Chapter 10

Willow

How does one dress for a ritual where you join a magickal order tasked with protecting a magickal truth stone that knows all the secrets of the universe?

I mean, I'd packed a variety of outfits, but this situation hadn't quite made it onto my list of potential occasions. Sophie had warned me we'd be outside and tromping all over the estate to stand on some cardinal direction points or something, so my silver party dress was definitely out. In the end, I'd gone with black leather pants, a Ramones sweatshirt, hot pink Doc Martens, and my worn leather coat with studs up the arms. It felt a little punk rock, this stepping into power and taking on some water beasts, so I figured the Ramones would be on board with my outfit choice.

"Hey ho, let's go," I murmured to myself as I met Sophie, Hilda, Archie, and Lachlan outside. Icy wind whipped around the side of the castle, stopping me in my tracks, and I pulled my jacket closer around my body.

Sophie reached out and squeezed my hand when I neared them.

"It's painless. Promise."

An hour later, the ritual was complete, and Sophie had been right. The ritual itself, while steeped in words of old and exclaiming my willingness to protect the Stone of Truth at the four cardinal points on the property, had been fairly uncomplicated.

"I accept the responsibility of protecting the Clach na Fìrinn and promise to restore the Order to its fullness. In doing so, I show myself worthy of the magick of Clach na Fìrinn."

The smoke from the sage bundle that Hilda burned had coiled around me, carrying the secrets of my ancestors with it, and my blood had hummed in my veins.

"I accept the power bestowed upon me."

We'd all waited a moment after the final recitation, and I'd flexed my fingers, wondering if I was going to start shooting laser beams or something of that nature. When nothing extraordinary had happened, another blast of icy wind had sent us toward home.

"Time will tell," Archie assured me as we trudged back toward the castle, my feet almost frozen. I made a mental note to wear wool socks the next time I hiked around the property. We left the line of trees, three crows swooping low over our tracks, and Sophie chattered to them as they flew after her.

The sight of MacAlpine Castle made me catch my breath. If I was a different type of artist, I'd paint the castle, just as she stood, jutting proudly into the air with the wintry grey waters of Loch Mirren spread out below her. The whisper of those gone before us carried to me on the wind, and the urge to create something beautiful for this place rose. It didn't matter if this hadn't been my original plan for my future as a clothing designer. What mattered was that I was here now, standing on this land rich with history, and my story would be woven into its future.

Ramsay rounded the corner of the castle, wearing a thick grey sweater pulled over a muted tartan green kilt, and wool socks with workman's boots. He strode across the garden to meet us, as confident as any warrior of yore, and nerves made my stomach twist. I couldn't get a read on him, because he vacillated so quickly between terse and somewhat friendly, so I didn't know what to think. It was almost like he was considering being my friend and yet couldn't quite bring himself to do so. Maybe he just wasn't good at making friends?

"Did I miss something?" Ramsay asked after the group had greeted him, the soft burr of the highlands in his accent making my skin tingle.

"Just out for a bit of a wander to show Willow the lands," Hilda said, nodding briskly. "Tea, anyone?"

"Please," Lachlan said, starting toward the castle with Hilda and Archie while Sophie drew Ramsay and me aside.

"I called Ramsay to come by because I thought you two might want to look at some of the boxes of fabrics we have in storage. And maybe, from there, you might get some ideas for collaboration for the castle shop."

"I thought we weren't working together." I lifted my chin at Ramsay. His eyes narrowed slightly before he glanced out to the loch. The moment drew out in silence, before Ramsay shifted, and sighed.

"I gave Sophie my word."

"Oh, so honor is the only thing forcing you to work with me? Cool, cool." I rolled my eyes and looked at Sophie. She just shrugged, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

Another blast of icy wind shook us, this time bringing with it a smattering of rain that hit my face like little shards of glass. Ramsay said nothing, instead turning back toward the castle, as Sophie ushered us through a smaller side door that looked more like a service entrance, unlike the grand doors that led into the foyer.

"You can leave your coats here if you'd like." Sophie pointed to a bench just inside the door, and I squinted in the dim light.

"This feels like you're taking us to the dungeons."

"I could, at least if I'd remember the way correctly." Sophie tapped a finger against her lips, thinking about it. "I do still get a bit lost in here."

In contrast to the sweeping ceilings and ornate decoration of the grand foyer at the castle's entrance, this hallway had low ceilings, dull grey stone walls, and uneven flooring. Sconces lined the hall, lighting the passageway dimly, and I felt like I was in my Indiana Jones era. Maybe instead of a punk rock look, I should have channeled the explorer side and gone with a full khaki outfit and a knotted scarf around my neck. Ramsay stood back, allowing Sophie and me into the hallway first, and I was definitely aware of his nearness as we followed Sophie down the narrow hall. Glancing back, I noticed that Ramsay had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling and was once again reminded just how large this man was. I wondered…

"Here we are," Sophie said, dragging my thoughts away from the naughtier direction than they needed to be going, and I snapped to attention as she turned an old iron knob in a worn wooden door with large bolts. The door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, and Sophie hit the lights.

