“And don’t forget Archibald McGregor the Flatulent, hero of Culloden, whose gas alone drove off ten English soldiers!”
But I’m not completely unprepared. Thanks to my research in the McKenzie archives, I know enough about McGregor history to surprise them.
“In 1743, Hamish McGregor did save his village from an epidemic using a whisky remedy distilled with herbs provided by his friend, Duncan McKenzie.”
A stunned silence follows. Even Maggie looks surprised.
“How do you know that?” Callum asks, suspicious.
“The McKenzie archives are surprisingly thorough when it comes to Highland history,” I reply with a casual shrug, carefully avoiding Keira’s gaze—she knows exactly how recent my research really is.
The highlight of these traditions turns out to be a Scottish dance I’m required to learn and perform with Keira. Lachlan, appointed as instructor, takes a perverse pleasure in adding impossible steps just to watch me fail.
“No, no, no!” he exclaims as I stumble for the third time. “You have to pivot, then jump, then move left—all without crushing my cousin’s feet! Even Hamish dances better than that!”
I tangle my feet and end up pulling Keira down with me. We collapse into a heap in the middle of the room, laughter erupting around us.
“He’s doing better than you did at your first ceilidh, badly coordinated parsnip head!” Keira fires back at Lachlan.
She’s still in my arms. Our faces are close—too close. Her eyes sparkle with laughter and something else, something that makes my pulse spike.
For a moment, I forget everything—our audience, the act we’re supposed to be putting on, the centuries-old rivalry between our families.
Then Maggie claps her hands, breaking the moment.
“A break seems necessary!” she declares. “Alistair, come help me fetch something from the library.”
I follow her, intrigued by the sudden request. Once inside, she closes the door and turns to me with an unreadable expression.
“You’re doing well, young man,” she says at last. “Better than I expected.”
“These traditions are… interesting,” I reply diplomatically.
She lets out a surprisingly youthful laugh.
“At least half of them are made up—and you know it.”
“I had my suspicions,” I admit with a small smile.
“The real traditions are the ones we create together,” she continues. “Like that ridiculous nickname game Lachlan and Keira invented as children. You’d think they hate each other—but it’s quite the opposite.”
She walks to a shelf and takes down a finely carved wooden box.
“Lachlan is the best judge of character in this family,” she says, handling the box with care. “If he accepts you, it means you have something special. And he seems to have accepted you—which is surprising for a McKenzie.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” she confirms. “Now, for the final trial of the day: the McGregor treasure hunt.”
I go still, my thoughts immediately jumping to the treasure Keira and I have been investigating. But of course, Maggie has no idea about that—and that’s not what she’s referring to.
She explains that I must find an object hidden somewhere in the castle, guided only by clues. Lachlan will be my official guide, which does not bode well.
Back in the drawing room, Lachlan greets me with a grin that promises trouble.
“Ready for the treasure hunt? It starts left after the portrait of the old bearded guy. Or right. I forgot.”
What follows is a chaotic, borderline absurd journey through McGregor Castle. Lachlan feeds me deliberately contradictory directions, while Keira—technically forbidden from helping—guides me with subtle glances and gestures.
