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Jenn groaned, burying her face in one hand. “Please stop. Auntie Peigi’s already said the same thing.”
“Well, if Peigi and I agree, you know it’s serious.”
Mercifully, her mum reappeared from the Hebridean Crossings—HebX to the locals—office, brandishing ferry tickets and boarding passes.
“You okay?” she asked, scanning Jenn’s face.
In contrast to Granny Annag and Auntie Peigi, her mum—Mary to everyone else—was far more anxious and introverted. She took after Grampa Tam in both looks and personality. Her hair was a soft light brown, and her features were gentler too—but she had the same vibrant green eyes that ran in the family. Her quiet nature and perfectionist streak made her perfectly suited to her job as a wedding dress seamstress. Which, frankly, only made Jenn’s chronically single status feel even more dire.
“I’m fine,” Jenn replied. Too many people had asked her that lately.
“I think she’s more worried about dealing with Peigi than anything,” Granny Annag quipped.
Jenn gave a half-hearted laugh.
The truth was that she was still trying to process how thoroughly she’d been handled. Her mum, Granny Annag, and even Vivi—all of them clearly in on the plot. Coordinating. Gently steering her toward what they were all convinced was the right decision.
She hadn’t stood a chance.
Vivi had packed her entire life into labelled boxes without breaking a sweat—despite being in the middle of a move herself. She’d even whisked Jenn off on a last-minute shopping trip to buy ‘essentials’ for the cottage: extra baking gear, artisan mugs, a half-decent mirror, and an extra rug because, apparently, ‘no woman should live with cold toes’. Candles had snuck in too—Vivi claimed ambience was a basic human need, and Jenn wasn’t about to argue. She’d treated herself to new fairy lights while they were at it. A pashmina from Marrakesh had made the cut, as had a woven wall hanging from a market in Mexico, and a sun-faded throw she’d bartered for in a Greek harbour.
Jenn might not have roots, but she had textures.
“Here she comes…” Granny Annag said, nodding toward the sea.
The Queen of the Hebrides was making her stately approach across the bay. A grand old lady of a ferry, with a black hull, red funnel, and just enough rust to feel trustworthy. She’d been sailing the Oban to Hellisay route since before Jenn was born. Her Wi-Fi was patchy at best, but she was reliable in all weather and beloved by islanders.
Jenn was glad to see her. Somehow, it made it feel more real. This was happening. Actually happening.
* * *
And now here she was. Jenn stood at the rails on the upper deck of the ferry, letting the Minch breeze tangle her hair, a faint outline of Hellisay in the distance. She’d forgotten how bracing the air was out here—salty, cold, alive.
Ahead, the Hebrides waited. Behind, the mainland was shrinking.
She loved the beauty and history of each island—and how fiercely territorial and proud the locals were. Everyone declared their island was the best island. Jenn was no exception. The best island was Hellisay. Hands down.
Even thinking about it now gave Jenn a strange, prickling sort of peace. The Hebrides weren’t just home. They were something else. Wilder. Older. Other.
They made Jenn feel free—almost like standing at the edge of the world. She reached a level of zen that not even yoga could match. Maybe that was the appeal of yoga. It was something she could do in Edinburgh—or anywhere else—that came close to the feeling she got on Hellisay.
Granny Annag had grown up on Hellisay. Her family still lived there—including Jenn’s beloved Auntie Peigi. Even as a surly teenager, Jenn used to look forward to those summers of nature-soaked bliss. Entire days spent meandering the flower-filled machair, walking along sandy beaches, poking around in rock pools. On more ambitious days, they even attempted to climb one of the mountains. Evenings were for family chats, books, classic films, or the occasional board game—always competitive, and often full of mild cheating accusations.
In recent years, she’d only visited a handful of times. A couple of times with uni friends for the infamous Hells Fest—a music festival featuring teuchter headliners like Callanish, Kenavara, Machair & Moonshine, and Torran Rocks. Move over, Glasto.
She’d also stayed briefly while writing her final-year dissertation on Scottish folklore—no surprises there. Auntie Peigi had earned a special mention for being an endless source of stories and legends that would’ve taken Jenn years to unearth in any library.
Her time on Hellisay had always felt too short. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore, or a romantic student escaping the world. She was thirty-three, unemployed, adrift, emotionally bruised, and going to live in a borrowed cottage on a remote island… to bake.
The idea was simultaneously comforting and terrifying.
The boat shifted beneath Jenn, and she gripped the rail, feeling the wind tug her forward.
The three peaks of Hellisay emerged slowly through the mist like old goddesses—distinctive and familiar. Beinn Beira, steep and jagged. Beinn Nicneven, the middle and most dramatic. And Beinn Seilie, gentle and graceful to the north.
She’d always loved the myths. Beira, the winter giantess, had built the mountains of Scotland with her magic hammer. Apparently, she had only one eye, white hair, dark blue skin, and rust-coloured teeth. Total icon. Nicneven—the Queen of the Fairies. Seilie, named after the good fairies (or Fae) of the Seelie Court—the ones that popped up in all those trashy romantasy novels Vivi hoarded like secret treasure.
Please don’t let this be another disaster. Please let this be something that sticks. She couldn’t keep starting from scratch.
