Sequentially this story follows my Monarch of the Glen fan fictions titled, Assumptions, MotG Story 1; A Thousand Miles, MotG Story 2; The Unexpected Arrivals of Winter, MotG Story 3.

I do not own any of the Monarch of the Glen characters or their respective worlds, but have enjoyed creating this fan fiction.

Dear Duncan…

In the early part of January, a month which holds within its days the expectant promise of fresh starts, of optimism and hope a significant MacDonald family meeting had taken place. Of major concern was the decision to have another member of the family, one who had an emotional investment in and fundamental attachment to the estate be actively involved in its operations. Assembled amongst the studiously bookshelf-lined confines of the Glenbogle library Laird Archie MacDonald, his wife Lexie, his Uncle Donald and first cousin and mate Paul Bowman—also the man in question had discussed over tea—and for some a dram or two of whiskey—the possibility of this proposal. Conspicuously missing from those gathered was the female head of the clan, Molly MacDonald though it was she who had excused herself from the proceedings. The venerable Molly, a smart woman in her own right firmly believed eachone of them was responsible for their home and its livelihood nevertheless, she had specifically requested that she not be involved with the process and therefore had felt somewhat bemused by her brother-in-law Donald's inclusion. While Molly was available as a source of inspiration, as a sounding board and dispenser of good, solid advice to her son and daughter-in-law just as she'd always been for her children, she was adamant that it was up to the next generation to carry forth.

Agreeing that Paul had a good deal of common sense and a natural aptitude for business and, more importantly, hadn'ttaken after his father Donald with regards to grandiose schemes—though admittedly some of the best plans were hatched when a little creativity was involved, it was determined that he and Archie made a good pair. Archie's strength had proven to be that of innovative money-maker. His designs for the Wildlife and Activity Centres, for example, although met with resistance at first had definitely paid off. And while Paul had a few ideas of his own on how he could merge his prior army training and skills with outdoor projects that would involve the community as well as the glorious landscape of Glenbogle, he was biding his time. By agreeing to and over the past few months actually having taken over some of the basic day-to-day running of the estate, Paul freed up the Laird's time to focus on further profitable ventures which included attending the huge Looking to the Future convention expo currently being held in Edinburgh. At present it was enough for Paul knowing that Archie had come to trust him to be at the helm when he couldn't be there himself. As Molly was also away, traveling the Mediterranean with her brother Jolyon, Paul, at ease with the ad-hoc position of monarch of their petite kingdom, spurred by the very basic, innate male instinct to protect those entrusted to his welfare, confidently took charge.

Chapter 1

A Good Clear-out

A restless Lexie MacDonald, the still newly wed and somewhat nervous mother-to-be took a deep breath and, supporting her lower back with her hands slowly waddled down the long, gloomy servant's hall. Her destination being the warmth and comfort of the Glenbogle kitchen she was in search of a hot cup of tea and perhaps a peanut butter and lettuce sandwich. An odd pairing to be sure, Lexie found the combination of nut butter and greens a rather delicious treat and with her due any day now she allowed herself the luxury of succumbing to whatever culinary whims seemed palatable. Despite the reluctance, that is, of young hired chef Ewan Brodie whose duty it was to prepare such unique, if not down right unappealing fare. Upon entering the kitchen, Lexie had quite the start.

"Och, Ewan! Just what d'ya think you're doin'?" Slightly winded from her trek down the corridor, Lexie leaned against a tall cupboard to rest for a moment, apprehensively looking on as the cook emerged from the depths of a curtained portion beneath the large porcelain-basined kitchen sink.

Smiling excitedly, Ewan lifted two armfuls of old, dented tins and various canisters and placed them gently on the long wooden table which was set in the center of the room. "I'm having a good clear-out!" Being mid-March he was enjoying an early start on spring cleaning with an eager, youth-filled burst of energy. He brushed at some of the soot and dirt smudged on the front of his shirt and on the legs of his jeans where two greasy patches had formed on his knees. At task since early morning he'd already emptied all of the under-cabinets, crawling into the most hidden crevices and corners sans torch or other strong light source just feeling around as only an adventurous lad of his age would be keen to do.

