The first six weeks in Scotland have been as chaotic as I expected. The girls are adjusting, some better than others. Fleur and Evie have gotten into hiking. Mia forages for cooking ingredients in the expansive gardens of our home. Charlotte and Élé are nervous about school. My mom is more at peace than I’ve ever seen her,free of the shadow that my father cast her in, free of the memories that plagued the house in Manhattan.
She’s not cured by any stretch of the imagination.I’mnot cured by any stretch of the imagination. But it feels like we’re in the shallows, no treading water necessary.
I leave my bags in the car, finding Belladonna waiting for me at the drawbridge,almostsmiling.
She’s a chronic overachiever, top of her class—top of the university—so for her to have to stay here an extra semester because she skipped an assignment to travel back to New York when my mom collapsed is not something I take lightly.
The Morellos represent everything I’m trying to cut out of my life, yet I’d rather die than lose them.
She drops a set of keys into my hand, followed by and an access card to the Nightshade mansion. “Might’ve shuffled rooms around a little. Have you told her yet?”
“No. But I’m really hoping she’s pleased.”
“She’ll be pleased. All she’s done this week is mope.”
Sounds like my girl.
I never hated Sorrowsong, not the same way Ophelia does. But I suppose that makes sense—it was built for people like me, people rich enough not to fear the law.
The forests beside me are fading into a hundred shades of copper and gold, busy with red deer and foxes. The castle is a masterpiece in gothic architecture: ceilings held aloft by ribbed vaults and windows that arch into the sharpest of points. Shadows cling to every statue, the light of the day starting to fade.
The Victorian glasshouse is glossy with rain when it appears between the pines, the iron hinges creaking when I pull open thedoor. It’s even darker inside, but I spot her immediately. She’s flying through the water, lost in her own world like she always is when she’s swimming.
I don’t know how long I watch her glide across the surface. I’ve never really been able to keep track of time around her. When my love-drunk mind eventually convinces my legs to move forward, she’s stopped to check her time on her watch.
She startles, alarm melting into shock when she sees it’s me.
“I … uhh …what?”
“Hey,” I say, not even trying to bite down my grin. “I’m Alex.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Why are you here?”
My darling girlfriend. Always so pleased to see me.
She must read my thoughts, because she tosses her goggles onto the edge of the pool and says, “I mean,hi, obviously. But also … what?”
I lean down and hold out my hand for her to shake, like we’re strangers. Like she isn’t the air in my lungs and the reason they still function. “I’m new here.”
She’s laughing now, like I’ve lost my mind. I think I have. British roads will do that to a man. Her hand slips inside mine. “You … youwhat?”
“I just started my second year. Figured I’d come and ask the hottest girl here on a date.”
“At Edinburgh, Alex. You’re about two hundred miles out.”
“At Sorrowsong.”
Her face turns pale, I see what I see every time anything good presents itself in her life: the glimmer of soaring hopes, and the way she extinguishes them, just in case. “I don’t understand.”
“I ate my pride a while back. Called Carmichael and begged him to let me finish the degree I started at Yale here.”
If the pool wasn’t shallow enough for her to stand in, I’d worry she’d go into shock and drown. Her words are stuttered and confused when they come. “But your mom. Your sisters. The drive is over three hours.”
Her hand is still in mine, her whole body frozen. “I’ll go home every weekend, every holiday. I’ll go home when my mom needs extra support. But she’s doing great at the moment, the girls are starting school this week. They’re the ones who encouraged me to do this. And it beats a seven-hour flight to New York, any day. It’s two years. I’ll survive two years of scenic five a.m. drives if it means I get to wake up and fall asleep next to you.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Closes it. Laughs. Holds up her free hand in awhat the fuck?motion.
She yanks me into the pool before I can stop her, and my whole body sinks beneath the surface. It’s supposed to be heated, but the cold reaches beneath my clothing and snatches my breath away. When I emerge, she’s breathless and giggling, freckles rapidly disappearing in the rosy flush creeping over her cheeks.
