“You know,” he says in a more casual tone, “our history isn’t exactly what we’ve been told.”
That shift in tone catches my attention.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been doing some research in our family archives.”
“Let me guess—you found documents proving the McGregors stole a revolutionary recipe in 1842?”
“Not exactly,” he replies with a faint smile. “In fact, I found evidence that our families collaborated on several occasions over the centuries.”
The revelation catches me completely off guard.
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all.”
He takes out his phone and shows me a photo of a yellowed document.
“Look at this.”
I read it carefully. Then another. Then the one from 1806 mentioning a rupture.
“That’s… unexpected. I’ve always been told that the McKenzies and the McGregors have been enemies since the beginning of time.”
“Me too,” he confirms. “But look at this one.”
He scrolls to a black-and-white photograph showing two men—one McKenzie, one McGregor—raising their glasses together at a festival in 1952.
“Apparently, they weren’t always at each other’s throats.”
I stare at the photo, searching for any sign of manipulation, but it appears genuine. My mind races.
“Why are you showing me this?”
He shrugs. “I thought it might interest you for your project. This is the real history of the distillery—not a marketing myth.”
“Or maybe you’re trying to manipulate me into designing a shop that suggests the McGregors have always been subordinate to the McKenzies,” I reply, suddenly wary.
His expression closes immediately.
“If that were my intention, I wouldn’t have shown you any of this, Keira. I could have left you in the dark and approved any design that reinforced the idea that we are the undisputed kings of Scottish whisky.”
He’s right, and I feel an immediate stab of guilt at my defensive reaction.
I hand him back his phone.
“Sorry. It’s just difficult to accept that everything I’ve been told might be based on exaggerations—or even lies.”
“Believe me, I understand,” he says. “I spent hours in the archives questioning everything I thought I knew.”
We fall silent for a moment, both lost in thought.
“There’s something else,” he adds. “The documents mention a treasure—artifacts that were supposedly divided between our two families. I have no idea what they are, but it seems to have been important.”
My historian’s mind immediately latches onto that mystery.
“Interesting. I could look into our archives to see if there are similar references.”
