Chapter Text
England!
I let my luggage drop from my shoulders with a dull double thump, and throw myself carelessly across my bed in an inelegant sprawl. I am a million miles away from caring even the slightest particle about elegance at the moment. I am too tired to even curse how tired I am.
But I'm back. The very thought of England is gorgeous. I'll have to ask Lamb for some assignments that will keep me here for a while.
England!
I'd had to keep myself from falling to my knees and kissing the ground when we'd landed at Heathrow. Six months on location in the Middle East was never an easy assignment for any reporter, but in twenty twenty-six, as an archaeology reporter, and a white, single, agnostic woman to boot, it was grueling in ways that cannot be adequately described to anyone who has not been through it themselves. For six months.
And to cap it off, they were six months that had started only two months after losing John.
I look at the plain gold ring still on my left hand. The easiest and simplest thing had been to leave it there during my tour, but now that I'm back. . .
With the slow, ponderous movements of a person only barely keeping her grasp on wakefulness, I pull the ring off my finger, grasp it firmly in my fist for a moment, and then place it gently on the bed's second pillow.
My eyes droop closed. I let myself drift.
Dear John. . .
We'd met when I was doing interviews for an article I was writing about some Roman and Iron Age remains that had been found on his estate of Helwater. The library and half of his office had been turned over to the excavation team, so they could set up their computers and pore over documents out of the wind and weather. I had commandeered a tiny corner there to conduct my interviews over the course of several days.
John had walked in on my final day, while I was just wrapping up with a few last questions to the site director. Both men had spoken briefly, about the day's work, and about the likelihood of the site becoming a listed ancient monument, and the subsequent regulations and requirements that would be imposed by British Heritage if it did get registered.
Then, John turned to me, and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I'd said no, it was just exactly the other way about. At his quizzical glance, I'd explained that I was the niece of an archaeologist, and a certified science communicator myself, and so if he had any questions about the goings on of the excavations, I was far and away the most likely person who could give him answers he could understand.
He'd smiled warmly then, and told me to lead the way, he wanted to know about everything.
I took him at his word, and was amply repaid for doing so.
He showed quite an absorbing interest in the archaeological process, and was intelligently curious about all the objects that had been found, and why the archaologsts knew what they said they did about them. It didn't matter in the least to him that the whole thing ended up being a rather run-of-the-mill villa and bathhouse, built on top of an almost entirely theoretical Iron Age farmstead. Most of the finds turned out to be unremarkable mosaic tesserae and fragments of completely common hypocaust and roof tiles, but he'd still shown a most flattering attention to everything I could tell him. In the end, he offered to display the prize finds - three almost perfectly intact Roman brooches, and one remarkable Iron Age coin – in the house's main gallery. Oh – in a proper purpose-built cabinet and with a professional historical summary, of course. And would I feel able to write said summary myself?
I'd blushed a little, and said I'd see what could be done.
We were married two years later.
Four years after that, he died in action over the Strait of Hormuz.
And then, only two months later, I walked into the same war zone, investigating and reporting on the state and upkeep of several important ancient sites and antiquities in the region.
I groggily search for the precious jump-drive in my pocket, and breathe a little easier when my fingers touch smooth plastic. I've already uploaded my work to my uncle's private server, and the Nat Geo server too, but having my own backup is vital in these cases. It isn't often an independent news agent like Lamb's Past Times gets sponsored to do the kind of work I've just done – and by The National Geographic Foundation itself! - so when such a windfall does come along, I throw myself entirely into it.
Even when every second of the assignment is not only fraught with danger of several kinds, but they also remind me painfully of the husband so violently taken from me, so very, very recently.
My heart twinges again, as it has so often these past months. Not just with the pain of loss, but with the pain of guilt, and regret.
Not to mention loneliness. . .
Dear, dear John. . .
I wish, oh, how I wish I had ever loved him. . .
~
~
Scotland!
I leave my luggage by the door of my apartment, and collapse into my favourite chair, so soul-weary I don't even pour myself a dram first.
I close my eyes, and breathe in the smell of home.
