Love by the Stroke of Midnight by Raven McAllan (best historical biographies .txt) 📗

once they got to the bothy, if it gave enough shelter. Otherwise it would be a ten-minute breather and head off and pray.

Thank goodness she’d put her walking boots on. She’d almost shoved her feet into trainers before she’d remembered the unevenness of parts of her route and decided on boots instead. A lucky decision, as it happened.

The outline of a low building came into view and she whistled in relief. The roof might leak, but at least there appeared to be one. Now to pray the door wasn’t locked. She tapped Paden on the arm and pointed.

“There it is. Door in the left-hand side wall.”

He nodded as they angled in that direction.

Now they were so close it was as if the weather decided to give them one last violent reminder of its power. As they crossed ten or so yards of open space, where the trees had been cleared years before, the wind increased and howled like a banshee as it gusted around them. The snow fell faster, and the dim light turned to darkness just like someone had flicked a switch.

Marcail almost fell against the building as one vicious gust pushed her forwards. She cussed under her breath and fumbled for the door handle.

Thank goodness she found it straightaway. It turned with ease and she was able to inch the door open.

“Ready?” she asked. “I want to shut the door again as fast as we can.”

“More than.” Paden breathed the words into her ear.

“Then on three. One, two…” She opened the door wide. “Three.”

Marcail almost tumbled into the room, with Paden close on her heels. He shoved the door closed with a backwards kick of his foot and slammed a rusty and screeching bolt over.

Marcail breathed heavily as she looked around.

Blinked. Pinched herself. It hurt, so she guessed she was awake.

The place was nigh on immaculate. “Someone’s done a lot of work here,” she said slowly. “The last time I was here it was almost derelict. I’d been about to ask if I could move up and live here. Then—” She broke off, and really had a good look about the room which was eerily light from the falling snow outside. “Then, well, I didn’t.”

The long room had been split in two. Windows were intact, the walls had been painted and several oil lamps were dotted about. The fireplace had been swept clean and a pile of dry kindling and a box of matches stood to one side of it opposite a curtained alcove with a big bed in it. A bed with blankets and pillows stored on it.

Through an open door at the far end of the building, Marcail thought she could see something that could be a loo and a shower. A shower? In a lambing bothy that was no longer used? Why?

“It’s been done up,” she said slowly. “Does someone already live here?”

That awful thought gave her a lump in her throat.

“I doubt it.” Paden swiftly set the kindling in the fireplace and lit it. “Have a close look around. I think it’s been made ready for someone though, don’t you?”

Marcail did as he bade and gave the place a deeper, more thorough scrutiny.

A press—known as a cupboard south of the border—stood next to a dresser, to one side of a Calor stove. The old, deep sink and wooden drainer she remembered from years before was still halfway down the outside wall, next to a set of shelves with washing-up liquid and soap on them.

So much the same and so much changed. Why? She walked over to the bed and stopped dead. Next to it was a bookcase. On it were several books.

“These are mine.” She narrowed her eyes and really took in the bedding, the wardrobe…the mats on the floor. The long, old, comfy settee that she’d dreamed on, sobbed on and yearned for things she didn’t understand while she sat on it. She’d coveted it for years and finally, just before she’d moved south, her parents had promised her she could have it in her room. She’d moved before it had happened, and somehow on her visits home never thought to ask where it was. “Most of this stuff is mine. What’s this all about?”

“I think it could mean you’re welcome to come home whenever you want, don’t you?”

“But why?” Marcail asked once the fire was sending out enough heat for them to take off their coats. “What was or is the point?”

She wandered over to the window and pulled back the shutter to peer out. The snow still fell, and the bottom of the window was coated with white. It was unlikely so early in the year that it would settle and stay, and with luck in a few hours the storm would have blown itself out and a thaw set in. Until then, Marcail accepted they were stuck there, together. She closed the shutter again. It helped to keep the room warm. “Why does anyone think I want to come back? I was going to tell everyone when we’re together tomorrow about my plans. They don’t involve coming here to live.”

Paden raised one eyebrow as he began to rummage in the press. “You were sending out enough vibes.”

“I was not.” Why on earth would she? “I’m going to…” She stopped abruptly. She really ought to explain to her mum and dad how soon she was going. All they knew was the ‘one day’ bit, she’d never told them it was actually going to happen in the near future. They probably thought it was just wishful thinking, like people saying they’d write a book or run a marathon twice in one day.

“New Zealand soon. Yes, you said.”

“I didn’t, not to you.” All of a sudden she was uncertain. “Did I?”

“Not out loud, no.”

“Argh we’re back to that again.” Marcail tapped the top of his head. “Do you hear everything I think?”

He shook his head. “No, that would be rude. Somehow I only tune in when I need to.”

Whew.

He laughed. “I’m a nice