Chapter 12

Willow

Sir Buster had seemed determined to show me to my room, growling his way down the hallway, perhaps keeping Clyde from popping out of the wall to terrify me while I carried a box of treasures I'd found in the storeroom. After Ramsay had left, I'd spent another hour going through a few more boxes, finding it a touch easier to concentrate without him grumbling in the corner. The storeroom really was a treasure trove, with some dresses that I was dying for Sophie to put on display in the castle somewhere. Such finery was too fancy to be wrapped away in a box, never to be seen or admired. I was a strong believer that clothes were meant to be worn, or in this instance, displayed, and I catalogued the various outfits that I found and what trunks they were in to discuss with Sophie.

Now, settled onto my comfy bed and nestled in the thick duvet, I eyed Sir Buster at my feet.

"Are you allowed up on the bed?"

Sir Buster growled, turning three times before burrowing under a throw blanket at the foot of the bed. I took that to mean yes, but texted Sophie that he was with me just in case anyone would come looking for him. I'd never had a dog before, and while I dearly wanted to give the little guy a cuddle, I also could respect his need for space. Until he decided to snuggle with me, it wasn't worth losing a finger trying to give him a quick pet.

Instead of annoying Sir Buster in his nest of blankets, I opened the box I'd brought with me. Rain pelted the window, the wind rattling the panes, and I snuggled deeper, happy to be cozy and dry inside. At least it wasn't snow. I could handle most weather, as sometimes Minnesota had all seasons in a day, but the snow did begin to wear on your soul after a long winter. Rain seemed less of a bother, though I'm sure the locals felt differently if it stayed this damp and cold for months on end.

I pulled out the gold scissors that I had tucked away, wondering if I would feel the same response as I had in the storeroom, and shivered as the metal touched my skin. The scissors should feel cool against my palm, instead they heated under my touch, and a smile spread on my face.

Mine.

Yup, these were meant for me, even if there was no viable explanation for it, and it was just another piece that made me feel at home. That coming here had been the right decision, even if it was wildly different to the future I had envisioned for myself.

Thunder rolled, rumbling against the window, and I held the scissors as I gazed out at the loch, thinking about my ideal vision for my future. My own collection. The flash of runway shows, the pandemonium of backstage, the rush of seeing your own designs on fabulous models. It was what I'd thought I'd wanted, but at the end of the day, I really wanted to design clothes that people wanted to wear. Not everything that hit the runways translated to wearable fashion for women like myself. I'd rather sell something online that the plus-sized girlies loved, than be on fancy runways that excluded women that looked like me.

I mean, don't get me wrong—fashion shows were fun. Chaotic, exciting, and glamorous. But the fashion industry had a dark side, and what I did know was that it could take years before a designer could eke out even the most basic of living from their art. Surely there would be a way to blend my desire for a secure living wage with my dream to design beautiful clothes for people of all sizes.

Placing the scissors on my bedside table, I turned back to the box and picked up a brooch that I'd found. A penannular, I'd learned, after a quick Google search from my phone. It had a unique design, with a circle and a stick pin, and I played with it until I understood the mechanism for closure.

"Clever," I murmured, admiring the Celtic dragon design etched in the pewter circle. I wondered if I could modernize this design, making it a touch smaller for a scarf or to wear on a jacket, and pictured the brooches in a line up the side of a dress like Liz Hurley's famous safety pin Versace dress. Intrigued, I reached for my iPad and began to sketch, humming softly to myself as I drew ideas of interlocking circular pins.

"I wonder if we could play on chain mail." I often spoke to myself when I worked, needing to voice my thoughts, and Sir Buster's nose poked out of the blanket he'd buried himself under. "Oh, my bad. Sorry to disturb you, good sir."

Sir Buster huffed out a small sigh, as though he could hardly believe that he had to put up with me, and then disappeared back under the blanket. I sketched out a chain mail halter top, embracing the sheer trend hitting the runways at the moment, and wondered just how much work it would take to mass reproduce such a look. I liked the links a touch larger, so it had a bit of a steam punk edge to it, but I could also see how a tightly constructed chain mail would look cool, like metal mesh draped over the body. Either way, it could be worn on its own, or over a simple white T-shirt for effortless cool.

Perhaps we should be thinking about making jewelry?

I remembered a bracelet that a friend had worn in New York. It was a thick cuff, made of hundreds of little silver circles soldered together, very much in the style of chain mail. Yet the clasp had edged more to Tiffany Co. in its design, and the style had ended up being something that would look equally as cool on a young mom to a chic career woman running a boardroom. Making a note to ask Sophie about accessories, I continued to sketch, my mind flowing with ideas. This was what I loved most, being in the flow, thriving on my ability to create beautiful things. Well, at least I thought they were beautiful. Fashion was subjective, but at the end of the day, anything that was created with love was beautiful in my opinion.

