Page 27 of The Last Kelpie

“I'm serious. The way she looked at you—”

“She's impossible,” he muttered again. But his voice was softer now. Less defensive. Then he went on. “She reminds me of what it feels like to belong somewhere. It has been a long time since I felt like part of something instead of apart from everything.”

I wanted to say something profound, something that would make him feel better, but I couldn't find the right words. So I just walked beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. We were nearly back to his cottage when I noticed the figure across the road.

It was a man wearing a dark jacket and a fedora pulled low. I couldn't see his face, but I saw the professional-looking camera he held. He was standing partially hidden by a stand of trees, his camera raised and pointed directly at Moira's cottage in the distance behind us.

I slowed. Áedán noticed immediately.

“What?”

“Someone's photographing Moira's cottage.” I kept my voice low.

Áedán turned to look, but the man had already lowered the camera. For a moment he stood there, perfectly still, watching us. Then he turned and disappeared into the trees, moving quickly and deliberately.

“A tourist?” Áedán asked, but his voice was uncertain.

“Maybe.” I stared at the spot where the man had been. “But tourists usually photograph the loch, not random cottages.”

“Maybe he's interested in the architecture. It's old.”

“But there are old cottages along Pier Road. There's no reason for him to be here.”

Áedán shrugged. “People like that want to find things others havenae. He probably left the main road, hoping for better cottages.”

“Perhaps.”

But something about it felt wrong. The way the man had stood partially hidden. The way he'd left so quickly when he realized we'd seen him. I thought about the spiral in the water. About the kelpie myth changing drastically. It felt like looking at a piece of a picture without knowing the whole.

“We should tell Moira,” I said. “Just in case.”

Áedán nodded slowly. He was still staring at the trees where the man had vanished. “We'll go back tomorrow.”

I pushed aside my worry so it wouldn't ruin the rest of the day. Áedán said he wanted to get a cooling box like the one I mentioned. So, I led him to the Village Shop. It was at the edge of town, past my rental cottage, one of those places that sold everything: bread, milk, fishing supplies, postcards, ice cream, hot food, and rubber ducks with tartan hats. There was even a petrol station and a second car park for visitors.

I grabbed a basket. Áedán walked the aisles as if he were touring a museum, picking up items and examining them with careful curiosity. He passed the wine and spirits with a turned-down mouth, but stopped at the display of ice cream. When I asked if he wanted to try some, he shook his head and said he was full. Then he spent three full minutes reading the ingredients on a box of cereal.

He shoved the box at me. “This has seventeen ingredients that I have never heard of.”

“Like what?”

He tapped the list of preservatives and who knows what else.

“Some of those are to preserve the food, keep it from going stale. The others are probably flavoring and color.”

“They color their food?”

I nodded. “To make it more appealing.”

“Well, that failed.” He put the box back.

I chose the single self-checkout they had, mainly to mess with Áedán. He watched me swipe the items and narrowed his eyes at the beeps.

“Please place item in bagging area,” the machine said in its pleasant, mechanical voice.

Áedán watched me place the eggs on the metal platform. “I shall try now.” He moved the bread over the scanner, and nothing happened.

“You need to aim the barcode at the scanner.” I pointed at the barcode, then at the scanner.