She’s been working for our company since I was eight. She likely knows me better than I know myself.
“Your father would like you to review these financial projections before tomorrow’s meeting,” she continues. “And your mother asked me to remind you about the family dinner this evening. Apparently, your great-uncle Douglas has an important announcement to make.”
“Most likely a new theory about how the McGregors sabotaged the 1976 Whisky World Expo,” I mutter.
Martha wisely refrains from commenting, though the faint twitch at the corner of her lips betrays her amusement.
“Anything else, sir?”
I’m about to dismiss her when a thought crosses my mind.
“Actually—yes. Do you know if anyone’s been accessing the family archives lately?”
Martha pauses to think.
“Not to my knowledge. Your mother goes down occasionally for her historical research, but I believe she’s currently working on a project about sixteenth-century castles. Your great-uncle has been avoiding the stairs since his fall last year…”
“Perfect,” I cut in, a little too eagerly. “I’d like to spend a few hours there this afternoon. Could you move my appointments after two?”
She raises an eyebrow but nods.
“Of course, sir. A sudden interest in genealogy?”
“More in the region’s economic history,” I say vaguely. “Simple curiosity.”
“Of course,” she repeats, clearly unconvinced. “I’ll have the archives prepared and arrange additional lamps. The lighting is particularly poor since your father declined to invest in a new system last year.”
“Excellent initiative, Martha. What would I do without you?”
“Most likely wander into bureaucratic chaos and starve beneath a pile of unopened mail, sir,” she replies dryly before leaving my office.
I can’t help but smile. Martha is probably the only person who gets away with speaking to me like that.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of meetings and calls. I skim through financial projections, approve a new label design for our Christmas limited edition, and mediate a dispute between marketing and production over tour schedules for peak season.
As two o’clock approaches, a strange, almost childish excitement builds in me. The McKenzie family archives are rarely visited—and even more rarely discussed. Like any old Scottish family, we have our share of secrets, scandals, and stories better left buried. My father believes the past belongs exactly where it is—and that only the future deserves our attention.
But after seeing Hamish and Rosita in their little sanctuary… after watching the way Keira looked at them… I can’t help but wonder—what if our rivalry with the McGregors isn’t as unchangeable as I’ve always been told?
The archives are locatedin the basement of the family manor, accessible by a worn stone staircase. The air grows cooler anddamper as I descend, and the scent of old paper and settled dust fills my lungs.
Contrary to what films might suggest, the McKenzie archives are not some torch-lit medieval dungeon. They’re a series of rooms modernized in the 1980s, with metal shelving, humming dehumidifiers, and lighting that—just as Martha said—is truly inadequate.
I’m surprised to find not only extra lamps, but also a steaming teapot, a cup, and a plate of shortbread waiting on the central worktable. Martha really does think of everything.
I begin with the oldest business ledgers, dating back to the distillery’s founding in 1793. The yellowed pages crackle beneath my fingers as I turn them carefully, deciphering the elaborate handwriting of my ancestor, Archibald McKenzie. Early entries mostly record equipment purchases, barley transactions, and whisky sales to local merchants.
Nothing remarkable—until I reach an entry dated May 1794:
Productive meeting with H. McGregor regarding water supply. His mill, being upstream from our distillery, has allowed us to agree upon a mutually beneficial arrangement regulating the river’s flow. His expertise in hydraulics is invaluable, and his illicit whisky, though technically illegal, is remarkably refined. There may be potential for a more formal collaboration in the future.
I read the passage three times.
A formal collaboration? Between a McKenzie and a McGregor? At the very beginning of the distillery’s history?
Intrigued, I pull out more ledgers and move forward through the years. Mentions of H. McGregor continue—brief, but consistently cordial.
Then, in 1806, the tone shifts abruptly:
