I finally stop, out of breath.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Alistair clears his throat. “What we mean is… our passion is sometimes… overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming,” I echo like an idiot.
“And in those moments, we need to explore?—”
“The archives!” I blurt, then immediately wince. “I mean—no. Not the archives. Our feelings. We explore our feelings. In the archives. But not because of the archives. Despite the archives.”
My mother looks between us, her expression hovering somewhere between confusion and what looks suspiciously like amusement.
“I see,” she says at last. “You’re exploring your feelings. In the archives. With whisky. After midnight.”
“That’s exactly it,” Alistair confirms with impressive seriousness, though he looks just as desperate as I feel.
Another silence stretches, during which I briefly consider throwing myself out the window to escape. Unfortunately, we’re on the second floor, and I’d likely end up with broken bonesandmore explaining to do.
Finally, my mother sighs.
“Look,” she begins, surprisingly calm, “I’m not going to judge. Young love can be… impulsive. And creative.”
I open my mouth to protest—we were not doing anything inappropriate—but she raises a hand to stop me.
“Keira, you’re twenty-four, not sixteen. You’re engaged, for heaven’s sake. I completely understand that you and your fiancé might need private moments.”
“But we weren’t?—”
Alistair nudges me lightly.
“However,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken, “I must insist on one point: the family archives are not the most appropriate setting for this kind of exploration.”
My face burns hotter than I thought humanly possible. Beside me, Alistair seems deeply fascinated by his shoes.
“Mrs. McGregor,” he starts bravely, “I assure you we had absolutely no intention of disrespecting your family’s traditions or?—”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, Alistair,” my mother interrupts with a strangely knowing smile. “And please, call me Isobel. After all, you’re practically family now.”
The ease with which she says that—to a McKenzie—leaves me speechless.
“In fact,” she continues, stepping closer to examine the whisky bottle, “I’m impressed by your… creativity. Bringing whisky—what a romantic touch.”
She studies the label with keen interest.
“That’s an interesting bottle,” she notes. “I’ve never seen this label before.”
“It’s a very limited edition,” Alistair explains, visibly relieved to talk about something—anything—else. “An experimental project.”
“Fascinating,” my mother murmurs, her gaze shifting from the bottle to the documents spread across the table. “And these journals? Were they also part of your romantic evening?”
I quickly gather the papers.
“Just background ambiance reading. You know how Alistair is—passionate about history.”
“Especially McGregor history, apparently,” my mother adds with an enigmatic smile. “What a coincidence.”
She picks up one of the journals—the very one mentioning Elspeth and Archibald.