Lexie's planned nosh of piping hot tea and toothsome snack now nearly forgotten, she sighed wearily. The tabletop, almost entirely covered by dust-encased glass bottles and screw-top jars, ancient, rust-hinged biscuit tins—some with mold-eaten labels, and a few small wooden tubs that resembled miniature oak barrels looked a flea market stall. The once clean and moderately tidy kitchen now resembling a rag and bones shop, a dank and dreary Dickensian scene where antiques and tag sale stuffs were a normal part of life and everything, even the sunniest of days seemed to assume a washed-out pallor. Reaching for a medicinal-looking bottle Lexie held it up to the light, squinting through the amber opaque glass to examine its thick, malleable contents. Pulling on the cork stopper she sniffed at the bottle's neck, wrinkling up her nose before placing the object back on the table and attempting to rid her fingers of some sticky residue.

"It's all right, isn't it?" Ewan spoke enthusiastically, "We'd double the storage space if we got rid of all of this junk. And maybe we could look into making some minor improvements. You know, give the place a wee spruce-up. A new coat of paint and…"

"Whoa there, Gordon," said Paul Bowman, a touch of sarcasm in his voice as he strode into the kitchen and faced Ewan square on. "Glenbogle's working budget isn't exactly on par with those fancy DIY programs. Unless of course," Paul made an exaggerated show of pondering thoughtfully, "you've actually heard from one of them fix-it shows or from the likes of say ChefGordon Ramsay himself? Any program's interested in remodeling the ancient-but-still-workable kitchen of a good old Highland estate gratis, well then I'd say we've a plan."

With his animation quickly turning into frustration Ewan tried once more to get his point across. "Nah Paul, listen. All I'm sayin' is we could gradually start improving things around here, like Archie's done elsewhere with the estate. I'm no stranger to hard work. With a little elbow grease, this kitchen could really look spiffy and I'm not averse to painting it myself even!"

"Averse huh," Paul laughed at Ewan's use of a ten-dollar word.

"Aye Paul look it up, was the word of the day."

Choosing to ignore Ewan's rebuke, Paul's attention had become distracted by Lexie who, appearing to be in some sort of distress had, within the course of their disagreement, started swaying slightly, her face completely draining of color. "Lexie? Feeling all right?"

"Yea Paul," she waved her hand casually then used it to steady herself against a counter, "yea, I'm fine."

"It's just that you've gone a bit pale. Please, sit down for a spell, do. Won't you, Lex?"

Unfocussed, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation and of Paul scrutinizing her, Lexie drew her arms tightly across her chest, "Well, it's a bit colder in here than usual, isn't it? And anyway," she closed her eyes and pressed two fingertips to her pursed lips, quelling a wave of nausea that had swept over her, "was intent on having a bite to eat but now I've gone off the idea. Think I'll have a wee kip instead. Could you bring me up a cup of tea, Ewan?"

"Yea, Lexie, sure thing."

"And about all of these bits and bobs," Lexie motioned to the table and the surrounding shelves, "fine with me if you want to throw out all of this junk but please give everything a thorough once-over first. Never know what might be stashed in one of those old coffee cans. Unlikely you'll find anything of value but that's the sort of thing an old codger from the MacDonald Clan lineage might've done with their riches, mightn't they? Mind, if you do stumble upon something then perhaps this kitchen and maybe even Glenbogle itself could have a real remodel, on the house," she chuckled half-heartedly at her own words, "so to speak." Before leaving, shuddering reflexively under her thin woolen cardie, she waited for a response from Ewan.

"Okay. And you know Lexie I don't really want to remodel the kitchen. All I was saying was…"

"Ahem," Paul cleared his throat, deliberately interrupting Ewan.

"Right," Ewan wisely dropped the subject, "I'll be round shortly with your tea."

