Taken by Angeline Fortin (great books of all time TXT) 📗

where any random spectator might hear and misinterpret her words, passing them off – out of context, of course – on social media.  If word got out that she was planning a life without them, the circus would be unimaginable.  “I meant…”

“Dinnae fash yerself, lass.  I kent what ye meant and willnae say a word.  On my honor.”

“Thank you…”

“Donell, lass,” he said, tapping his name badge with one thick, bent finger.

“Donell,” she nodded, reaching out to shake his hand.  He was stronger than he looked, his handshake firm.  “Might I head in, do you think?  I’d like to take a peek before all the crowds enter.”

“Of course, lass.  No’ a problem a’tall.  Yer deserving of a break from all yer troubles, aren’t ye?”

Scarlett smiled and pivoted toward the entrance but paused when he cleared his throat.  Turning back, she sighed inwardly as the man lifted a pen and paper suggestively in her direction.  “I ken I shouldnae ask but… er, I was wondering, could ye…?”

Her smile wasn’t Oscar worthy but it was smile enough to please the clerk who beamed as she neared the desk. “It’s no problem at all, Mr…” she referred to his nametag again.  “Donell.  Shall I make it to you?”

“Nay, lassie,” he protested with an engaging grin.  “To my granddaughter, Katharine, if ye please, lass.  She’s quite keen on ye, ye see.  An autograph would send her o’er the moon.”

Scarlett smiled at that, wondering when she had last been over the moon about anything.  She was just so tired of it all.  Well, not the fans, she rather enjoyed their enthusiasm, but the daily grind of fame.  Fame she hadn’t done much to deserve.

“I think ye underestimate yerself, lass.  Yer a bonny thing to be sure and sweet, too.  No’ a’tall like the things they write aboot ye,” he assured her.  Familiar enough with all the things, true and false, that had been written about her, Scarlett didn’t bother to ask what Donell might have read about her, but was confused by his initial statement. What did he mean that she underestimated herself?  She started to ask but Donell rushed on before she might question him.  “To Katharine, if ye dinnae mind.”

“Not at all,” she assured the odd little man with a smile and took up the pen and paper Donell pushed across the desk.  “Katharine with a K?”

“Aye, lassie,” he beamed at her, his eyes twinkling as he watched her write a short note on the page to accompany her signature.  “K-a-t-h-a-r-i-n-e…”

“Ahh, with an ‘a’,” she said softly and finished it off with a flourish.  “How’s that?”

Donell scanned it, and if possible, smiled even more broadly.  “Lovely, just lovely, Miss Thomas.  You’re verra kind, lass, to do this.  Thank ye so much.”

“I’m happy to do it.” Scarlett waited patiently as he stood grinning at her.  “Might I go through then?”

“Of course, of course.”  Donell fanned out several brightly printed brochures on the desk and pushed them toward her.  “Some information on the different exhibits.”

“Thank you.”  Scarlett thumbed through them, skimming over the bolded titles distractedly.  Sir Walter Scott: Rob Roy and Beyond, The Great War in Dunskirk, Border Textiles,Flodden: 500 Years, and Pong to Playstation: The Infinite Lives of Video Games.  Well, that might be interesting.

“Aye, well, will ye be needing a guide then, lassie?”

“No, I think I can make my way around this particular castle without one,” she said with a smile that had him nodding.

“Of course ye can!” The man hastened to assure her, sweeping an arm toward the sign that bore an arrow pointing in the proper direction.  “Take yer time, lass.  Be sure to mind the armory exhibit, lass,” he called after her as she turned to leave.  “I’m sure ye’ll being interested in what it will show ye.”

“I’ll be sure to check it out.  Thank you, Donell,” Scarlett smiled over her shoulder.  “You’ve been very kind.”

“No’ a’tall, lassie.  My pleasure.  I hope ye find what yer looking for.”

Her sandals scuffed softly against the stone floors as Scarlett walked the long hall within the castle’s curtain wall in silence, flipping idly through the pamphlets Donell had provided but mostly just absorbing the calm nothingness of it all.  There had been very few moments like that for her in the past decade and a sigh of contentment escaped her.

The hall was dimly lit with faux torches lighting the way.  Backlit displays dotted the wall between the torches giving a historic overview of Scottish borders history along with a timeline.  There were castles like Hermitage, Kelso and Jedburgh along with Dunskirk.

Scarlett grazed over the words on the wall absently.  She hadn’t been joking out there when she said she wasn’t a historian.  Dates and places meant nothing without the emotion that they evoked in the people of the time.  That was why she’d majored in English Lit.  It was words that touched her and held her attention.

Once she reached the pele tower, the oldest part of the castle, the hallway widened into a brightly lit gallery dotted with displays on Mary, Queen of Scots.  Paintings, jewels, and a reproduction of her death mask.  An elaborate gown that looked like it was spun from gold.

Following the path lights to the second floor, she found the armory exhibit Donell spoke of.  Pacing slowly around the perimeter of the vast tower, Scarlett studied the paintings on the walls as she circled the room.  Most were scenes of the Battle of Flodden done in different styles from the simplicity of the medieval era to the thick oils of the impressionists.  Watercolors, drawings.  Even a Burne-Jones marble relief.  All depicting different aspects of the battle.  The glory.  The gore.  So much red.

Like literature, art had more impact on Scarlett than all the history books in the world’s libraries.  She could almost see the battle.  Touch it.  Feel it.

One large oil bore a scene of rugged, kilted soldiers attacking a more tidily-garbed army with swords and pikes.  Between the art displays were battle axes, long bows and