Chapter Text
Chapter 1
INFINIT REGRESS
“Magic is desire made real.”
Deborah Harkness
As a child I used to dream I was a princess.
Lying in the dark of my tiny bedroom, listening to the hum of the television and my parents’ voices. I would pull my blanket up to my chin, squeeze my eyes shut and there it would be; a princess in an ivory gown, standing in a dewy garden.
Grand castles in faraway lands – waiting for my prince.
In my dreams, I could almost see him. Could almost hear his voice. The whisper of something half-remembered and every morning it would break my heart to discover that none of it was real. This cycle of promise and denial . . .
And then I grew up.
I still dreamed but I stopped believing. The tragedy of maturity is rooted in surrender, in the acceptance that what I saw was the stuff of stories; there was no magic in the world. No secret grand adventure with dark princes under starlit skies.
I grew to accept that the fairytale was exactly that – a fantasy. That my dreams had no place anywhere but on the page, and in the ink I used to breathe life into them.
My name is Simone Kostopoulos and this . . . this is my story.
XxXxXx
Jane set my tablet aside. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Simone, you can’t leave it at that. I’m intrigued.”
I rolled my shoulders and continued to pick at the chips on my plate, turning one over and over in a spot of ketchup. “I haven’t decided what comes next.”
“But you have ideas?”
“I have ideas. Too many ideas. What I need now is . . . inspiration.”
“Don’t wait for inspiration,” Jane said. “Write.”
She made it sound so easy but writing garbage was almost as difficult as writing nothing at all. It was the reason why I’d flown to Scotland; where the first and fourth installments of my book were set. I needed these highlands.
Needed the ghosts of crumbling castles and a wind that whispered secrets of ages long past. There was history here. The decision to come, to take time away from my life to focus wholly on my work in a place that would resonate with the characters on the page had been . . . impulsive.
But not wrong.
I stabbed my French fry on the plate, squashing the end of it. A splat of white entrails in bright red ketchup. Jane noticed my frustration. Might have mistaken it for irritation.
She reached for her glass, the Coke inside fizzing around an abundance of ice cubes and sipped from the straw. Brown eyes over a button nose nixed with mine. She set her glass down. “Look, go for a walk, bake a cake or whatever. Clear your head. You have ‘til November before that first draft at least needs to be finished.”
It was already September.
“And here I thought this was a friendly visit,” I groused.
“Your friend,” Jane drew out, “dragged her ass from Massachusetts to the UK. Your editor is telling you to get your butt in gear. Wish on as many stars as you want, Simone, this book is not going to write itself.”
True. Though by this point I might have been willing to let it try, for all the progress I was making; what happened to me, that I would so totally loose the threads of this book? I reached across the table to drag my tablet back to my side.
“Fine,” Jane acquiesced. “Mind telling me why you’re renting a shack out in the bum end of highlander nowhere?”
“It’s not a shack,” I was quick to defend the little cottage “and because it’s cheaper than renting in the city.”
“Not on gas it’s not.”
“It’s charming.”
“It’s leaky.”
“There’re no leaks!”
Again, quick to defend but when I saw the twinkle in Jane’s eyes, that knot of righteous indignation loosened and I laughed a little. My lease was for a lovely, carefully maintained cottage out in the countryside. A shack, she called it.
My lip twitched. “You should drop in some time.”
“Oh, no,” Jane twisted her straw, slowly stirring the ice cubes in her glass. “No. You are not using me to excuse procrastination. Simone.”
“How long d’you think you’ll be in Inverness?”
“A few days. ‘til Wednesday, at least.”
“I don’t need a chaperone.”
“You’re right. You need someone to remind you that you’re not on holiday.”
“I’m aware.”
Jane’s look danced off the edge of amused, right into incredulous. “So that wasn’t you, having spent all of yesterday at a museum?”
“That,” I bit out “was research.”
I even brought a spiral notebook, prepared to take notes. Jot down ideas. Bits of inspiration . . .
That exact notebook was sitting next to my laptop now, at the cottage, the pages mostly empty. I did find the time to sit on a bench and doodle a detailed sketch of a quill pen in the margins. But Jane didn’t need to know that.
Her straw gave another sharp turn. Ice cubes clinking against the glass.
“Then you had lunch in a pub.”
“It was lunchtime,” I said.
“Do you plan to write . . . at all . . . today?”
“I have an appointment later on but yes. Yes,” I added, with emphasis, as Jane’s eyes turned flinty. She didn’t respond, but took another quick sip of her soda. I dropped my gaze. My tablet, screen dark, next to a wide plate smeared with ketchup and devoid of fries.
The tablet mirrored my mind.
Empty. Blank.
XxXxXx
The little cottage I rented outside of Inverness was exactly what I’d been looking for when I made the decision to come here. Close enough to the city; just a short drive to the nearest grocery store, gas station and library.
But still isolated enough so that I wouldn’t bother anyone. I often kept odd hours and there were no neighbors near enough to complain.
I hadn’t had the chance to meet the landlord when I arrived; the house keys handed to me through a broker. The cottage was rented, vacated, cleaned, and rented again . . . all without the owner ever having been a part of the process.
