Page 30 of The Last Kelpie

She blinked. “We have a house blend, Scottish tea.”

“That will do. And a piece of that.” He pointed to a pie in the display case.

“Sure thing.”

We sat by the window. I watched Áedán watch the village, his gaze moving from person to person, building to building, as if he were memorizing escape routes. When the woman brought our drinks and Áedán's slice of apple pie, she set them down with a smile that lingered a moment too long on Áedán.

“Let me know if you need anything else.” Her hopeful gaze went to Áedán.

Áedán didn't seem to notice. He was staring at my coffee with suspicion.

“Try it.” I slid my mug to him.

“I already told you—”

“Just try it.”

He brought the mug to his lips and took a single sip. His expression went through several stages: surprise, consideration, then profound disappointment.

“Well?”

“It's better than I remember, but too sweet.” He set the cup down. “Still inferior to tea.”

“You didn't even give it a chance.”

“I gave it centuries of chances.” He poured his tea, lifted his cup, and breathed in the steam. “Tea is older. More honest. Coffee is trying too hard.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “Coffee is trying too hard?”

“Everything aboot it. The machines, the milk foam, the names.” He gestured at the menu board. “What's a macchiato?”

“Espresso with a small amount of foamed milk.”

“Why not just call it that?”

“Because it's too long.”

“Giving things silly names because their true names are too long is dafty.”

“I think it's dafty not to.” I stuck my tongue out at him.

Áedán smiled into his tea. It was the first genuinely relaxed expression I'd seen on his face all morning.

After finishing our beverages and pie, we walked down to the loch and along the shore until we came to a group of children. Gathered at the water's edge, they were throwing pieces of bread to a family of ducks. The ducks swam near, but only a few came over to peck at the food.

Áedán stopped walking and watched the children. Then he stared at the ducks. “They're feeding them wrong.”

“What do you mean?” I looked from him to the children.

“They're just flinging it aboot. The ducks arenae even trying.” He walked closer, studying the situation with the focus of a general surveying a battlefield, and set down the cooler. “You have to make them work for it.”

Before I could respond, he took out the bread we'd just bought, removed a piece, tore off a chunk, and threw it into the water. Not close to the ducks, but further out, so they'd have to swim to get it.

One of the children, a boy of maybe seven, looked up at him. “That's too far.”

“Is it now?” Áedán threw another piece, even farther. A duck paddled after it with surprising speed.

The boy's eyes widened. He threw his own bread farther out. Another duck gave chase.