A Strange Scottish Shore
Page 33
No, this chest is more sturdy, weighted at the bottom to make it harder to move, and locked with a key I keep at my wrist. I open the lid now and lift the carved wooden boxes from within, and even Araminta can’t hold back a little sigh at their splendor. She tries on the gold circlet, set with pearls, and the emerald ring, both of which are far too large for her. She reaches for the sapphire ring, and I tell her it’s the ring Daddy gave me when she was born.
“Why?” she asks, admiring the way it glitters on her finger.
“Because he wanted to thank me for bearing him a precious daughter. Because it’s the color of the sea, which he loves, and also your eyes, which he loves even more.”
She looks up at me. “He loves your eyes, too.”
“Yes. He loves us all very much, darling, and he hates to be away, and he’ll be back in two more days, if the winds hold fair.”
Araminta nods and turns her attention back to the chest. I adjust the circlet on her head so it won’t press the tender skin of her brow, while she rummages about, disturbing the neat folds of velvet that comprise my ceremonial robes.
“Mama,” she says, “what’s this?”
I look over her arm into the chest, and I notice something I have not perceived before: a small black ribbon wedged in the bottom corner.
A tiny frisson of unease ripples across my skin.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I expect it’s nothing—”
But Araminta is her father’s child, full of brave, heedless curiosity, and she promptly takes hold of that ribbon and pulls it, causing the wooden board at the bottom of the chest to rise from its place.
“Oh, look!” she exclaims. “It’s a dress!”
• • •
There’s no possible way to explain to Araminta how I came by the items of clothing she pulls from the false bottom of my jewel chest, one by one. I tell her they’re like my ceremonial robes, a sort of dress-up for adults, and she begs me to put them on so she can see them properly. I refuse and suggest it’s time for dinner.
Araminta knows better than this. Dinner begins at noon, and while the sun might hide behind the clouds at present, she is a native Orcadian, and knows at all times where it lies in the sky. Noon is still some way off. Plenty of time for Mama to try on her dress. Please, Mama.
I stare down at the handfuls of navy wool in my lap, and a waft of sea breeze seems to find my nose. A memory of roses.
But apart from the faint sensation of unease that claimed me when Araminta first made her discovery, I feel no vibration in the air, no familiar electricity. I haven’t known these things since that long-ago day on the beach, in the cave where we pulled Helen back from the portal’s brink. I have almost forgotten those sensations existed. That desire to return to my own century—our century—which fell away and turned into fear after my union with Silverton, has faded into nothing, fed by nothing. Even the grief of missing my dear friend Max—the restless tug of unfinished business and unsolved mysteries—have eased their claims on my heart, over the course of these seven blissful years. I have gotten on with life in Hoy, bearing our children, running the household of a medieval castle, loving my husband with every fiber of my heart. For the past seven years, I have so anchored myself to this world, I scarcely feel those tremors for the other one. I have largely forgotten Magnusson’s words, and the legend seeped into the stones of this castle. There are times when I reach into my leather pouch and my fingers discover the smooth, heavy, pointed shape of the bullet I still keep there, and I cannot instantly recall how I came by it.
So I lift up the hem of the blue dress and admire the fineness of the modern weave, and I think to myself, Why not? It’s part of her heritage, after all. One day I shall have to explain it all to her. How her father and I came to live on this strange shore, and why we speak a language unknown to its inhabitants.
What possible harm could it do, after all this time?
“Very well,” I say. “But you’ll have to help me with the buttons.”
Author’s Note
As a recovering anthropology major, I’m endlessly fascinated by the way human beings interpret the world around them and weave their stories into the fabric of cultural myth. Selkie legends abound in the north of Great Britain and elsewhere, and theories as to their true origin are almost as numerous. I read a wide range of both in order to construct the particular selkie tale that forms the backbone of this book, and as with the originals, I’m afraid there is no neat conclusion. That’s the nature and the magic of mythmaking—a story’s true meaning depends on the active interpretation of the audience.
You may be surprised to learn that the available information on medieval Orkney is rather thin, which delighted me immensely, as I enjoy making things up. While I adhered to the known facts of the islands’ history—passing as they did from Picts to Vikings to Norse to Scots—I did invent the castle of Hoy (and its lord) as a vassal possession in order not to disturb the historical succession of Orkney rulers with my shenanigans. Trust me, they’re fascinating enough not to require any selkie legends for enhancement. In addition to referencing general histories of the Middle Ages and the Orkneys, I spent many fascinating hours plundering the Orkneyjar website to better understand the chronology, culture, and folklore of the region. Any mistakes, omissions, and other sins (intended or otherwise) are entirely my own.
