frequently used.
Holding up the lamp, she saw a number handwritten on each spine in white correcting fluid; so, Michael still had his own system, and, if she looked, she knew she’d find his card file—there’d be no computer database for Michael Dane. “Writing time is thinking time, Little Fee.” He’d always been a Luddite.
Freya nodded. I know, Dad. I agree. She, too, liked to write things first in longhand—an anachronism, but his anachronism. Some things remained to her, of him. And as a child she’d loved his cards, each one an elegant statement of his love for what he did.
Archaeology, of course. That thing, worse than another woman, the obsession that had taken him away; it must have been that. Family and archaeology—why had they been so incompatible, and why had she followed Michael into that same realm of the dead past?
Freya snorted. She knew why; any bloody amateur psychologist could tell her why. She wanted to prove herself to him, wanted to be better than he was.
Too late.
Freya shook her head, angry, not sad. Can’t please you now that you’re dead, can I? She ran a finger across the book spines as she walked the length of the room. Gradually, as she knew she would, she was absorbed by the names, the bindings, the range of topics . . .
She stopped. Of course! This library would be the most tremendous resource for her work. Freya laughed at the irony.
No power = no laptop = no surfing the Net, but with all that was on these shelves, she’d not even miss the Web for research—her father’s books would get her to the end of her unloved doctorate. Michael’s deep knowledge of his chosen subject, the archaeology of the so-called Dark Ages, the early medieval to be exact, and the resources in this room would provide all she needed and more.
Perhaps she was meant to come to this place after all. Perhaps, in the end, there were no accidents.
Freya Dane sat down at her father’s kitchen table, the lamps placed on either side of the folder. She pulled it toward her. In that quiet room, the cardboard made a hushing sound as it slid across the plank top.
She opened the flap. It had an internal pocket, and in that was a solicitor’s card. She scanned the plain black type—it announced that Hindhawk, Piddington, and Associates, Solicitors and Advocates, could be found at Kings Quay Chambers, 18 Balloch Court, Ardleith, KA33, Scotland. Scotland was embossed—a definite statement. Freya’s lips quirked. Scots independence rose up from that small cardboard rectangle—no United Kingdom for these gentlemen at law, apparently.
She put the card aside. Inside the folder there was a mass of anonymous white pages, covered in her father’s writing. And then she took in the meaning and feeling behind the first words of his letter before they blurred.
December 31
Close to Midnight
My darling Freya,
Perhaps it is the last night of the old year that has made me write to you or perhaps because whisky, drunk alone, brings feeling close to the surface.
Truth is always complex, but tonight I have, it seems, the courage to say what must be said between us. And also to try to record what has happened on this island, to set down the facts as simply as I can, because it is your right to know.
For if you are reading what I’ve written here instead of talking to me over a companionable dram at last, that will be because I’ve left instructions with my solicitors in Ardleith.
By now you’ll know that Findnar belongs to you, with this house and all its contents. And this document will be placed where, hopefully, you will find it if and when you decide to come here. I hope you do. If I close my eyes, I can see you sitting here, at my kitchen table. That provides a little comfort.
Perhaps you do not believe that I am sad, desolate rather, that we have never met as adults? Believe me, I am. I have planned, so often, what we might say to each other, but each conversation in my head begins and ends with
Holding up the lamp, she saw a number handwritten on each spine in white correcting fluid; so, Michael still had his own system, and, if she looked, she knew she’d find his card file—there’d be no computer database for Michael Dane. “Writing time is thinking time, Little Fee.” He’d always been a Luddite.
Freya nodded. I know, Dad. I agree. She, too, liked to write things first in longhand—an anachronism, but his anachronism. Some things remained to her, of him. And as a child she’d loved his cards, each one an elegant statement of his love for what he did.
Archaeology, of course. That thing, worse than another woman, the obsession that had taken him away; it must have been that. Family and archaeology—why had they been so incompatible, and why had she followed Michael into that same realm of the dead past?
Freya snorted. She knew why; any bloody amateur psychologist could tell her why. She wanted to prove herself to him, wanted to be better than he was.
Too late.
Freya shook her head, angry, not sad. Can’t please you now that you’re dead, can I? She ran a finger across the book spines as she walked the length of the room. Gradually, as she knew she would, she was absorbed by the names, the bindings, the range of topics . . .
She stopped. Of course! This library would be the most tremendous resource for her work. Freya laughed at the irony.
No power = no laptop = no surfing the Net, but with all that was on these shelves, she’d not even miss the Web for research—her father’s books would get her to the end of her unloved doctorate. Michael’s deep knowledge of his chosen subject, the archaeology of the so-called Dark Ages, the early medieval to be exact, and the resources in this room would provide all she needed and more.
Perhaps she was meant to come to this place after all. Perhaps, in the end, there were no accidents.
Freya Dane sat down at her father’s kitchen table, the lamps placed on either side of the folder. She pulled it toward her. In that quiet room, the cardboard made a hushing sound as it slid across the plank top.
She opened the flap. It had an internal pocket, and in that was a solicitor’s card. She scanned the plain black type—it announced that Hindhawk, Piddington, and Associates, Solicitors and Advocates, could be found at Kings Quay Chambers, 18 Balloch Court, Ardleith, KA33, Scotland. Scotland was embossed—a definite statement. Freya’s lips quirked. Scots independence rose up from that small cardboard rectangle—no United Kingdom for these gentlemen at law, apparently.
She put the card aside. Inside the folder there was a mass of anonymous white pages, covered in her father’s writing. And then she took in the meaning and feeling behind the first words of his letter before they blurred.
December 31
Close to Midnight
My darling Freya,
Perhaps it is the last night of the old year that has made me write to you or perhaps because whisky, drunk alone, brings feeling close to the surface.
Truth is always complex, but tonight I have, it seems, the courage to say what must be said between us. And also to try to record what has happened on this island, to set down the facts as simply as I can, because it is your right to know.
For if you are reading what I’ve written here instead of talking to me over a companionable dram at last, that will be because I’ve left instructions with my solicitors in Ardleith.
By now you’ll know that Findnar belongs to you, with this house and all its contents. And this document will be placed where, hopefully, you will find it if and when you decide to come here. I hope you do. If I close my eyes, I can see you sitting here, at my kitchen table. That provides a little comfort.
Perhaps you do not believe that I am sad, desolate rather, that we have never met as adults? Believe me, I am. I have planned, so often, what we might say to each other, but each conversation in my head begins and ends with
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