Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

  His movements were deliberate, unhurried as he slid in and out of her, but she heard the breath catch in his throat, felt the tension in his forearms as he held her just off the floor, deepening his reach with every thrust.

  Isla’s entire body felt slick with sweat, and already she could feel the knot at her core unravelling with every stroke, with every huff of Ethan’s breath. The low crackle of the fire could have been the sound of her desire, stoked by every movement of Ethan’s body above hers.

  Isla raised herself to her elbows, desperate to increase the friction between them, to decrease the space between her body and Ethan’s. It worked. She gasped and Ethan swore softly. His thrusts became quicker, less careful, every one hitting the sweet spot inside Isla until she could do nothing but fall against the rug and unravel beneath him, so lost in her own pleasure Isla almost missed the low growl that warned of his. But Ethan’s breath caught, and at the last minute, he pulled her upright, his teeth grazing her neck as his body bucked against hers.

  They fell to the floor together, their limbs slick and tangled, their breathing ragged. Isla felt Ethan’s hands slide up the sides of her face, and he pushed the ribbon - loose and crooked - away from her eyes. She blinked furiously, the dark room coming back into focus and Ethan’s face above her, his cheeks flushed and eyes glittering in the firelight.

  “Did that answer your question?”

  “Yes.”

  But now she had another. How was she ever going to leave him?

  Thirty One

  Isla woke in Ethan’s bed, but he wasn’t in it.

  She’d fallen asleep with her head against his chest, but at some point in the night or during the morning he’d left. Maybe it was for the best. Isla still didn’t know how she was going to say goodbye.

  But she had to.

  Isla showered, lathering her body with his soap, and dressed quickly. She pulled the keys Ryder had given her from her bag and set them down on Ethan’s bedside table.

  She’d held the keys to Ethan’s castle, and a place in his bed, but every other part of him - of his life - remained under lock and key. And she was out of time.

  Isla left the room without a backwards glance, tears already pooling in her eyes.

  She swept down the stairs, intending to head straight outside. She had to keep moving. Momentum was the only thing driving her forwards, while every fibre of her being dragged her backwards. But the ballroom doors stood wide open, and her footsteps slowed without her permission as she passed.

  Just a glance, she told herself.

  The terrace doors had been thrown open, and the ballroom was flooded with light. People were coming and going, setting up circular tables around the edges of the room

  A young lad wrestling a vast bunch of black and gold balloons fought his way through the terrace doors. A single black balloon escaped the bunch, floating free. Isla followed it with her eyes as it glided up to the ballroom ceiling, the golden tail of curling ribbon trailing behind. It bumped against the elaborate mouldings and came to a standstill above the chandelier.

  Lowering her eyes, Isla saw Connor striding across the room towards her.

  “Isla. Is everything okay?”

  How could she answer that?

  “It looks amazing,” she said instead, hoping he’d forgive her the change of subject, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears that threatened to fall at any minute. She averted her eyes from his, looking to where a young woman was dressing a chair with a black organza bow.

  But when she looked back, Connor was studying her carefully.

  “Well. If you think it looks good now, wait until you see it later.”

  Isla shook her head quickly. “Oh, no, Connor, I’m not coming to the party.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  She bit her lip. God, this was awkward. “Well, I haven’t actually been invited…”

  Connor grinned. “That’s easily remedied. Here, I have something for you.” He moved to a nearby table and beckoned her over. On the table sat a small, rectangular black box tied with wide, gold ribbon.

  “For me?” Isla lifted the box and looked up at Connor in confusion. “But...why?”

  Connor shrugged. “For tonight.”

  Isla’s hand stilled on the ribbon. “Connor, I can’t-”

  “Open it,” Connor implored. “Please.”

  Isla untied the ribbon and lifted the lid from the box. Inside, nestled between sheets of soft, black tissue paper, sat a delicate gold filigree mask.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said sadly. “But I can’t accept it.” Isla placed the lid back on the box and held it out to him.

