“I think we’ve earned a drink,” I announce.
I head to the bar tucked along one wall and return with a bottle and two glasses. Alistair pours a small measure of amber liquid into each.
“This bottle comes from my great-grandfather’s private collection,” I explain. “It was never commercialized.”
“What makes it so special?”
I hand him a glass, our fingers brushing briefly as he takes it.
“The barley used for this whisky was grown on land that sits exactly on the border between our two estates. It’s an equal blend—McKenzie and McGregor. I had to dig for a while to find it hidden in the back of our reserve.”
He stares at the glass, stunned.
“That’s impossible. Our families would never have collaborated on whisky.”
“That’s what I would’ve said too—before reading the documents you showed me. Shall we?”
He lifts the glass to his lips with slight hesitation. I do the same.
Sharing a drink with Alistair, here in the McGregor archives, feels strangely intimate. Almost forbidden.
The first sip surprises me. It’s complex, rich—notes of honey and peat, layered with an unexpected softness and a depth I’ve never tasted before, not even in the finest whiskies.
“It’s incredible,” I murmur.
“This whisky proves that McKenzie and McGregor can create something extraordinary together… when we’re not busy hating each other.”
There’s something almost vulnerable in his voice, and when I look up, I realize he’s watching me closely, as if my reaction matters more than it should.
“How did you find out it existed?” he asks.
“Just a gut feeling. Apparently, this collaboration was a well-kept secret—even within our own families. Kind of like us.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Alistair studies me for a long moment, then raises his glass. “To the improbable.”
I clink mine against his, the crystal chime soft in the hushed stillness of the archives.
“So,” I say after a beat, forcing us back to our original goal, “those documents about the treasure—where do we start?”
The next few hours blur into a haze of research and fascinating discoveries. We uncover multiple references to a collaboration between our families in the early 19th century, along with cryptic mentions of Elspeth McGregor, who seems to have played a crucial role in our clans’ shared history.
“Look at this,” Alistair says, handing me an old leather-bound journal. “Dated 1806, written by Hamish McGregor. He explicitly refers to Archibald McKenzie as his ‘friend and partner in the whisky venture.’”
“And here—he talks about Elspeth and how she helped reconcile them after their falling-out.”
“Who was this Elspeth?” Alistair asks, leaning in so close his shoulder brushes mine.
“From what I can tell, she was Hamish’s sister. And she seems to have been very close to Archibald.”
Alistair arches a suggestive brow, and I roll my eyes.
“Seriously, McKenzie? You see romance everywhere?”
“Listen to this,” he insists, reading aloud. “‘E. spent the day again at the border of our lands. She claims to be watching the barley, but I know she waits for A. The two believe themselves discreet, but their glances speak louder than Uncle Fergus’s bagpipes.’”
I go quiet, processing.
