I was warned it's always raining in Scotland but not to bother with umbrellas. The wind is the grip of God and will yank the handle from your hand before you can say "Crivvens!"
Outside of the taxi, the trees shifted in patterns of vibrant greens usually reserved only for paintings. There had been fifteen minutes of silence between the driver and I, with the exception of pleasantries at Edinburgh airport when he helped lift my suitcases into the trunk.
Beneath the shade of his cap, the driver was watching me. I made the mistake of meeting his gaze, giving him the cue he'd been waiting for to begin interrogating me for his own entertainment.
He asked a question in a thick Scottish accent. When I only opened and closed my mouth in confusion, he repeated himself, "Are you here on holiday?"
"No, I'm moving here," I replied, hoping curt answers would deter him from a lengthy conversation.
"So you're boarding at Shambles then, good school," he said, "Whereabouts in America are you from?"
"Georgia."
"Is that north or south?"
"Above Florida."
"South then," he said, "I've got a cousin who moved to Illinois, is that anywhere near there?"
"No," I twisted my fingers in and out of one another like the celtic knot necklace packed somewhere in one of my suitcases.
"They don't usually have Americans at the College of Shambles, it's very prestigious," he chattered on, "One of the professors won a big award recently if I'm not mistaken."
"Well, that was my aunt," I said. Unfortunately, I knew very little about my Aunt Gwendolyn, only tidbits of information mentioned periodically and casually by my mother. The only picture I'd seen was the one printed in black and white on the fridge. It was held up by a broken magnet from the Bahamas, an article from the College of Shambles' newsletter announcing Gwendolyn's nomination for the Dan David prize.
"Ah, it's Gwendolyn Torrance isn't it?"
I nodded, turning my head fully toward the window. The forest had melted into rolling hills. Mist rose from the sea below the distant cliffs. If Scotland was a bride, the fog was a veil, spreading across the landscape in an opaque mist.
"How do your parents feel about your moving?" he asked.
My jaw tightened, "They were actually murdered."
Silence enveloped the car, smothering the flames of conversation. The weight of those words hung heavy in the air. Though I hadn't asked the cab driver to carry the burden along with my suitcases in the trunk, it had detonated in the backseat.
"My condolences," he muttered.
The images were conjured in my mind as though the words had been a summoning spell. The ceiling of my bedroom with a dark patch growing larger in the middle of the night. The shadow formed a drop which fell onto my cheek like a crimson tear. It was my mother's blood, falling like the beginnings of rain.
The cab's movements turned jarring as the road snaked into sharp, unpredictable curves. Bile stung the back of my throat. A gag punched its way toward my tongue. I swallowed. The aeroplane lasagna was congelling into a solid in the pit of my stomach.
By the time the cab passed through the tall iron gates, I was ready to be sick. Stumbling from the car, the illness claimed victory in a nearby shrub. There was little room for embarrassment as I awkwardly yanked the folded notes from my pocket. Trading the money for my suitcases, I wiped a bit of sickness from my chin with determination.
"Which way to the staff cottages?"
The cab driver avoided my eyes, pointing to the right. Gripping my suitcase handles in either fist, I yanked the wheels over the rocky path winding through a sparse patch of trees.
Climbing the hill with two pieces of luggage holding sixteen years worth of belongings proved to be more challenging than expected. Where the trees opened into grassy knolls shrouded by fog, I stopped to gulp the air as though it were the tonic of life. Scottish air was more filling than American air. A few breaths and my head felt clearer.
Through the mist, the gothic architecture of the college of Shambles was a foreboding presence. Before my parents left Edinburgh, they would have walked this path when returning to school from the city. I'd always hoped to come to Scotland under different circumstances. I wanted to be here with my mother and father, listening as they regaled me with wild stories from their time at Shambles.
I let go of the wistful thought as a gust of wind swept my hair from my face. Tugging the suitcases behind me, I continued moving forward.
The staff cottages came into view one by one like buoys emerging from a dark sea. Gwendolyn lived in the seventeenth cottage. Though the houses were all identical, Gwendolyn's was surrounded by the songs of wind chimes dangling from her porch.
I'd just reached the first step when the door swung open. A woman with unruly dark hair as large as she was stood with her hands on her hips. Her expression shifted from annoyance to surprise.
"Oh goodness, Seraphena! I didn't expect you for another hour," she lifted her long skirt down the stairs, grabbing one of my suitcases, "I thought you were Professor Dunsmuir complaining about my wind chimes again," she said with a grunt.
Once both suitcases sat on the porch, Gwendolyn opened her arms for an embrace. I hugged her half heartedly. She smelt like sage incense, smokey and earthy.
"You're so small, it's like I'm hugging myself," she remarked, pulling away.
Heat flooded my cheeks, burning the tips of my ears. I'd always been on the smaller side but a month of rarely eating or sleeping and I was barely there. I avoided mirrors, not wanting to catch sight of my skeletal reflection or empty, tired eyes.
Inside, Gwendolyn hurried to put on the kettle. Soon the aroma of brewing peppermint tea filled the small living room. It was not that the cottage wasn't spacious, rather that Gwendolyn had crammed every nook and cranny with books. If not for the exposed timber along the walls, I'd assume the cottage was held up by books, cobwebs, and cups of tea.
Sitting down in a worn leather armchair, the hot beverage was thrusted into my cold hands. I sipped the scalding liquid quietly, savouring the burning sensation as it trickled down my throat. The peppermint steam tickled my nose, goosebumps spreading down my arms.
