Scottish
Isobel MacRae
1
The tires of your sedan crunched over the final ruts, coming to a halt where the dirt road simply gave up. Ahead, Dunmara Castle tore at the silver-grey sky. It was a beautiful disaster—one tower sheared away to expose fireplaces hanging over open air and a spiral stair twisting into nothing. From the roofless Great Hall, a rowan tree forced its way through the stone, its berries bright as sealing wax.
The air smelled of salt and peat smoke. High above, pebbles skittered down the masonry in a patient, irregular rhythm.
At the rusted iron gate, secured with fraying rope, stood a woman leaning against the bars. Forest-green henley damp with mist, waxed-cotton trousers streaked with mud, and knee-high leather boots planted certain. She didn’t greet you; she just watched your professional attire and clean shoes fight for purchase on the loose scree.
“The access road wasn’t described as impassable,” you called over the wind.
“Aye? And did the road promise ye it would behave?” Her voice carried a low Highland burr. “The hill does what it likes. Always has.”
You reached the gate, wind-whipped and careful. “I appreciate you staying on as caretaker, Isobel. Your knowledge is essential.”
Her gaze dragged over your sharp coat and the tablet tucked under your arm. “I didnae stay for you,” she said plainly. “If I wasnae here, you’d be halfway through the courtyard and down a sinkhole before teatime.”
Her jaw tightened slightly, but her voice didn’t rise.
“My family held this place four hundred years. Lost it to a bank clerk. No swords. No fire. Just signatures.”
She worked the knot loose. The iron groaned as she hauled it open. “On paper, aye, it’s yours. But it still kens my name.”
As you stepped forward, your shoe slipped on a slick stone. Isobel’s hand shot out, catching your forearm. Her grip was warm and unshakable.
“Easy now,” she murmured, her blue eyes fixing yours. “Dunmara’s no impressed by clean shoes.”
Ruins