I’m regularly brought to my knees by the psychic tug of history in historical spaces, and to me, the idea of time travel is as natural as thinking itself. Until we obtain proof of a time traveler more complex than a subatomic particle, however, we can only imagine how this phenomenon might work. In my own head, time makes sense as a kind of river flowing in one direction, and time travel as the ability to jump around to different points along that river. That ability, in the world of these books, flows from a higher power through certain individuals who—for whatever reason—can receive and channel it. Thus far, I’ve avoided the vexing question of whether a person can exist twice in the same point in time. That, along with many other philosophical problems of time travel, will have to wait for another book.
As always, my deepest thanks are due to my editor, Kate Seaver, and all the hardworking team at Berkley who have believed so passionately in these novels from the beginning. Your enthusiasm for my strange plots, particular voices, complicated protagonists, and ambiguous endings will probably get you into trouble with the Big Bosses one day. I’ll happily share my bowl of gruel with you when it does. Until then, I’m just grateful you get me.
No one but Alexandra Machinist knows just how much I rely on her sound advice and unwavering support in this mad career of mine. To my dearest of agents and truest of friends—to her capable assistant, Hillary Jacobson, and all the team at ICM—thank you yet again.
As I hurtle past deadlines, I like to complain that I could write twice as many books if it weren’t for the incessant demands of my husband and four children, which is probably true. But where’s the fun in that? Besides, if they didn’t force me to rise from my laptop in order to make dinner, fold laundry, and clean the cat litter box at regular intervals, the paramedics would have to surgically separate me from the armchair after each book. My dutiful thanks are therefore due to my family for, like, keeping it real. And for the love that keeps my boat afloat through every squall.
Finally, my gratitude goes out to all my loyal readers, who read more deeply, think more carefully, see more keenly, and laugh more freely than all those sane, boring folk with the uncluttered desks and worthy, immaculate bookshelves. You really do. And no one appreciates your odd taste in books more than your humble author.
Questions for Discussion
Emmeline Truelove is a liminal character, having lived most of her life in the space between social classes and gender norms. How do you think this experience is reflected in her personality?
Emmeline interacts frequently with characters who
do not exist, which she describes as ghosts—of Queen Victoria, of her father, and of King Edward VII. How do you interpret these experiences? Are they really ghosts, or figments of her imagination? Why do they appear in the book, and what role do they play?
Emmeline’s “father” suggests that she and Silverton are attracted to each other because they both wear masks that hide their true selves. Do you think this is true? What masks do they wear, and why? How would you describe Emmeline’s true self, and Silverton’s?
In effect, there are two “selkie” stories taking place in the book, and two possible “selkies”—Helen and Emmeline. Which character do you think is the basis for the Sinclair family legend, and which one for the tale in The Book of Time? Or are they both some combination of the two? Why do you think the author has structured the story in this way?
Helen has led an eventful life, both in the modern day and the past. Do you think her happiness with Magnus is enough to overcome her grief over losing her son and her familiar world, to say nothing of modern conveniences? How do you think you would react to being flung into a previous century? Setting aside emotional connections, do you think you’d be happier in the past?
How has the treatment of women changed over the years, from medieval Europe to the early twentieth century to today? How do you think Emmeline and Helen dealt with these differences?
Do you believe in time travel? What time period would you most like to experience if you could? What do you think can be learned from time travel? How do you think it influences Emmeline’s view of the world?
Has Hunter been punished for his bad deeds? What do you think has happened to him?
The author leaves some questions unanswered, and the conclusion of the book suggests a possible new fate for Emmeline. What do you think happens to her when she puts on her twentieth-century dress? Do you think this is a happy ending for Emmeline?
JULIANA GRAY, the author of A Most Extraordinary Pursuit, is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author BEATRIZ WILLIAMS, the author of Cocoa Beach, The Wicked City, A Certain Age, Along the Infinite Sea, Tiny Little Thing, The Secret Life of Violet Grant, A Hundred Summers, and Overseas, and coauthor of The Forgotten Room with New York Times bestselling authors Karen White and Lauren Willig.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.