I perused the titles on the stack of books nearest to me. The shelve supporting them tilted at a dangerous angle. I tilted my head, reading the curved silver and gold fonts on the worn spines. Selkies, Kelpies, and Lochs: An In-Depth Study of Scottish Water Folklore, The Picts and the Pixies: Mysterious Creatures of Ancient Scotland, Bards and Ballads: Tales of Heroic Deeds in Scottish Mythology, and The Witches of the Moors: Scottish Witchcraft and Folk Beliefs.
"What do you teach again?"
Gwendolyn followed my eye line to the array of books entitled with unusual subjects. She swallowed a sip of her tea, "Occult Studies," she explained, "Scotland is known for its fascinating mythology. Your mother, she got me into it. She was just as obsessed," her eyes fell to her teacup.
"I thought she was more interested in history." The walls of my mother's study were plastered with maps of Scotland and Ireland. The blood was splattered like a painter's mistake, a slip of a paintbrush, slinging the crimson across parts of County Cork.
"Mythology is history," Gwendolyn gestured broadly, "History, mythology, one in the same. Your mother and I, we devoted our lives to this."
"I heard about your prize," I said, "I think mom wanted to send a card, she just never got around to it."
A blush touched Gwendolyn's freckled cheeks, "I didn't know she knew about it, a bit cheeky of me really, I was piggy-backing off the topic Elspeth used for her dissertation at Edinburgh University."
I found myself at my usual loss for words. Gwendolyn's face was taken from an old picture of my mother in her thirties. The genetics were evident even in the way she sat with a hand propping her cheek, her dark eyes flitting about the room. Her bare foot bounced on the carpet, shaking the glass of the coffee table. The jitteriness was a trait she and my mother shared. My mother was always busy, dashing from room to room, high on caffeine and creativity.
Gwendolyn was a stranger from an ill-printed and dated article, but had the features of the woman who raised me. I was conflicted.
"I'm sure you're exhausted," Gwendolyn said, "I remember doing that nine hour flight a few times, it's a beating on the body. You'll have to rest well before school tomorrow."
"You didn't come for the funeral."
Gwendolyn's expression was like a baby trying a lemon. She pursed her lips as though tasting something sour. Her mouth opened and closed as if testing sentences before settling in a sigh of defeat, "Elspeth wouldn't have wanted me there. My final gift to her was staying away."
"That isn't true," the porcelain of the teacup had begun to burn my palms but I clutched tighter, "She talked about you all of the time, but she said you weren't interested in having a relationship with her."
"I don't have an answer that can sum up the complicated past of the Torrance girls," she said solemnly, "We had our differences and we parted ways."
"What sort of differences keep someone from attending their sister's funeral?" I could hear the frost icing my tone until my words felt as sharp as icicles.
She avoided my pointed gaze, her focus drifting aimlessly from the patterned rug to the dripping sink in the kitchen, "A time difference, I suppose, it's hard to stay in contact."
"A time difference," I scoffed, the peppermint tea had left a stale taste in my mouth.
"And political differences," Gwendolyn added, "These things matter more in adulthood."
I shook my head, slouching further into the leather chair. I wondered if I sunk far enough into the seat if I could disappear altogether.
Gwendolyn sipped her tea quietly. After some time, she placed the empty teacup on the coffee table. She laced her fingers together, holding them in her lap in a manner that seemed to bring her comfort, as though she were holding her own hand. I dropped my head, suddenly uncomfortable by how similar the stranger looked to my mother.
"Avoiding Elspeth for the last sixteen years will perhaps—" she took a deep breath before continuing, "—be my biggest regret. When the police contacted me from the states, I broke down. It seemed unimaginable. My sister and her husband—murdered, my teenage niece—an orphan...." she sniffled, "Of course, when they asked if I'd be willing to take you in, I was, but I doubted you'd want anything to do with me. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Seraphena. Unfortunately, adults are just as clueless as the teenagers we scold. We don't know what we're doing either."
My teeth pierced my lower lip. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth to trap the oncoming sob, "I didn't want to come," my voice was as high as a child's, "I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"I think a different environment will help with the grief," Gwendolyn suggested, "You can connect with them here, Shambles was special to Elspeth and Iain. They met here and fell in love at this school."
"Nothing will help until the murderer is caught," my head was beginning to feel woozy, dancing with the gruesome visions of the study.
"Yes, of course, and the police are working everyday," Gwendolyn said with a nod.
Rain began to pour outside the round window accompanied by thunder rumbling overhead. The time difference had snuck up on me like a predator of sleep instead of death.
As if sensing my sudden exhaustion, Gwendolyn rose, grabbing a knitted blanket from a basket near the hearth, "You'll have to sleep on the couch tonight until we can move you into a dormitory tomorrow."
"A dormitory?" I asked with a yawn, "I thought I was staying with you."
"Well you are staying with me, Shambles is my home," Gwendolyn said, spreading the blanket over the short leather sofa, "But there's only one bedroom in the cottage and I think that would be a bit cramped."
Too tired to argue, I moved to the couch. My head was so heavy it practically fell onto the pillow. Gwendolyn spread another blanket over my body. She said something about sorting a uniform but a nightmare was boarding my train of thought chugging toward a deep but disturbing sleep.
Thank you for reading the first chapter of my novel Venom and Vengeance. I'm creating this story for the purpose of NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month), but if it receives support, I will look into publishing traditionally. Comment and let me know what you think so far. -N.K