Which is why I found it strange when I received a text message, followed by a phone call to confirm, that the man would be dropping by later this afternoon to oversee a contractor’s survey.
What little I knew of him is that he owned property – a lot of property – and that I was just a cog in the machine of his investment.
None of that mattered to me.
The cottage was in excellent condition, if a bit dated. The wallpaper in the kitchen speckled with tiny blue blossoms, over an original wood stove. I hadn’t had the chance to light it, but the smell of wood smoke clung to the interior.
Even the winter comforter on the bed had smelled like dryer sheets and sunshine when I first arrived. Not stale. Not old. The windows had been opened, to refresh the rooms, probably that same day though they were closed when I dragged my luggage in.
Whoever was taking care of the cottage between tenants deserved a raise.
Jane returned to her hotel; I left the restaurant and cruised out of town, in no real hurry even though I wasn’t entirely sure what time to expect my . . . visitor.
Expect him sometime after two. Pft. Fine. If anyone complained that I wasn’t there to greet him; I’m on a working holiday, meeting with my editor in the city. They can wait. Or start without me.
The countryside was beautiful at this time of day, with the sunlight diffused through the clouds lighting the rolling hills in a creamy glow. Purple heather, golden glass, behind the low gray stone of ancient fences – a thrilling backdrop to the modern highway, and the silver bullet of a plane ascending in the distance.
I kept the windows of my rental rolled down, enjoying the needling of . . . not rain, or drizzle. I had no idea where that moisture was coming from, but I liked it. The feel of the wind in my hair, cool fingers combing through heavy strands.
I almost hoped it did start to rain; it would give me a reason to light that woodstove – and procrastinate. Hell. Jane was one excuse away from committing a murder. I suspected the reason she hadn’t done away with me yet is that then she’d never get her chapters.
Jokes aside, I meant it when I told her I was prepared to buckle in for the long-haul.
I bought a case of grapefruit sparkling water, and enough cheesy crackers to fuel my muse for a solid couple of days. The tiny bathroom was already supplied with rolls of toilet paper. I was ready to write.
So what was I doing driving through the countryside on my way back to my lease, to entertain the pompous ass who owned the place?
I turned off the highway onto the winding drive that led up to the house.
My tiny yellow cottage; like a discarded toy surrounded by wild growth and just a hint of trees at the far back of the property. It smelled like earth and peat smoke out here, and felt like taking a step back in time.
Not far.
Enough to beat in my chest, to thrill my senses when I breathed and it reinforced that surge of emotion, that feeling of restless expectancy.
That I was in the right place, that this – this – is exactly where I needed to be.
‘Sometime after two,’ my butt. It was exactly two o’clock, and he was already here . . . because that limousine parked diagonally in the tiny garden in front of the cottage didn’t belong to the damn surveyors.
Presidential black, its paint glossed to a mirror finish, tinted windows rolled deliberately up so that I couldn’t see who occupied the inside.
I eased up alongside the limo. Slid my rental into park, rolled up my own windows and switched off the ignition.
I waited a second, skin humming in the still silence.
Nothing moved in the limo, and I wondered if Mr. Pompous Ass couldn’t be bothered to open his own door.
Just as I reached to get out, I thought I heard my name called.
A chill licked up my spine.
Of course I was alone – no one on the passenger side. I looked first in the rearview and then turned my head to check the backseat. Nothing but highland steeps the color of barley out the back window.
It was so, so quiet with the engine off. Lonely. I pulled my keys from the ignition, and got out of the car.
Still nothing from the limo though now I could just make out the shape of the driver in the front seat.
The wind sighed down from the hills, cool and fragrant. A shadow moved. In my peripheral.
Quick, predatory, the low prowl of some great cat. The long-legged lope of a wolf. I spun around, shoes scuffing on the hard gravel and my hand flew to my throat.
“Oh, god.”
Lip quirking, tentative amusement, a man stepped from the cottage’s doorway and my breath caught at the sight of him.
Familiarity thrummed like distant thunder. I knew him. Never before had we met, and yet . . . I searched my memory . . .
“Ms. Kostopoulos,” he said in greeting, and every syllable of my name rolled off his tongue. Easily, naturally. “I apologize. If I frightened you.”
He did not look at all sorry. Though to be fair, the man had only just been standing there – so still, he was practically invisible while in plain sight.
I moved to meet him.
“Were you waiting long, Mr . . .?”
He extended his hand. “Montclair.”
“Mr. Montclair,” I took what he offered. Cool fingers closed on mine, his handshake firm but not punishing, “I was told to expect you after two.”
“It is past two.”
Yes. Yes, it was.
Five or so minutes past two o’clock and why, oh why, couldn’t I tear my gaze from his? I never stared, knew better than to make people uncomfortable, but Mr. Montclair was striking in a way that had very little to do with his appearance.
Familiar. So familiar.
I cleared my throat. “Do I know you?”
“Therein lay the question. No.” His voice was smooth, warm, but with an edge that ripped through me like straight brandy. “I have been looking forward to meeting you, Simone.”