Page 3 of Bonetide

Bread.

Oat Milk.

Find out who the hell my naked neighbor in the castle is.

The drive into Shieldaig is twenty minutes of a single-track road that bends around the hills like it was laid down by someone who hated cars. I take it slow. The rental car has a wonky alignment, and the road climbs and dips around boulders like a rollercoaster. I’ll eventually have to fork out some dough to buy a car since I can’t afford to rent one for an entire year, I just don’t know if what I get is going to be any better than this hunk of junk.

Shieldaig, when I get to it, is a single curve of road, a picturesque pier, a handful of stone cottages that wear the weather like a second coat, and a restaurant called Gille Brighde I haven’t been brave enough to try—it seems the type of place where you have to eat haggis or else. The post office is in the front room of someone’s house, while the shop is in another. The shopkeeper is a woman called Mhairi, who, I have decided, based on two visits and approximately ninety seconds of total interaction, is going to be the person I orient around in the village.

She’s behind the counter when I come in, late fifties or early sixties, dark hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands red from the cold of the chest freezer she’s just been reaching into.

“There she is,” she says, smiling. “Are you all settled in?”

“Well,” I say. “Mostly.”

“Mostly is about as much as anyone gets out this way.”

I gather a few things—bread, milk, a wedge of sharp cheese, a packet of biscuits I don’t need but have a funny name, a can of bean soup for the kind of evening I can already feel coming on—and bring them up to the counter. The shop smells like cured meat and woodsmoke and something herbal, courtesy of a small posy of dried lavender by the till.

“Mhairi,” I say carefully while she’s ringing me up, hoping I’m pronouncing her name right. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” she replies mildly.

“There’s what looks like an old castle across the bay from mine. Big one, I think. It’s hard to tell. Tall, anyway.”

Her hands don’t stop moving, but she takes a breath that’s a beat too long before she answers.

“Aye, I know the one.”

“Who lives there?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“That’s what they say,” she says as she weighs the cheese. She glances up, one eye squinting at me. “Why’re you asking?”

“I saw someone over there this morning. On the shore.”

“On the shore, you say?” Another squint, this one loaded with meaning.

“Yes. Not the loch itself, but on the other side of that small bay by the cottage.”

“Could’ve been a hill-walker. People do come round, end of the season.”

“I guess,” I concede, and I can hear myself deciding not to mention the part where the walker was naked. Old me would have been quick to blurt that out, but new me doesn’t want to offend the only person I’ve had conversations with since I got here.

Mhairi gives me one slow nod and bags my groceries. She slides them across the counter. And then, just as I’m reaching for the handles, she puts her hand lightly on top of mine. Her skin is warm; for a moment I wonder if I’ve caught a chill.

“Iris,” she begins, my name sounding delightful with her accent. “Your aunt was a good woman.”

“Thank you,” I reply, though I feel silly accepting that compliment on Effie’s behalf.

“She kept herself to herself. Out there.”

“I can tell.”

“There’s wisdom in that.”