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PROLOGUE
Sera
“Go.”
For an elderly lady, Aunt Molly can be quite terrifying at times. When it looks as though I might be opening my mouth to protest her command, she thumps her walking stick against the carpet and hisses.
“Pretty young lady like you hanging out in a fusty old house with an old lady like me when you should be out there having the time of your life. Go, now. I tell you, if I were sixty years younger…” The glint in her eye brings a reluctant smile to my face. She gives me a grim look then continues, “There, see, you do have it in you after all. Now scram. I can hear cars arriving.”
For a moment, I wonder whether I might be able to argue for time for a change of attire. Not that I have anything suitable in my wardrobe, but it would buy me some time at least. Aunt Molly’s steely expression suggests not.
“Sera?” she clips.
“Yes, Aunt Molly?”
“What do you say if anyone asks?”
“Tell them you sent me.”
A small smile twitches the corners of her lips. “Exactly.”
“Goodnight, Aunt Molly. I won’t be too late.”
I have no intention of staying for more than ten minutes. I am planning on finding out where the bathroom is and hiding there for long enough to make it past Aunt Molly’s bedtime so I can creep back into her house with the honest affirmative of attendance at the party tucked into my conscience.
“Pfft, be as late as you like. I find life is quite capable of putting a timer on fun, no need for us to assist it. You are only next door. And I will be quite happy watching television with Arnold.”
She strokes her hand over the glossy black fur of the fat cat warming her lap. Arnold purrs and stretches, kneading his paws gently into the rug covering my aunt’s legs. Aunt Molly beams down at him. It truly is amazing what an effect that cat has on our beloved family tyrant. Family members have fled the house at a single look from Aunt Molly, but the cat…well, he once regurgitated a well chewed mouse into her bedroom slippers and even after the discovery, when Aunt Molly’s foot had been wedged vigorously into the maimed footwear on a particularly chilly winter’s morning, the only words he had received from Aunt Molly were a hearty commendation for his efforts. It is well known and well accepted within our family that Arnold is the only “good boy”, or girl for that matter, amongst us.
I turn to make my way into the hallway, resigned to my fate.
“Sera?”
“Yes, Aunt Molly?”
Her dark eyes glitter. “I know what these Gossie boys are like. Wild the lot of them…”
Oh, good grief. Please tell me this isn’t going where I think it is going.
She continues, “But they are harmless. They won’t trouble you. If they do, they’ll have me to answer to.” She contorts her face into a particularly fierce expression. “But I am very fond of Alistair. He’s a good boy. Please tell him that I wish him many happy returns. There’s a card for him on the stand beside the door, please take it with you.”
And that is how, wearing only a sweatshirt, casual jeans, and a pair of trainers battered from spending time weeding Aunt Molly’s garden, and bearing a thick white envelope, I found myself getting despatched to the social event of the Oakheart Glen calendar: Alistair-The-Great-Whyte’s twenty-first birthday party.
I approach the Whytes’ extremely large house - mansion - mentally cursing Mrs Whyte for mentioning the party to my great-aunt. She was being polite, extending the invitation to the hottest party in town to me, knowing that I was visiting Aunt Molly during my summer holiday from university. But I feel like fresh meat for these small-town boys. Rugby players at that. No doubt it will be all high jinks and slaps on the ass. In a way, I’m quite glad that I didn’t get the chance to change. The shapeless sweatshirt will hopefully repel them.
As I reach out to press the doorbell, I realise that my fingertips have left tiny imprints on the envelope. I sweep my hand firmly over my sweater, not wishing to greet anyone answering the door with a damp handshake. I square my shoulders and press the doorbell firmly before the tiny sliver of boldness I’ve managed to muster deserts me completely.
Maybe I could just hand the card in then…then, what? Sit in the driveway for a couple of hours? Tempting as that sounds, chances are Aunt Molly would look out a window and see me. I know my luck.
The door remaining as yet unanswered, I press the bell again.
Nothing.
Damn it. I’m going to have to go in. I open the front door and peek inside, ready to apologise profusely to anyone who is standing on the other side. The soundproofing in the house must be first rate because as soon as I open the door, I’m assaulted by a wall of sound. No wonder no one answered.
Dance music is pumping from a huge set of decks set up at the top of a sweeping dual staircase. The DJ stands at the decks, his arms outstretched like some kind of musical Angel Gabriel as the song climbs to a crescendo. The beat drops and the crowd go wild, bouncing and swaying with their hands in the air asreal freaking snowfalls from the ceiling.
I could be in a busy Glasgow nightclub on a Saturday night. Except instead of club-wear, all the partygoers are dressed in kilts and evening dresses. And instead of downing brightly coloured shots, they all seem to be sipping on whisky or champagne. And snow is falling. In August. And we are in someone’s house. And it is way better than any nightclub I’ve ever been in.