  “You have to. It willnae go with my outfit.” Connor pushed the box gently back towards her. “Seriously. Please come. I dinnae ken if many folk will, with the change of venue. It might just be me, sitting here with forty trays of hors d’oeuvres.”

  Isla smiled at the image. “That sounds like quite the party.”

  Connor laughed. “See! You have to come.”

  Isla squirmed. “I really don’t think-”

  “He’d want you to,” Connor interjected. Isla’s eyes snapped up to his, and he continued. “My brother, I mean. If you’re wondering if he wants you here, I can tell you the answer is yes. But if you’re waiting for him to say it, I wouldnae hold your breath.”

  Isla bit her lip. She saw another balloon slip free, and race towards the ceiling, the young lad grappling with them watching with obvious despair as it joined the other high above the ballroom, their ribbons twined together, black and gold.

  She looked back at Connor, and he held the gift box out towards her. “Come to the ball, Isla.”

  *

  Isla smoothed imaginary creases from the blood-red fabric and twisted in front of the full-length mirror. The vintage crimson evening gown had delicate straps and a snug lace bodice, with a long satin skirt that swept gently towards her ankles. It had been an impulse purchase years ago, hanging in her wardrobe unworn since, waiting for the right occasion. Never for one minute had she imagined that occasion would be a masquerade ball at a potentially haunted castle.

  Oh god, what was happening to her? Ever since she’d stepped foot inside Rosehill, she felt like her life had taken on a strange, fairytale quality, as though she’d pricked her finger on a spindle and everything since had been a fever dream.

  How else could she explain the strange occurrences of the last few weeks? The feeling of being watched in empty rooms, nights spent in bat-filled towers, the scorching heat between her and Ethan, and now this- a masked ball in a derelict castle. When was she going to wake up? And what would happen when she did?

  Isla sat down at her dressing table. The clock on the wall chimed seven. Isla narrowed her eyes at her reflection. She slipped on her favourite pair of earrings- one of Zoe’s designs and pulled out her deepest red lipstick.

  *

  The backroom was empty, but Isla could hear Len’s voice in the front of the shop, chattering away. It was late for a customer to be in, but when Len got chatting to a regular he lost all track of time.

  Isla had dodged him on her way in earlier, taking the outside stairs up to the flat, certain that he’d be able to read everything written across her face, but she couldn’t avoid him forever, and besides, she didn’t want a repeat of Tim waiting up for her. She was going to make it clear that she was going out, and no one need worry about what time she’d be back.

  Len’s head appeared around the curtain right on cue. He glanced across at Isla, frowning over the rims of his glasses and gave a low, appreciative whistle. “And who is this rare beauty?”

  Isla waved a hand at him dismissively but she couldn’t help smiling. “I’m going out.”

  “So I see.” Len raised one bushy eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”

  “A birthday party.” Isla draped her silk blazer over the back of a chair.

  “And you’re the present?” Len reached up into the cupboard above the kettle.

&nbs
p; “Ha-ha.” Isla rolled her eyes.

  “I’m kidding, of course,” Len said. “But you really do look something in that dress, my girl. Be careful.”

  Isla looked over at Len in surprise. He’d always been protective of her, in a quiet, unintrusive sort of way, so his sudden warning jarred. “Of what?” She frowned.

  “Of breaking too many hearts.” Len winked. He flicked the kettle on. “Time for a quick cuppa?”

  Isla nodded absentmindedly and slid into a chair. She was vaguely aware of Len pouring the drinks and setting one down in front of her.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Len’s soft voice snapped Isla from her reverie.

  “Oh, sorry Len. I was miles away.”

  “I noticed. Was it something I said?”

  “What? No. I mean yes. Maybe…” Isla bit her lip and curled her hands around the china cup. “I was just thinking about my mum.”

  “Oh?” Len sounded surprised by her answer. “What about her?”

  “I was just wondering if she’s right...about love.”