The upholstery on this battered old antique wing-back still smells like the cigars my great-grandfather used to smoke while sitting in it, and very faintly, of the potpourri my great-grandmother always kept in a bowl nearby. It smells of my grandfather's cologne and my father's hand soap, my grandmother's spice cake and my mother's mulled ale. It smells of the Play-Doh I ground into it once when I was little, and the many different types of Febreeze Willie had used to try and disguise the fact.
It smells like home. . .
Too bad I'm in Edinburgh. . .
With a sudden burst of urgency, I jump up to pour myself a dram. I admire the amber liquid as it pours into the fancy crystal glass. I add the smallest spoonful of water, and stir it with a fingertip. Then I taste it, and let the twin sensations of smoke and fire roll sweetly down my throat.
Scotland!
Even the exact same whisky never tasted the same while I was in France.
I glance over at the shabby overnight bag and small roll-around suitcase that are the only things I managed to personally bring back with me last night. The rest of my things should be here tomorrow.
Or the next day. . .
I kick back the rest of my drink with a deeply growled curse, then pour myself another. I wasn't supposed to be back here for another year and a half. Annalise was supposed to marry me, and we were supposed to move back here together, where she could continue to be an Instagram makeup influencer, and I could expand Thistle Dew Distilleries using the contacts I had made in France for the past three years.
Supposed to!
I drain my glass again, and take the bottle back with me to my chair.
Meeting Annalise had been such a blur I barely remember the details now. I was fresh off the plane, away from Scotland for the first time, thrown deep into the social life and general hurly-burly of Paris, barely twenty-two, and a wide-eyed, innocent virgin into the bargain. Is it any wonder I was swept off my feet by the beautifully vivacious, blue-eyed, smiling daughter of the biggest wine merchant in the city?
She seemed to like me too. And she told me she loved me.
I'm not sure, now, why I ever believed her.
Loving Annalise had always felt fake to me, to one degree or another, from the very beginning. But she was so pretty, and sweet, and insistent that I'd ignored all the red flags for years, just for the pleasure of being so thoroughly admired and worshiped.
Or so I'd thought. . .
I'd suspected something was wrong for months, but it wasn't until last night that I'd come home early, and heard. . . sounds. . . coming from our bedroom.
I'd very strongly suspected, for many months. So the sounds weren't exactly a surprise.
But walking in on Annalise cheating on me with Louise de La Tour most certainly was.
Louise de La Tour! Of all people!
It wasn't that she was a woman - though that was a shock - it was that Louise is one of the most self-obsessed, empty-headed, cold-hearted, willfully ignorant people it has ever been my displeasure to know, and I had thought that Annalise was with me in thoroughly disliking her.
Annalise jumped up from our bed, not even bothering to wrap a sheet around herself, and had tried to tell me it wasn't what it looked like – that she didn't love me any less – that it wasn't cheating when it was with another woman, now was it, really? Really? Then she'd babbled out some of the ridiculous pet names she had for me, doing nothing to quell the disgust rising in my stomach. I'd said I didn't care who she slept with from now on, so long as it wasn't me.
I'd grabbed a few of my belongings and stormed out, shouting that the movers were coming tomorrow and she had until then to get out of my life forever.
I hadn't waited to hear her reply.
I caught the very last direct flight from Paris to Edinburgh last night, and now, here I am, back at the bare-bones apartment Willie insisted I rent, so I would have a place to stay when over from France on business.
Well.
My older brother is often right. Seems as though he's right again.
I take a long pull of whisky, straight from the bottleneck this time. Fire blooms in my stomach, momentarily drowning out the shame and disgust.
Ahh. That's good.
Now if only I had something or someone to punch, I'd feel almost myself again. . .
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to answer it, but it is only an automated text. A reminder that this year's World Stone Skimming Championships begin this Friday week, and a request for confirmation. Am I still intending on defending my title?
I look up at the three golden cups on my otherwise bare mantle. Three consecutive Grand Champion trophies. The only thing I've truly accomplished for myself these past three years. . .
I send a confirmation text, and then settle in to finish my bottle of whisky.