Page 61 of The Last Kelpie

But it was important. That look he wore reminded me of the one he'd worn when we'd learned he was being targeted. I wanted to push him to answer me, but something stopped me. Whatever Áedán had been thinking, he wasn't ready to share it. And who was I to him anyway? Yes, he'd taken me to the stones for their blessing, but that was for him as well. And yes, I was the first man he'd bedded in many years, but I was the most available. I didn't have the right to press him on personal matters. It wasn't as if we were in love.

The thought sizzled through me, and the ache in my gut made it feel like a lie. Was I falling in love with Áedán? Or was it just the thrill of being with a magical being? My heart wanted it to be love, but my head called my heart a fool. I had to be careful and let my head rule for now. At least until after Áedán was safe, and I knew what was between us.

In the University Archives, we finally found what we were looking for—Folk-Tales of the Western Highlands by Edmund Ashford, published in 1982. Not only was it the earliest evidence of the sentence, it was also a widely used reference, cited in nearly every modern retelling of kelpie legends that offered references. His work had influenced the authors who came after him. If the corruption had a source, it was him.

Even better, Edmund Ashford was still alive and living in Gartocharn—a small village near Loch Lomond. Dr. Shaw, the archivist at the Glasgow Archive, knew him. She'd been nice enough to call him, and, with his approval, gave us his address so we could stop by and speak with him.

We drove straight to Gartocharn, arriving as the sun began its descent. The village was small, but larger than Luss. GPS led us to a cottage set back from the road, surrounded by an overgrown garden. Smoke rose from the chimney.

A dog barked as we walked up the path. The garden was wild but not neglected—roses climbing the stone walls, lavender spilling over the borders, and vegetables and herbs growing in neat rows. The door opened before we reached it and a shaggy brown dog ran out to greet us.

I crouched to pet the dog while Áedán went to greet the old man who stood in the doorway. He had to be in his seventies or eighties, with white hair and sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a cardigan and slippers and stood straight in defiance of his age.

His voice was crisp and precise, despite the burr of his Scottish accent. “You're the ones Dr. Shaw sent?”

“Yes.” I stood up and joined them, the dog trailing after me. “I'm Ethan Clarke. This is Áedán.”

“Edmund Ashford, call me Ed. And that's Tommy.” He stepped aside. “Come in. I've got the kettle on.”

The cottage interior was exactly what I'd expected from a folklorist—books everywhere, papers stacked on every surface, and artifacts on shelves. But it was tidy in its chaos, with books grouped by contents and papers held down with random objects.

He led us to a sitting room and gestured to a worn green sofa. “Shall I get the tea?”

“Please.” I sat down, and Tommy sat at my feet. Chuckling, I petted him. “You remind me of someone I know. Do you steal biscuits too?”

“Every chance he gets.” Ed disappeared into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Ed returned with a tray—a proper tea service in porcelain and a plate of shortbread. He set the tray on the long coffee table, settled into an armchair across from us, and poured the tea with steady hands. “So, you want to talk about my book?”

“Yes, sir.” I had to be careful. I didn't know how involved he was. He couldn't have been the one who began the changes, but maybe he had carried on the work. Still, I had to approach it delicately, not just come out and accuse him. “Could you tell me about your book?”

“I recorded the stories people told me.” Ed sipped his tea. “The old traditions.”

“We're particularly interested in the kelpie stories.”

“Och, well, everyone I spoke to knew that kelpies were guardians, protectors of the water. Kelpies punished those who polluted water or committed violence, aye, but that was a part of their protective nature. They also saved people from drowning and blessed crops. Just like the other myths, I documented the kelpie stories and compiled them for everyone to enjoy and also to preserve them for future generations.”

“Could I see your documentation?” I glanced at Áedán, and he frowned. This was unexpected. Was this our enemy? Was he playing with us?

Ed rose and crossed to a bookshelf, cup in hand. He pulled down a leather-bound journal and brought it over to me. “My field notebook on kelpies. Read for yourself.”

I opened the journal carefully. Cramped but legible handwriting filled page after page with interviews of the older residents of the Highlands. Ed took meticulous notes and documented everything with respect.

“'Spoke today with Mrs. MacLeod of Luss, age 87,'” I read aloud. “'She remembers the old traditions clearly. The kelpies of the loch were called upon during times of flood to protect the village. Offerings were made at midsummer.'” I bypassed the list he made of offerings. “'She says her grandmother knew the kelpies by name, though she would not speak them aloud unless in dire need. A kelpie saved her uncle from drowning when he was a boy.'” I looked up at Ashford. “This differs completely from what's in your published book.”

“Because someone changed it.” His voice was bitter. “Between my manuscript and the published edition, entire passages were rewritten. I didn't discover it until after the book was printed. By then, it was too late.”

“Who changed it?” Áedán leaned forward, his eyes bright.

“I don't know. The publisher claimed they were editorial corrections for clarity. But when I demanded to speak to the editor, they gave me some line about him being on holiday. But they sounded strange. I got the feeling that they didn't know who had edited my book, and it scared them.” Ashford shook his head. “I tried to publish a corrected edition, but no publisher would touch it. My reputation was already established. The damage was done.”

“Do you have anything from the publication process?” I asked. “Correspondence? Editorial notes?”

“I have the printer's proof.” Ashford rose again and went to a desk in the corner. From under the desk, he pulled out a flat black box and brought it back. “I kept it. I don't know why. Perhaps I hoped someone would eventually believe me.” He opened the box. Inside was a loose manuscript.

I pulled on the cotton gloves I always carried and took the box from him. Setting the box on the rag rug, I carefully removed the manuscript. Áedán moved closer, looking over my shoulder. I turned to the section on kelpies. My breath caught.

Red ink abounded, crossing out things and writing new words above. The descriptions of protective spirits had been replaced with warnings about dangerous predators. The stories of kelpies saving children had been changed to stories of kelpies drowning them. And in the margin, beside the first major alteration, was a small symbol drawn in the same red ink.