"Oh wow," I breathed as I stepped inside the storeroom. It was like stumbling upon Aladdin's Cave, at least for someone like me who loved digging through thrift stores for cool finds. Here, the room opened, with higher ceilings showcasing exposed wood beams, and rows of shelves lining the walls. Old-timey steamer trunks were stacked in a corner, and hat boxes were piled on the shelves. Surprisingly, the room didn't smell too damp or moldy, nor was it all that dusty, so somebody must have taken care with the preservation of its contents.

"Anything in particular you'd like us to look for?" Ramsay asked as I trailed slowly along the shelves, my fingers already itching to open some of the boxes.

"Inspiration, I guess? I don't want to put thoughts in your head on what way the designs need to go for the shop, so I'll just invite you to dig around and see where your creative side takes you. If you need anything or have questions, just text me, and I'll pop back down."

"Nothing's off limits?" Ramsay asked and the way he said it made my blood heat.

"Nope, have at it." Sophie squeezed my arm on the way out and gave me a knowing look, which I interpreted to mean she wanted me to call her if any of my newfound magickal powers suddenly popped up.

Right. That should be interesting. What if I grew a third arm or something wild while we were digging in the boxes? I mean, I'd just done a magickal ritual. Was this really the right time to be stuck in a basement room with a grumpy Scotsman who'd already made it clear he didn't want to work with me?

"Keep an eye out for any, um, tools," Sophie said, holding that look.

She thought I might find my weapon down here.

Yes, apparently as part of the Order I was supposed to pick a "weapon" to defend myself, though the word weapon was defined loosely it seemed. More of a power item, I was told, so I assumed mine would likely be a needle or something of that nature. Not sure how much damage I could do with a needle, but at the very least I could annoy someone to death by pricking them a million times over.

If I had that kind of time, of course.

"Tools?" Ramsay asked after Sophie departed.

I shrugged one shoulder. "I think anything to decorate the shop with."

"I've seen the castle shop. It's well decorated as is."

"Okay," I said, determined to ignore his grumpiness. "Don't look for tools then."

Ramsay just grunted and moved to the other side of the room. I watched him go, his broad shoulders moving nicely under his sweater as he reached for a box on the shelf, and my eyes trailed down his backside to his muscular legs beneath his kilt.

Yup, the man was built.

I also wondered just why he was insisting on being so grumpy. I didn't remember a lot about Ramsay, but I could have sworn he'd been a touch friendlier in the past. Maybe life had changed for him since I'd last seen him. I couldn't just assume that I was the one making him grumpy, not when Agnes had mentioned that he tended to be standoffish with others in town. Deciding to out-cheerful his grumpiness, I reached for a hatbox on the shelf next to me and opened it.

"Oh, this is cool. Look." I held up a man's fedora, with a neat tartan band. Turning it over, I noticed a smudge in the material on the brim. Putting it on my head, I reached up, and fingered the smudge. "He was left-handed."

"Why do you say that?" Ramsay turned and studied me.

"It's worn on the brim on this side." I took it off in a smooth motion and tilted it for Ramsay to see. "It would be natural to remove it with the left hand if you grabbed it there, right?"

"Humph." Ramsay nodded and turned back to his box, not saying anything else.

Right, man of few words.

We worked in relative silence for a while, well, aside from me exclaiming every time I opened a box. Most of the hatboxes indeed held hats, and I was beyond delighted to find a variety of fascinators. It wasn't a common fashion anymore in the States, and I dearly loved that the Brits still embraced the habit of wearing a fascinator at formal events. I mean, why the heck not? I was a big fan of any excuse to wear something snazzy on my head. I pulled out two of my favorites and set them aside. The first was one with peacock feathers, the lovely deep greens and blues surrounding a faux bird's nest, with three pearls in the nest to mimic the eggs. I mean, come on. How cool was that? The second had a bundle of silk flowers, hand painted by the looks of it, with a delicate lace bonnet and ribbons that wrapped around the chin. The lace was embroidered with tiny jet beads and shimmered in the light. I wasn't yet sure what inspiration I'd take from these pieces, but I kept them out because they'd caught my eye.

Humming to myself, I picked up what looked to be a small leather suitcase from the shelf. Different from the hatboxes, something rattled inside when I lifted it. Turning, I put the square suitcase down on a steamer trunk behind me and flipped the locks, popping it open.

