Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

The air was heavy with the scent of the soil, an earthy, sweet tang Ethan could almost taste. The rain had stopped, but the long grass was damp against the legs of his jeans, as he strode purposefully away from the castle.

  He’d tried to go on as though everything was normal, but it was impossible. He could sense her everywhere he went. It didn’t matter how many solid stone walls he put between himself and Isla Belmont, he couldn’t ignore the knowledge that she was there at Rosehill, taking stock of his home, his life...of him.

  He’d been so thrown by her question about the future, he’d almost forgotten himself, almost answered honestly. He’d caught himself just in time, but her words still rang in his head as he stepped into Rose Wood.

  “You’ll have to start all over again.”

  The ground changed beneath his feet, the slick grass giving way to rough, uneven earth. He was forced to slow, to allow for the gnarled roots snaking across the path, and as he took his usual route through the trees, birds began to sing overhead. Ethan picked out the wistful tune of a lone blackbird from somewhere far above and tipped his head towards the sky, wondering how he hadn’t heard it there before. Perhaps he had, and it was only his strange, unsettling mood that had made him notice it now.

  He walked on. It didn’t mean anything. None of it meant anything. In a few weeks, it would all be over. All he had to do until then was avoid Isla Belmont.

  *

  Isla had been cataloguing furniture and tea-sets in the cold, draughty dining room for what felt like hours until finally giving in.

  Clutching a cardboard box to her chest, she gingerly pushed open the study door. Fortunately, only Ryder sat before the fire. To her surprise, he was reading, but at the sight of her in the doorway, he set the clothbound book facedown on the table and got to his feet.

  “Do you mind if I work in here?”

  She’d come across the box of vintage glass bottles tucked away on the back of a shelf, and she needed better lighting to examine them, or at least that was her excuse. Mostly she just wanted to be able to feel her fingers again.

  “Not at all,” Ryder said.

  He picked up his book, but his hands obscured the title, and Isla was aware of his eyes on her as she carried the box over to the desk and began unpacking the bottles.

  She lined them up side-by-side in a row. There were perfume bottles, syrup bottles, drinks bottles. Some, Isla knew instantly, would be worth pennies if anything. It didn’t much matter how old they were if they were made of clear glass, and didn’t have labels, they’d drum up little interest from collectors.

  A couple of the bottles had caught her eye, however- a round, purple cosmetics bottle with a shell-like pattern, and one other. A thick layer of grime covered its surface, as though it had once been buried in the earth. Beneath the dirt however, the six-sided bottle was a vivid cobalt blue. Isla ran her fingers over the raised ridges along one side.

  “Is it valuable?”

  Isla looked up with a start and found Ryder standing on the other side of the desk. She hadn’t heard him get up. He was looking at the bottle with an unexpected curiosity.

  “Maybe,” Isla said. She turned the bottle upside down to examine the pontil scar. “To the right person.”

  But it wasn’t the value of the bright blue bottle that she was thinking of at that moment, but its former contents.

  “Do you know who collected all these bottles into one place?”

  Ryder’s eyes met hers over the top of the bottle. “No, why?”

  Isla placed the bottle alongside the others. “Because this is a very distinctive style of bottle that would only have been used to store one very specific thing.”

  Ryder’s head tilted. “What’s that?”

  “Poison.”

  The study door swung open, and Ethan MacRae froze in the doorway, his cheeks flushed with cold, and his hair wild.

  “I didnae realise you were still here.”

  It was obvious he meant Isla, and from his tone and expression, she could tell that her presence was an unwelcome surprise.

  She hastily began packing the bottles back into the box. “I was just finishing up.”

  Ethan grunted and crossed the room in a few easy strides, his boots leaving muddied prints on the patterned rug. He held his hands out to the fire. The bandage on his hand now bloomed crimson across his palm.

  Isla turned away quickly, but not before Ryder caught her staring. His expression darkened at the sight of Ethan’s injured hand, but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he turned to Isla.