My mind drifted as I sketched, caught on the problem that was Ramsay.

"I'll see you at ten tomorrow. Don't come before that. I like to have my coffee in peace." If he was anything like Miles, he liked to be in control of his business—and everyone else's—and I knew how to work around that. After our discussion when he'd stormed off from the cellar, I knew I could break through that tough exterior. I just had to keep trying. I could be an asset to his shop. I might even make him smile. He'd laughed once, at the pub during the match, the sound low and rumbly, as though unused, and it had warmed my core.

I sighed.

It seems my girlhood crush had followed me into womanhood, and that was my problem to deal with, not Ramsay's. Maybe once I'd gotten settled into my new routine and was feeling confident with my path in life, I'd dip into the dating scene in Loren Brae. Not that I needed or wanted that anytime soon, of course. I was still licking my wounds from my last catastrophic attempt at a relationship.

"Love and learn," I hummed out loud, pausing as I realized what I had been drawing.

Instead of a sketch for a chain mail vest that I'd intended to draw, I'd sketched a scene of, well, Ramsay of all people. He stood, waist-deep in churning water, a kitten clutched in his arms, furious horses rising from the loch behind him with flames in their eyes. I gasped, as the vision came to life in my mind, as though I was there with him, fear rising inside me as the Kelpies rose.

"Run," Ramsay shouts, shoving the kitten in my arms, icy water splashing my skin.

"Not without you," I shout back.

A sharp bark startled me, and I blinked, the room coming back into focus, Sir Buster having left his blanket fort to come paw at my arm. Looking down at the trembling dog, my breath shuddered.

"Woah," I said, reaching up a hand, daring to pet Sir Buster.

My mouth dropped open.

My hand was wet.

Patting my face, I realized my cheeks still stung from the spray of icy water I'd just had in the vision that had momentarily overtaken me.

What could that mean?

Taking a chance, because I needed the comfort more than I was worried about losing a finger, I drew the trembling dog into my arms and smiled when he huffed out a small sigh and cuddled in under my chin. We stayed like that, the warmth of his furry body like a little heating pad on my chest, his nearness calming my racing heart.

The vision had been so clear, as though I was actually there, wading into the ice-cold loch, worry for a small kitten and Ramsay driving my decisions. I'd been able to smell the damp winter air, read the fear in Ramsay's eyes, feel the sharp bite of freezing water nip at my skin. In any other instance, I'd be able to convince myself that I'd had a very lucid dream.

But I couldn't explain the water.

Considering, I leaned forward and licked a drop of water off the back of my palm. It tasted salty, and I felt like I remembered from somewhere that Loch Mirren was made of salt water. Or connected to the ocean in some way. Something like that. I'd played on her shores as a child, hadn't I? I closed my eyes, and smiled as I remembered screaming away from the icy water as the boys tried to splash me, blinking at the salty sting of water in my eyes. Yup, salt water it was.

This had to be connected to my supposed magick then. Was it…was this something that allowed me to see the future? Or was I tapping into events or memories from the past? I wondered if Ramsay had a cat. Maybe he'd rescued a cat one time from the loch, and somehow, I was now able to tap into his memories.

How would that be helpful magick though?

I snuggled more deeply into the pillows, tightening my arms around Sir Buster when he grumbled at my movements, and stared blurrily at the window as my brain whirled with possibilities.

The future made more sense, though I couldn't quite see Ramsay racing anywhere to save a kitten, grump that he was.

I guess I would find out in the morning. Maybe he had a shop cat with a dramatic origin story. If anything, it would be a good way to connect with Ramsay, and maybe we could become friends. Given how close he was to my family, it just didn't make sense for us to be at such odds. This is a good plan, Willow. Let's hope Ramsay lets you in.

The bed shifted, and my eyebrows shot up my forehead.

"Clyde!" I hissed, my heart jumping into my throat.

The ghost coo had climbed onto the mattress and was currently circling the end of the bed, much like Sir Buster had just done, before settling himself down onto the blankets. He tilted his head at me, almost as though he had a question in his eyes. I stared at him, frozen.

"Moo?" Clyde whispered, nudging my leg with his head, and I swear for a moment I could feel the press of his nose against my thigh.

"Um, I'm just fine, Clyde. If that's what you're asking."

Clyde bopped his head once and then settled his entire massive head across my legs, as though he was protecting me, while Sir Buster let out a rumbly little snore at my throat.

I gaped down at the chihuahua, and the massive ghost coo, both of whom had now decided I was their bed. Should I … was this … what exactly did one do in such a situation?

In the end, I did the only thing that I could think of.

I slipped into the most comfortable sleep I'd had in years.