Estate Ghillie's Croft

Glenbogle Estate Grounds

Glenbogle Estate's resident ghillie, the silver-haired and calloused-handed Golly MacKenzie heard the unmistakable rattle and clatter of an estate vehicle careening up the field toward his stone croft. The bumpy, rutted path, used by any mode of transport en route to his cottage was, unlike the paved main road about a half mile downhill a twisting trail of tamped-down dried grass, carved into the clay-laden earth by years of habitual overuse. With engine revving and wheels squeaking a mud-colored Land Rover came to a grinding halt mere inches away from the property's centuries old well. The driver, a man in his mid-twenties with a full head of curly brown hair and a charming boyish face making him look, in the presence of the seasoned ghillie, even more the wee bairn rolled down the auto's smudged window.

"Have you picked up the meat for the wolves Duncan?" As Golly spoke he checked on the condition of the well, making sure the renegade driver hadn't damaged any of the masonry work.

"Oh aye, after I finished laying out the hay I stopped off for the meat. It was right on my way back, thought I'd save you the trouble."

"Ah, you're a good man, Duncan McKay."

"Aye all right then, jump in and I'll drive you over to the wolf pen." Raised in his formative years by an aunt, upon graduating from high school Duncan was spared the, what do I do now syndrome by having had the great fortune of falling into an apprenticeship with the ghillie. It was through the older man's stable, patient guidance—paternal in its very nature, and Duncan's own hard-scrabble ethics that he'd managed to work his way into the adequate-for-his-qualifications position of Head Ranger for the estate. In return, Duncan's loyalty and friendship had done much to solidify the relationship between them. Moreover, Golly had come to consider Duncan his right hand man.

"Try not to burn rubber this time, 'eh?" Though grateful for the lift, the request had fallen on deaf ears as the ride to the wolf pen, fast-paced and jarring had Golly pressing down on the dashboard with one hand and gripping the window frame with the other. He was even more grateful when they'd finally lurched to a stop, though in doing so he'd nearly kissed the vehicle's windscreen with his forehead.

Safely on solid ground the ghillie made his way to the pen, jingling through a set of keys until he'd found the small flat one which unlocked the gate to the outer security fence surrounding the cage. As Golly took time to survey the pack, Duncan opened the back of the jeep and reached for the wooden crate of raw meat parts. Sliding the box toward him a heavy scent, sanguinary and salty filled his nostrils. Hauling the load off the truck bed, he deposited it at Golly's feet in one easy motion.

With Duncan still not terribly comfortable around the wolves, Golly had taken over their primary maintenance which had suited him just fine. As he began loading the bony meat pieces down the Plexiglas chute which was aimed directly into the pen, he tried to keep his attention focused on Duncan who'd begun to bend his ear something terrible. Normally, Golly preferred spending his time with the wolves without any distractions but it was obvious on this day that the lad was in need of some sort of companionship and being the man that he was Golly did his best to lend a considerate ear.

"Had a dream about my dad last night," Duncan closed the back of the jeep then leaned against the side, making sure to keep himself a safe distance from the locked pen. "Did you hear me Golly?"

"Aye," the ghillie continued with his work, mesmerized by the beauty and strength of the muscular, wild creatures.

"I was standing in a big crowd of people. They were all talking amongst themselves. And a right noise they were making too. Difficult to hear anything over the din, but I did, heard my dad say my name. As clear as day it was. He hadn't shouted it or anything he'd just simply spoken it, Duncan. Immediately I started running in that direction, weaving my way through this thick maze of people to find him and when I did, though everyone was still there, it seemed it was just the two of us, alone, just me and him. No one else mattered. It looked as though he was going to say something to me."

"And," Golly sorted through the lot of raw meat, finally choosing a nicely marbled morsel attached to a large piece of bone which he sent down the chute for the curious alpha male who'd casually sauntered over to the feeding area. A free-spirit like himself, Golly had felt a special kinship or connection with this particular animal.

"And then nothing, I woke up! But you know something? Was beginning to think I'd completely forgotten the sound of my own father's voice. Have you ever done that?"

"What? Aye, forgotten, you mean?"

"Uh-huh."

"Och, son I've never really wanted to remember my father, have I? Actually I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the sound of his voice. Was a nasty man, him. But, I admit, was quite busted up when I'd heard he'd passed on."

"Well what about your mum? I don't remember mine so much."