  “Let me help you with those.”

  As they packed the bottles away, Ethan MacRae left the fire and moved to the cabinet beside the desk, where he poured whisky into a cut crystal tumbler and knocked it back in one go.

  “Dinnae leave on my account,” he said, wiping the back of his uninjured hand across his mouth.

  Isla caught Ryder’s eye over the top of the box.

  “I have to get going anyway,” she said quietly. “Len worries if I’m not back before he locks up.”

  “Len’s your boss?” Ryder asked.

  “And landlord, and surrogate Dad.” Isla caught the confusion on Ryder’s face and smiled. “I live above the shop.”

  Actually, the amount of furniture she’d dragged up the backstairs to ‘borrow’, it would be more accurate to say she lived in the shop. Any piece Len couldn’t shift that she liked the look of, ended in her studio flat. The end result was a mish-mash of eras and styles that shouldn’t have worked together at all but somehow did.

  Usually, when people found out where she lived, they were surprised and asked questions about work-life balance, but Ryder only carefully closed the lid of the box. Watching him, Isla realised that of course, he wouldn’t ask her that, because he was in the same position himself. There was no way that after three years working here at Rosehill, his life hadn’t become entwined with Ethan MacRae’s.

  She looked over at where Ethan was pouring himself another drink. This one he took with him, and settled into one of the armchairs, resting the tumbler against his knee. The hems of his black jeans were damp with dew, and his boots filthy. What had he been doing out there all this time?

  “Let me get that for you.” Ryder lifted the box before Isla could protest.

  “Oh, thanks. Actually, I thought I might take it back to the shop to research further...unless you have any objection?” She directed the last part to Ethan.

  He sat back in the armchair, his head tilted towards the fire. At her question, he turned, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes met hers. Every nerve in Isla’s body responded, making her feel like she’d just been plugged in at the mains.

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Right,” Isla swallowed. “Well then. Good night, Mr MacRae.”

  “Mr MacRae is my father. Unless you’re trying to make me feel old please, call me Ethan.” He turned back to the fire.

  “Ethan,” Isla corrected, then instantly wished she hadn’t. His name hung in the air between the three of them, like an incendiary charge, waiting to be lit. She turned away swiftly.

  “Good night, Miss Belmont,” Ethan spoke with his back to her.

  In the entrance hall, Isla shrugged on her jacket and took the box from Ryder. “Where does he go?” she blurted. “I saw him outside earlier...”

  “He walks around the estate.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? For him to be walking around alone, I mean? Couldn’t he get hurt?” Isla thought of the bloodied bandage on Ethan’s hand, and her stomach clenched.

  Ryder appeared unruffled. “The amount of time he spends out there, I’d say he knows his way around the grounds better than I do.”

  “You don’t worry about him then?” She caught Ryder’s eye.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Outside, the air was thick and heavy, and the breeze carried an earthy tang. There was a storm on the way.

  Six

  His breathing came fast and ragged, his heart poundi
ng in his chest, as he pushed himself to run harder, faster. Ethan’s mind was racing as fast as his body, the memories chasing him down, no matter how quickly he propelled himself forward. They’d catch up to him, they always did. Running gained him some ground, that’s all. It staved off the nightmares until he was asleep.

  His hair was plastered to his forehead and he pushed it back as the treadmill slowed, his pre-programmed run coming to an end. Ethan dropped down to a jog, and then a walk until finally, it stopped, and he reached his hands out to the side, finding the handles, and tipped his head back, waiting to catch his breath.

  The minute his lungs stopped screaming, he moved over to the punch bag. His left hand might be out of action but he could still practice his right hook.

  Ethan had always intended to have a gym at Rosehill, but back when he’d bought the place he’d imagined a light, airy, state-of-the-art studio with ceiling speakers and mirrored walls, not a dark, airless cellar. Ryder complained that it was like descending into a crypt, that there was barely enough light filtering through the one partially-above-ground window for him to see his hand in front of his face. But what difference did that make to Ethan?

