James huffs and brushes back a wayward hair.
“It’s getting late.” Nelle squeezes his shoulder. “Maybe we should find a hotel.”
James’s blue eyes snag on the screen, confusion and intrigue crossing his face. Nelle has begun to understand his expressions like a secret language.
“What is it?”
“I’m on a message board about Ravel and this guy says he knew Quill when he was a kid.” James poises his fingers over the keyboard, then starts typing rapid-fire.
“What are you doing?” She marvels at the speed of James’s fingers as they fly across the keys. His nails are clean and short, and she can’t help imagining where else they might be put to good use.
“I’m replying to him. Asking if he’s local so we can meet up and ask about Quill.”
“We can’t randomly invite him to meet us, right? We’re two strangers. We need a reason.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one without any social training?”
“I’m a fast learner.”
He pounces on the keyboard. “We’re writing his obituary, and we need as much personal information as we can get. I’ll add that, uh, he’s an A-list celebrity in our town.”
“But Quill’s alive,” Nelle says.
“This guy doesn’t have to know that,” James says. “We can ask him more specific questions about Quill’s childhood, his upbringing, where he grew up.”
“Seems risky. And wrong.”
“I never claimed to be right.”
He finishes crafting their lie and hits “Send.”
“What if he doesn’t respond?”
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” James says. “Or use the hotel computer. However long it takes.”
“Thank you. There’s still one little problem.” We don’t have a hotel.
His hand falls to her waist, finger through her belt loop. “What is it? Oh, shit. Is it your period? We can stop at a pharmacy—”
“James, James, stop.” Nelle puts her hands on his arms. “I don’t have a menstrual cycle. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . reproduce.”
He blinks, processing.
She scratches her arm, trying to decipher his reaction.
I do not need to stress about this right now, she tells herself as her stomach goes ice cold.
She only wanted to ease his cute, momentary concern, give them something to laugh about.
She considers saying, It’s okay; we can adopt, but she settles on pushing the subject aside entirely.
“The problem is that we don’t have a hotel yet.”
James recovers fast. “I think we can solve that.”
Nelle studies the boring, smooth hotel ceiling.
Twilight bleeds through the curtains. Scotland doesn’t get dark until midnight during the summer.
She tries to sleep on top of the comforter, annoyed by the suffocating blankets.
James’s soft snores are the only sound in the room, aside from the clock above the door.
Outside is an occasional voice or burst of bird caws.
When her life was confined to a bedroom with rose-printed wallpaper, she never felt this, but since she left, storm clouds brew over her heart every time she settles in one spot.
They have barely been in Edinburgh for a day, and she is already anxious to move on.
Maybe scared that her past will catch up to her.
That Quill will catch up to her.
She wants to see Japan and Morocco and Fiji, every continent and island, only now a roadblock stands in her way. The cottage.
Her gut instinct practically demands she find it.
As primal a need as eating, and it’s only intensifying.
Was the dream sent to her by Quill, or by some higher power connecting them?
If he orchestrated this, then she could be heading into a trap.
But her need to find the cottage doesn’t feel ominous.
It feels . . . right. Her skin itches thinking about it.
She flips her pillow, uncomfortable but content to watch James sleep. His rigid jaw and nose. His fluttering lashes. That one piece of hair that falls away from the rest.
Nelle pushes it back. At least one of them will be well rested in the morning.
A car honks in the street, and James is back in New York.
He stirs awake, thinking about his novel, the characters he created, the life he left behind.
He sits up and the moment shatters. He’s in Edinburgh.
Nelle is asleep on top of the blankets, her brows drawn together, a deep crease between them.
He kisses her forehead and her freckled cheek, writes a note to let her know he will be back in fifteen, grabs his coat, and ducks out into the drizzly morning. He finds a coffee shop down the street filled with people going to their early jobs and jogs.
He returns to the hotel room bearing two hot lattes and a blueberry muffin.
Surprisingly, it only takes him touching Nelle’s shoulder to wake her. Normally, that is only the first step in a ten-minute routine to drag her from sleep. She blinks at him, like she does every morning, as if unsure whether he’s part of her dream or reality.
“Coffee is served, Your Highness.” He bows his head.
“Your Highness?” she mutters, always a bit cross when she wakes. “What is that about?”
James kisses her forehead, wrinkled with sleepy annoyance.
“Because,” he says, “you’re my princess.”
“That’d make you my . . .” She tilts her head, hair mussed. “Servant.”
He climbs off the bed before he ends up kissing her all morning, picking up the blue backpack. They have other things to do today.
Nelle sits up. “And where are you going, servant?”
“If Your Highness permits it, I’m taking a shower. Once I’m clean, we can shop for clothes and check on our lead.”
“Hmm, maybe library first, shop second?”
James catches a glimpse of her as he steps toward the bathroom. Cross-legged on the bed in her little shorts, thighs tanned from the beach in Nice, hands wrapped around a hot coffee.
He stops and gives a short bow. “As you wish.”
James logs onto the library computer. A red dot alerts him of a notification.
“He responded.”
Nelle nervously picks her nails, leaning over James’s shoulder. “I could shit myself right now.”
“Whatever the response is, it’s okay,” he says. “We’ll find the cottage.”
“No matter how long it takes.” She pulls her chair in closer.
James bites his tongue. They do have a time limit, ticking down with every dollar they spend. His savings are half of what they were, and most of what remains he has put aside for plane tickets back to the States.
He clicks on the private message, ears thrumming as he reads.
TerryNolan1981: Hi, I did know Wallace Quill when we were children.
I’m very sorry to hear that he’s passed away.
I’m sure his obituary will be in good hands with you.
He was a friend to me when we were boys.
I can try to answer whatever questions you have, though I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.
I live in Edinburgh, so if you’re ever in town, we can meet up for lunch and a chat. Thanks for getting in contact. —Terry.
James drafts a message asking how soon they can meet, emphasizing that they are available today. Nelle reviews the response and presses “Send.”
While they wait, James taps the mouse in time with a beat in his mind. Nelle paces, weaving her long blond strands into a braid. James refreshes the page.
“I can’t stand waiting,” she says. “I need to distract myself.”
“We’re sitting inside a haven of distraction,” James says. “Go ahead, wander around. I’ll wait here.”
Per the journal’s instructions, Nelle has free rein of the library. She beams as she vanishes into the bookshelves.
James closes out of the messages tab, leaving an empty search bar. A blinking, taunting cursor. Without thinking, he types New York City. He scans through apartment listings, jumping through street views, noting cafés and bars and bookstores he wants to visit.
Another search. New York University. He scours the university’s website for the creative writing program. The deadline for undergraduate transfer applications isn’t until the end of September. He has the rest of the month to decide.
James starts an application.
An hour later, he has submitted his SAT scores, resumé, and impromptu essay responses.
He feels guilty for not telling Nelle, but he doesn’t have to talk to her yet about the possibility of returning to New York.
He can bring it up after they find the cottage.
I’m thinking too far ahead. Right now, he doesn’t even know if he will be admitted. And if he is, he might not even enroll.
He closes out of the New York tabs. The damage is done. Application sent.
He opens the previous message board and freezes. There is a tiny red dot.
How’s tomorrow at noon? I’ll message you café details in the morning. Cheers. —Terry.
Every thought of New York drops out of James’s head. He opens his mouth to yell out Nelle’s name, remembers where he is, and stops himself short. He retreats to the keyboard.
Sounds great! See you there. —James.