"Oh, look." It was a sewing kit, full of ribbons, thread, needles, buttons, thimbles, and the crowning piece—a stunning pair of dressmaker shears. Crafted with a gold handle that showcased intricate scrollwork with Celtic knots and vines of flowers, the scissors were almost too pretty to use for work. Picking them up, I turned to brandish them at Ramsay but froze when the metal hit my palm.

Mine.

A wave of energy rippled across my palm, as though I'd brushed my fingers across a live wire, and I gaped down at the scissors. Were these my power item? My weapon? My magickal tool of choice? I mean, in fairness, stabbing someone with scissors this sharp would certainly do some damage, so it wasn't a horrible choice for protection. It would need to be a close-range battle of course, because I'd been horrible at sports growing up and I didn't see myself having the dexterity to impale someone with these from a distance.

"Och, what's that look about?"

I blinked at Ramsay, realizing that I was holding the scissors aloft like I was going to stab someone, having gotten lost in my thoughts of battles and destruction. Rightly so, he hung back, his eyes narrowed.

"Just testing their weight," I said, balancing the scissors on my open palm before putting them back in the suitcase. The instant they left my hand, I felt bereft.

Message received.

"These thimbles are grand, aren't they?" Ramsay forgot to be rude to me for a moment and held up a pewter thimble with dots and what looked to be the outline of a wolf etched in it. Grabbing another, he turned it in the light to reveal a curved Celtic pattern etched along the rim.

"They are. Oh, look. Each one is different."

Ramsay's arm brushed mine as he reached for another, and his nearness made my legs weak. Which, in itself, was unusual. I'm a sturdy woman, used to being on my feet for long hours as I worked, and wasn't prone to fits of dizziness or instability. And yet. Here I was feeling like my knees were about to start knocking together because Ramsay's arm lightly brushed mine. Was this how Victorian women felt when a man accidently saw their ankle? Was that what all the swooning was about? Moving slightly to the left to give myself some space, lest I, too, caught a case of the "swoons," I gestured to the suitcase.

"Should we take some of this stuff to your shop maybe? Or upstairs? I'm sure Sophie wants us to use some of it."

"I don't know that we'll need much of the bits and bobs when it comes to ribbons, but we can take the thimbles."

"And the shears."

Ramsay just shrugged and moved away, flipping the latches on a large steamer trunk.

"How did you even get into sewing? It doesn't seem like…" I trailed off, not sure how to phrase my question without insulting him.

"Seem like what?" Ramsay's tone was as icy as the wind outside.

"Just…you look like one of those rugby guys."

"So I can't be in the fashion industry then?"

"No, not at all. I just…" Damn it, he was making me stumble over my words.

"My grandfather was a kiltmaker. My father didn't take it up, he was a bookish sort. I learned at my grandfather's knee."

"Right. A family tradition then."

Ramsay grunted, digging into the steamer trunk, and I pressed my lips together. Was every conversation with him going to be like pulling nails?

"No family tradition for me on my part," I supplied, determined to talk enough for the both of us as the siren's call of a huge trunk tucked in the corner was too much for me to ignore any longer. Crossing the room, I flipped the latches on the trunk and hefted the top open. "At least not that I'm told. My mother was creative, but more into painting and poetry. Nothing of a professional nature, either. Basically, I've always wanted to make clothes. Ever since I was a kid. I think fashion is such a great way to express yourself. It's like…who do I want to be today? You can just choose your persona every morning and go with it. How cool is that? I've always wanted other people to feel empowered by their choices, and I think clothing helps you do that, you know?"

Silence met my words, and I rolled my eyes. Seriously, this man really needed to loosen up.

"How cool for you though, that your family has a history of kiltmaking. I mean, it has to make you proud, doesn't it? To continue the tradition?" I squealed as I pulled the wrapping back at the top of the steamer trunk and revealed several bolts of tartan fabric.

Gorgeous tartan wool.

Deep blues and rich muted browns, emerald greens.

"Ramsay, look. Imagine how much we could make with this! There's enough for kilts, or scarves …" Turning, I held up a bolt of tartan wool in a warm umber tone.

Ramsay straightened, fury crossing his handsome face, before he turned and stormed from the room without a word.

"Excited, are you? Great! Really looking forward to working with you," I shouted after him.

Shaking my head, I put the fabric back and retrieved my scissors, my stomach twisting in knots. Despite my usually optimistic outlook—despite Ramsay saying he's a man of his word—trying to work with him would clearly be a disaster. We should have many things in common. This room should be something that binds us together. And yet…he can't stand to be in my presence. Why? Why was he being such a jerk about this?

Was this because of Miles? Would he ever let me find my way?