  He grabbed hold of the punch bag, bringing it to a standstill, before making his way back through the cellars, and up the spiral stone staircase to the ground floor.

  Ethan heard the distant, resounding thud of the main door, and muffled speech. Right on time.

  “Well if it isn’t ma wee brother himself.” Connor’s drawl was unmistakable. Broader than his own, which had softened since he’d lost his sight, but Ethan still found his accent slipping when he spoke to his brother.

  He paused on the threshold of the draughty entrance hall, trying to get a sense for where Connor and Ryder were standing.

  “Connor.” He patted his face with the towel draped around his neck. “Punctual as ever.”

  “I wouldnae want to miss you looking at your finest,” Connor said. “Good workout?”

  Ethan shrugged noncommittally. He didn’t work out because he enjoyed it, he did it because he had to, if he wanted to hold onto what shreds of his sanity remained.

  “I’ll be going then,” Ryder said. “I’ll be back at eight tomorrow, to let Miss Belmont in.”

  “Aye, of course. Thank you, Ryder.”

  “Miss Belmont?” Ethan could hear the interest in his brother’s voice as he followed Ethan into the study. Not that Ethan could blame him. Isla was the first person aside from him or Ryder, to visit Rosehill, it was no wonder Connor’s curiosity was piqued.

  “The antiques appraiser,” Ethan clarified before his brother’s imagination ran wild.

  “So you’re finally taking my advice.” Connor’s tone was smug, as he sat down in a chair, the cushions expelling air around him.

  “I wouldnae go that far.” Ethan sat down opposite his brother.

  “It’s a start though, aye?”

  Ethan didn’t answer. How could he?

  “Well, what’s she like, this Miss Belmont?” Connor changed the subject.

  Ethan instantly recalled the way his name had sounded, falling from her lips earlier. How it had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed not to turn to her when she’d said it.

  “How should I know?”

  “You’ve met her haven’t you?”

  “Briefly.”

  And he intended to keep it that way. He’d walk the grounds all day every day if it meant he could avoid hearing Isla Belmont say his name again.

  “And?” Connor persisted.

  “And what? She’s here to catalogue the furniture, Connor. So long as she can do that, what else is there to know?”

  Why had she been in his bedroom? What would have happened if he hadn’t reacted the way that he had? Exactly how grotesque did she find him? And would she ever lose that nervous quiver in her voice when she spoke to him? Questions flooded Ethan’s mind.

  His brother grunted. “Alright, I was only making conversation.”

  Ethan winced. He knew it couldn’t be easy for Connor to come here. Ethan didn’t know why he did it. Week after week, always at the same time, Connor would turn up, and Ethan was always there, dripping with sweat after running from his demons- either in his nightmares or on the treadmill, with nothing new to offer. No wonder Connor jumped at the prospect of a new topic of conversation. But there was no way Ethan could sit and discuss Isla Belmont with him. Not with the memory of their last meeting so fresh in his mind, his palm still stinging beneath the bandage Ryder had wrapped over his wound.

  “How are Ma and Dad?” Ethan changed the subject.

  “They’re...okay. You know, Dad’s birthday is coming up, we’re planning a surprise party…” Connor trailed off.

  “No,” Ethan warned.

  “Hear me out-”

  “No.” Ethan cut him off. He knew what his brother was about to ask, and there was absolutely no way that he was going to agree to it.

  “I havenae even asked the question,” Connor protested.

  “It doesnae matter. The answer is no.” Ethan’s jaw went rigid.

  Connor sighed. “Ethan, it’s his 60th.”

  “Aye. What’s your point?”

  “That you should be there.”

  “I should be dead. Or locked away,” Ethan snapped.

  Silence fell like a heavy blanket over the room. Stifling and weighed down with the past.

  “Aren’t you?” Connor asked, finally breaking it.

  Ethan snorted. “Rosehill isnae prison, Connor.”

  “If no one ever comes in, and you never leave, what’s the difference?”