  Len plonked his tankard down onto the tabletop. “Well, that depends. What does she say?”

  “What do you think?” Isla snorted. Len had met her mother a couple of times, and she wasn’t exactly a woman who held back her opinions to make others comfortable. Len had felt the full force of Juliet Belmont when Isla had first started at Parsons & Co, and her mother couldn’t understand why her daughter wanted to spend her days surrounded by ‘dusty old junk.’

  Len gave a wry smile. “Your mother doesn’t strike me as a woman who lets her heart rule her head.”

  “No, but she was once,” Isla said.

  “Your dad?” Len guessed.

  Isla nodded and sipped at her hot, sweet tea.

  Len toyed with the handle of his mug, thoughtfully. “You know, your mother is a wonderful woman, she must be to have raised a daughter like you.”

  “Aww, shucks Len.” Isla grinned.

  He waved a hand. “But people are shaped by their experiences, Isla. It’s not anyone’s fault, it’s just how it is.” He held his cup aloft now. “We’re like a lump of clay, and depending on the wheel of life, and who gets their hands on us, we could turn out to be a useful bowl or a beautiful vase-”

  “Or an ugly mug?” Isla raised an eyebrow.

  Len chuckled, but then his expression grew serious. “What I’m saying is. It’s not your mother’s fault that she is the way she is, or that she believes the things she does. It’s a natural result of her experiences. Your difficulty is going to be not letting her beliefs shape you. You’re young, and there’s a lot you haven’t experienced for yourself yet. Not all those experiences will be good, but they’re yours to have, no-one else’s.”

  Isla met Len’s brilliant green eyes above the thick frames of his glasses. His face was lined, and his white hair thinning on top, but his eyes were sharp, and they held hers.

  “Is it worth it?” she blurted.

  Len’s brow rumpled. “Is what worth it?”

  “Love,” Isla said, quietly.

  Len looked away, and Isla followed his eyes to the framed photograph on his desk. Isla couldn’t see the picture from where she sat, but she’d seen it enough times to know it was Mrs Parsons- Len’s wife, Tim’s mum. A curvaceous blonde, whose smile seemed to leap right out of the frame.

  “Always,” Len said, turning back to her.

  “Even if it ends in heartbreak? Even if people get hurt? Even if you know from the start that it can’t possibly work out?” Isla bit her tongue to keep herself from saying more. She’d already said too much. But it was only Len. Kind, gentle, quiet Len. He wasn’t going to pry or divulge. She took a deep breath. “I’m just trying to work out why anyone would willingly put themselves through it, without any guarantee.”

  A slow grin spread across Len’s face, transforming it instantly. The years fell away, and Isla felt as though she could see how that blonde bombshell in the gilt frame could have been swept off her feet by the man sitting opposite.

  “Oh, Isla.” His shoulders shook with silent laughter, and a small tear squeezed from the corner of his eye. “No one would. But that’s the thing with love- it doesn’t give you a choice.”

  *

  Isla thanked Len for the tea and advice, and he squeezed her hand between his.

  “Anytime, my girl. You know that.”

  She pushed back the thick curtain, her mind already clearer and her step lighter, and walked right into Tim, standing on the other side.

  “Ooft!” Isla fell back in surprise, and Tim’s hands caught and steadied her. She looked at his hands on her arms and up to his face. There was an expression there that she hadn’t seen before. He dropped his hands to his sides.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I just got back.” Tim gestured to a brown paper parcel on the counter. He looked her up and down. “You look-”

  “Thanks,” Isla said quickly, not wanting to hear what word he would choose. “I was just leaving.” Isla stepped quickly around him.

  “I’ll catch you later then.”

  Isla paused in the shop doorway, and looked back but Tim had already ducked behind the curtain. She turned and hurried out of the shop, the bell tinkling as she pulled the door closed behind her.

  On the slick pavement, she stopped to take a shaky breath. Her clear mind now preoccupied with one single thought: how long had Tim been standing behind the curtain, listening to her and Len? And how much of their conversation had he heard?

