She had always loved this pale green tartan. Most of the girls liked the big brash colors that made you stand out: the vibrant blues and reds and purples that drew the eye as you all flew together. But this subtle pale color with the forest-green bodice was one of the few things she’d ever worn that emphasized her pale eyes rather than making them disappear.
“Have you practiced?” said Mrs. Kennedy.
In fact, she had run through the dances a few times—in private, in case the boys teased her. She didn’t have the height she’d once had on the jumps, but as soon as the music had started up again, her muscle memory had kicked in and she’d remembered the steps immediately.
Iona and Isla arrived, giggling when they saw Flora—whom they thought of as grown-up, and very glamorous for living in London—fully dressed in the regalia.
“What’s London like?” asked Isla timidly as they laced up their shoes. “Is it busy and full of robbers and that?”
“Yes,” said Flora. “But it’s still . . . it’s good.”
In fact, she found it difficult to remember, at this distance, exactly what it was like, in the same way you can’t remember what it’s like to be cold when you’re hot, and vice versa. Her brain just seemed to eradicate anything that wasn’t the simple experience of being back on the island.
“There’s loads of bars and places to go and things going on, and the buildings just go on forever, and people come from all over the world, not just like summer here, but really from everywhere. Albania and West Africa and Portugal and everywhere you’ve ever heard of.”
“Have you ever seen anybody famous?”
Flora smiled.
“I saw Graham Norton on the street. Does that count?”
They thought about it and decided that it did.
“So are you all leaving again after the summer?” said Flora. They shrugged. What else was there to do? Most of them would be going, to Inverness, or Oban, or Aberdeen, or Glasgow, or farther. Even though some people did move to the islands, they were different: English eccentrics who thought they’d find a purer way of life up here (this provoked many an eye roll); Canadians in search of their roots; retired people. Not really the lifeblood of a community. Not these young girls with their fresh, blooming skin and flashing eyes, warming up and stretching their long pale limbs.
They were in a back room at the Rock, a place that was meant, Flora assumed, to house functions or weddings one day. It was a beautiful room, filled with oil paintings and pale tartan wallpaper; a massive fire was lit, and comfortable sofas were dotted around. Everything gave off an air of luxury and ease and comfort, but once again those huge picture windows opened on to extraordinary empty views; in this case toward the rocks behind the resort, where pining gulls and eagles dipped and soared in the beams of the endless light.
The girls were clustered around the doors, though, watching everyone arrive as seven o’clock came round.
Mure done up for a night out was quite an amusing sight, women accustomed to spending the entire year in Wellingtons or thick fur-lined boots for the unforgiving winter trying out pastel dresses and high-heeled shoes in exotic colors. Thankfully the rain had stayed away. There was no sun, but the sky was palest blue and white and gray, one of those evenings where the sky shaded into the sea, which shaded into the land, with no difference between them.
The braziers at the doorway had been lit again, and Bertie had been given reinforcements; the much larger boat was out tonight, ferrying people back and forth, dropping off excited pink-faced groups, some already clearly refreshed in anticipation. A piper greeted them, playing a classic lament rather than anything too rousing. The younger dancing girls peered out as the local boys disembarked.
“Ooh look, there’s Ruaridh MacLeod,” whispered Iona, and they all laughed rather desperately as a handsome blond boy marched up the steps, laughing with his fellows and pretending that his mother hadn’t arrived on the same boat, and then checked their hair. Yet again Flora’s wouldn’t behave, and she was sad to see that the rest of the girls had immaculate, huge, lustrous buns—which they’d clearly bought.
She enjoyed the laughter, but it also made her wince, rather. Oh, the depths of a teenage girl’s crush. And having something so very similar . . . Well. It was not edifying at her age.
She looked around for Joel, but he hadn’t arrived yet. She would have to change after the dancing. She’d brought her prettiest dress; she could put it on later, take off her ridiculous kilt. She tried to picture him wearing his. If he did. Well. That would be a sign.
Lorna dashed up. She looked fabulous in a dark green dress that showed off her lovely auburn hair.
“Damn,” said Flora. “This is very annoying. Couldn’t you also have dressed as a teenager?”
“Are you wearing socks?!”
“Shut up!”
Lorna grabbed a glass of champagne and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
“I can’t,” said Flora. “I might fall off the stage and tell everyone not to vote for Colton.”
“Do you get paid really, really well?” said Lorna.
“I’m beginning to think not nearly enough.”
“Your hair’s falling out.”
“I know, I know, shut up.”
Suddenly there was Colton, glad-handing every new arrival, introducing himself, bidding them all welcome. He caught Flora’s eye and grinned broadly, coming over.
“Look at you!” he said in delight. “Now this is what I call going above and beyond in a law firm.”
“Don’t you start,” she said. This was so far away from the sophisticated London person she liked to project. And closer, she knew, to who she really was.
“No, I mean it! You look wonderful!”
“You do,” said Lorna, kissing her cheek and vanishing into the throng.
Flora stretched her leg behind her.
“I hope I’m not too rusty.”
“Have a dram before you start. You’re on pretty early; you can have plenty more afterward.”
She smiled.
“Mrs. Kennedy would actually kill me. Actually kill me dead.”
Colton smiled.
“Well, this is my house. I’d hate to not offer traditional hospitality.”
Flora drew back enough to get a proper look at his outfit. She almost burst out laughing but managed to hide her mouth just in time.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said.
His eyes narrowed and Flora tried to remind herself that he was still a very, very mega-rich client.
“You don’t like it?”
Colton was wearing the entire regalia of a clan chief—and then some: a full Highland dress kilt in bright red-and-green tartan, with a long frock coat, a huge hairy sporran, a massive dagger stuck in his cream sock, an embroidered tartan vest, a bow tie, a sash in the same tartan across his broad chest, and, perched on top of his cropped hair, a massive tartan bunnet with three grouse feathers sticking out of the top.
“Is there a Rogers clan?”
“My mother was as Scottish as you,” said Colton. “A Frink, she was.”
Flora blinked rapidly.
“Well,” she said. “You look very nice.”
Colton beamed.
“Thank you.”
The piper began to slow down as a fiddler joined him and the music weaved itself among the gloaming evening. Mrs. Kennedy appeared and coughed loudly.
“Is that your cue?” said Colton.
“Looks like it,” said Flora.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He’s out back helping set up. He’s very nervous.”