  He was right, of course, but then that was the point. It was why the minute he’d recovered enough to live alone, Ethan had moved from his parents’ home to this heap of stone in the middle of nowhere. It was both prison and fortress. Ethan rarely left, and certainly wasn’t about to for a birthday party, of all things.

  “I amnae coming to the party.”

  Connor sighed again. “I didnae think ye would. But I promised Ma I’d try.”

  Ethan’s chest tightened. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

  “She doesnae want your apologies, Ethan, she wants her son back.”

  Ethan wanted him back too. The difference was, he knew it was impossible. That Ethan didn’t exist anymore.

  “Just tell her, okay?”

  Connor didn’t answer.

  “Connor?”

  “Fuck’s sake.” Connor exhaled. “Aye, I’ll tell her.”

  *

  Connor stayed for a drink and filled Ethan in on the latest from MacRae and Sons. “Our company,” he called it, as though he was keeping a space warm for Ethan. As though at any time his brother might take up his position beside him. As though the past five years had been nothing more than a bad dream.

  Ethan listened attentively. Not because it was relevant, but because he felt he owed his brother that much. When they’d taken over the family business, Ethan had never imagined a day when they wouldn’t be running MacRae and Sons side-by-side, but then he could never have imagined any of what was to come, just a few months after that night of champagne and laughter. No one could. And now Connor carried the responsibility alone, without complaint. The least Ethan could do was listen.

  “I should be getting back,” Connor said suddenly. “Ma will worry if I don’t call her.”

  Ethan didn’t need to ask why she would worry about her thirty-three-year-old son. He didn’t need to. He was the reason, and they both knew it.

  “You should do something about the phone reception in this place. It’s like the land that time forgot out here. You could at least get a landline installed, or broadband, or something.”

  Ethan frowned at the suggestion. “What would be the point? It’s not like anybody is going to call me.”

  “Not if they cannae get through, no,” Connor drawled.

  Ethan didn’t need to point out that there was no ‘they’, Connor already knew. He was the only contact Ethan had
with the outside world now, aside from Ryder...and her.

  “Anyway,” Connor continued. “What about Ryder? I’m sure he’d like to be able to communicate with the outside world from time-to-time. And Miss Belmont, was it? There’s not only you to think about-”

  Ethan’s head snapped up.

  “What?” Connor asked.

  Ethan shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll have Ryder look into it.” He followed his brother to the door.

  “Same time next week?” Connor’s voice lilted up at the end, making it a question, not a statement.

  “Aye.”

  “Take care brother.” Connor pulled him into a brief, tight hug, slapping his back.

  “And you.”

  A blast of cold air and rainwater showered Ethan’s face, and he heard the crunch of gravel beneath Connor’s feet and the slam of his car door.

  Ethan lifted one hand in a wave, and then pushed the heavy door closed with a bang. He leaned his back against it, feeling the reverberations in his bones, as the sound echoed through the empty corridors of Rosehill.

  Seven

  The writing table screeched in protest as Isla dragged it away from the wall, the sound grating on her already frayed nerves. She’d slept fitfully, dreaming of unknown figures and endless corridors, until she’d woken, anxious and irritable, with the beginning of a migraine blossoming behind one eye.

  All she wanted to do was curl up in a dark room and go to sleep, but since that wasn’t an option, Isla turned her attention back to the desk.

  It was the nicest piece she’d found at Rosehill so far, a little shabby around the edges maybe, but with lots of little details to appeal to a potential buyer, like original brass handles, and lockable drawers.

  Isla wasn’t sure what it was doing shoved into a forgotten corner in a dusty parlour, but she was certain it would have a brighter future ahead if she could find a buyer for it.

  She crouched down to photograph the front of the desk and caught a glint of something in the light. A single key hung from a hook beneath the desk on a piece of faded yellow ribbon.

  She turned it over in her hands, before slipping it into the lock of the top drawer. It fit perfectly, as Isla had known it would. But was there anything inside worth locking away?