  Thirty Two

  The gates to Rosehill stood wide open, and the long driveway was lined with cars. Isla abandoned hers just inside the gates and walked the rest of the way.

  Her skin prickled as she passed the dark, curtainless windows of the groundskeeper's cottage, but Isla kept her eyes ahead, so when Rosehill came into view, she got the full effect of its transformation.

  The place was alive with the sounds of car doors slamming, and excited chatter. Light streamed from every ground floor window of the castle, throwing yellow pools across the gravel walkway below, but the upper windows were all dark.

  Where was Ethan? Isla was certain that wherever he was hiding, he couldn’t fail to notice the change. It was as though the castle itself was drawing breath after a long hibernation. The night air was still, and classical music drifted across the overgrown lawns.

  Isla joined the other guests making their way up the drive, towards the castle. Everyone was dressed in their finest, their faces obscured, and Isla was thankful for her impulse purchase dress, and for Connor’s gift. Behind her mask, she was just another party-goer, and no one paid her the slightest bit of attention. They were all far too occupied with gossip and speculation to even notice her, as she fell into step behind a large group.

  “Of course no one really believes that line about the venue.” One of the guys said.

  “Not for a minute,” another agreed. “Finances, pure and simple, that’s what I reckon.”

  “That can’t be true,” a dark-haired woman in a silver dress piped up. “MacRae and Sons is the number one developer in Edinburgh.”

  At the mention of Ethan’s company name, Isla quickened her pace, narrowing the distance between her and the group, to hear better.

  “Five years ago, maybe. Not anymore. Connor MacRae might look like he’s got it all under control, but trust me when I say that beneath the surface there’s some furious paddling going on.”

  “I thought they had a big project in Portobello?” the woman asked.

  “Aye. They do, but that’s part of the problem. It’s been nothing but trouble from the start. Any other developer would have pulled out months ago, but Paul told me that Connor MacRae is like a dog with a bone, and he won’t let go.”

  “Then MacRae and Sons will go down with him,” another man said, nonchalantly.

  “Looks like.” The first man stopped to grind his cigarette butt under the heel of his shoe, and Isla careered
into his back.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Isla thought she caught the flash of a scowl beneath his simple, black mask.

  “No harm done,” he muttered, catching up with the rest of the group.

  Isla hung back, thinking about what she’d just heard. Was it true? Was Ethan’s family business really in trouble? Would Ethan know, if it was? Connor had said himself, yesterday that he never asked for Ethan’s help with anything.

  Glass lanterns had been placed along the path, guiding the guests away from Rosehill’s main doors, and around the side of the castle, towards the terrace, which spanned the lower west wing.

  Isla’s stomach somersaulted as she climbed the wide, stone steps to the terrace, and she craned her neck up at the darkened windows above. She picked out the one she knew to be Ethan’s room, half-expecting to see his face at the glass, but Isla found herself disappointed.

  Dropping her gaze, she saw the same glass lanterns that lit the path around Rosehill also lined the low stone wall of the terrace, the flames of the candles dancing in time to the low waltz, spilling through the ballroom doors. Even the stone beneath the heels of her gold sandals had been swept- decades of moss, grime, and decay all brushed away in one afternoon.

  A handful of guests stood on the freshly-scrubbed terrace, smoking.

  “Look at the state of it.” One of the guests gestured to the overgrown rose garden below the terrace.

  Isla bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t her job to defend Rosehill. Besides, hadn’t she thought the same thing, when she’d first arrived? She moved past the group wordlessly. Black voile panels billowed softly at the edges of the open terrace doors, and Isla brushed one aside.

  The ballroom was barely recognisable. The tables around the edges of the room were covered with black and gold damask tablecloths. Replica candelabras formed centrepieces, and black and gold balloons floated high above the tabletops like clouds. In the far corner a string quartet were playing a tune Isla recognised, but couldn’t name.