Ian could think of no reasonable objection, so the two men ventured forth into the chill February night.
Like many great cities, Edinburgh had a variety of moods. It could be warm and welcoming, in the boisterous, dangerous way of Scottish cities, sly and beckoning as a sloe-eyed whore, or grim and foreboding. Tonight there was a feeling of expectation in the air, which had turned blustery and cold. A winter storm was brewing in the eastern sky, and as they walked, the wind from the Firth of Forth blew in gusts, curling around the stone buildings like a cat in search of a soft place to rest.
The two men wound their way through the streets, tugging at their cloaks to keep the wind from yanking them away. Conversation became impossible as the blizzard increased its fury, blowing patches of snow at their faces, whipping their half-closed eyes. It was too late for the omnibuses to be running; Ian looked around for a hansom cab, but they were all taken.
When they reached South Bridge, he bade Pearson good night. He supposed the librarian would like to be invited in for a cup of tea, but they lived in different directions, and Ian had had enough company. His tolerance for other people was limited; he longed for the solitude and quiet of his flat. Still, he didn’t envy the poor fellow as he watched his bulky figure retreat into the darkness.
Safely inside, Ian pulled the heavy drapes on the front window closed before taking a lighted taper out to the pantry. Alone at last, he took what felt like the first deep breath of the day, savoring the feel of the plush carpet under his feet.
He had decorated the rooms carefully, with Aunt Lillian’s help, filling the place with Turkish fabrics and Persian rugs. It was a source of comfort and pleasure, a retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city. He had chosen Victoria Terrace for its central location but relative isolation—nestled in the side of the rocky hillocks of the Old Town, the terrace was accessible from the Grassmarket via a steep stone staircase. The narrow pavement in front of the crescent of buildings carried no traffic other than the residents of the terrace. The closest thoroughfare for carts, carriages, and horses was Victoria Street, fifty feet below.
His throat parched from wind and alcohol, Ian needed a drink of water. He also realized he was ravenous. Clutching the candle in its pewter holder, Ian opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. As he reached up to light the gas lamp, he was aware of something out of the corner of his eye. He turned around. Sitting upon the counter and nibbling at a few stray bread crumbs was a small gray mouse. Ian blinked at the sight; it was not a rat—Edinburgh had legions of those—but a bloody mouse. It looked up at Ian calmly, as if taking measure of him.
Ian gazed at the creature, realizing he was still quite drunk.
The mouse resumed eating.
Ian raised a declamatory hand and began to recite Burns.
“Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!”
The mouse finished eating the bread crumb and moved on to the next one. Ian continued his recitation.
“Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!”
The mouse regarded him without rancor, chewing contemplatively.
“There’s no panic in your breastie,” Ian muttered, thinking how pleased Lillian would be that he could still recite the opening stanzas in the original Scots dialect. He had learned it back in school, but he had a curious ability to retain and remember almost everything he heard.
The mouse sat on its haunches, sniffing the air.
Ian took a step toward it. The mouse glared at him, flicking its tail irritably, its cheeks stuffed with bread crumbs.
“So,” Ian mumbled to himself, “a mouse’s home is its castle, eh?” He seized a loaf of bread from the bin and a cold joint of beef from the icebox, and left the kitchen. The mouse watched from its perch on the counter.
“There are some scones in the bread box,” Ian said as he closed the door behind him. “Enjoy them, because tomorrow I’m getting a mousetrap.”
Soon the fire was blazing in the grate, and after his repast, Ian settled into an armchair with the book George Pearson had given him. Outside, the storm raged on. Sheets of sleet hurtled themselves against the windows, clattering like the tapping of devilish fingers upon the glass. Ian got up and pulled the drapes more tightly closed, but he could still hear the sleet pummeling the windowpanes. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. He settled back in the armchair and opened the book. He perused the first paragraph, but his eyelids were heavy, and he struggled to stay awake. It had been a long day roaming about in the damp, chill air, and now that his body was at rest, sleep worked hard to claim him. The leaping flames in the fireplace were mesmerizing, the room was warm, the chair soft—even the rattle of sleet upon the windowpanes added to the soothing atmosphere. Rat-a-tat-tat . . .
The fire was everywhere, all around him, and yet he felt no heat. He was standing in the front parlor of his parents’ house, the conflagration already in full fury. The flames roared and danced, licking as high as his head, and he stood there as if he had been nailed to the spot. He could hear his mother’s voice calling him, and strained to make out what direction it was coming from.
“Ian! Ian, help me, please! Where are you?”
He started off in one direction, but as soon as he did, the voice seemed to be coming from behind him.
“Ian, darling, help! Save me!”
He wheeled around and headed toward the voice, only to hear her cries coming from a completely different part of the house. Windowpanes burst and exploded from the heat; great timbers crashed down from the walls, blocking his path, but still he seemed immune to the flames all around him. A blazing ceiling beam tumbled down above him—he ducked in time to avoid it hitting his head, but the burning wood grazed his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He fell beneath it, trapped by its weight, the fire searing his left shoulder and back as his ears filled with the sound of his own screams. Through the gathering flames, he saw his mother walking slowly toward him.
Ian sat up abruptly in the chair, wide awake, expecting to see his mother standing in front of him. But the room was empty, the fire in the grate having burned down to glowing embers. His shoulder ached and throbbed, and as he reached to rub it with his right hand, the second stanza of the Burns poem popped into his head.
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An’ fellow-mortal!