Golly sighed, "My mother. I was young when she died, lad. She'd had a hard life even before she married my dad but God love the lass, she tried her best to make a good life for me. She had her moments, that's certain but she could be tender too. I do dream about her from time to time. Hear her voice gentle and sweet, like a soft breeze floatin' above the heather. Och Duncan, listen to me! Y'have me soundin' a greetin' card writer!" Picking up the empty crate, Golly joined Duncan by the jeep. "You ask me, I think that's really when we're the closest to the people we've lost, you know, when we dream of them."

"Oh aye?"

"I'm no scientist but I think it has somethin' to do with the subconscious mind takin' over, siftin' through your memories, tryin' to help you figure out what fits where. Your conscious mind isn't gummin' up the works, so you can think more freely. Or somethin' like that, I don't know."

"Aye but still, it's not a realfamily, is it Golly? It's not flesh and blood. You can't hug a memory or a dream, can you?"

"Just what are you really on about Duncan, hmm?"

"Don't know. I mean I wish I'd had a brother or a sister, someone who's more than a mate, someone who knows everything about me and who I could share things about my life with. Well you were an only child too. Tell me you don't miss not having siblings, Golly."

"I've always looked at it this way, Duncan you can't miss something you've never had in the first place." Sensing the younger man had become even more despondent, Golly tried taking a different tack. "Listen, lad, you can't choose your kin, aye? You're stuck with whomever you're stuck with. Luck of the draw. Sometimes it's grand and sometimes it ain't."

"But that's no matter, Golly because they're your people. They're the people you're meant to be with!"

"Aye, I understand that, but Duncan a family can mean anathin'. It's not just a group of people who are related to one another through birth or marriage. It can be made up of people who simply welcome you as you are. The ones you can count on who're willing to muddle through the muck and mire of life with you and you with them. I foundmy family here, at Glenbogle. They accepted me with all of my faults and flaws, and I theirs too, mind. Much like a so-called traditionalfamily, 'eh? And you too, you belong here, Duncan. These good peopleare your family now. Besides," Golly smiled broadly, "you do have some of my Ballentine blood coursin' through those veins of yours, son—don't you forget that!"

Kitchen, Glenbogle Estate

Before leaving him to his work, Paul had given Ewan quite the lecture on how to responsibly dispose of the collected wares. Ewan rather convincingly feigned listening intently to his boss-of-the-moment, saying yes and good idea, all in the name of getting Paul out of the kitchen so he could return to his toil in peace. Having managed to clear one end of the table, Ewan separated the bottles, jars and tins into rough piles. Those bursting at the seams, totally encrusted with caked-on mildew and most likely teeming with mold spores landed right into the circular file—the aluminum dust bin he'd carried up from the court yard. Then he'd dealt with the glass bottles putting some effort into twisting off screw-top caps or stubborn corks, rinsing out those that needed cleaning then arranging them all by color. Among the more common brown, green and clear bottles—which went directly into the recycle container were some unique ones, striking cobalt blue and rich amethyst in color. These, as well as any having a light turquoise or purplish tint or those oddly shaped such as the ones resembling a Victorian Lady's boot, those imaged after ships in full sail or tall English row houses, he'd carefully set aside. He'd seen similar fancy ones displayed in the windows of the antique shop down in the village. If offered a fair price for the whole lot, he'd use a portion of his found money to spring for a round or two for his mates at the Ghillie's Rest andpocket the remainder for his personal use. Buying a tank of petrol for his car, maybe or adding to the fund he'd started in hopes of one day purchasing some shiny new rims for his tires.

The glass sorted, Ewan took a much-deserved break, hungrily tucking into a cold tongue and mustard sandwich, slugging down big gulps of milk between bites. As he ate he glanced at the pitted and scratched lithographed tins stacked before him, recognizing products and company names—Cadbury Chocolate Fingers, Riley's English Toffee, Huntley and Palmer's Breakfast Biscuits, and Boots Glycerin Pastilles—some of which he knew were still in existence. Wedged beneath a hinged Dundee Fruit Cake tin and an aged cylindrical box of Saxa salt, the once loose crystals now caked-solid, he spotted and retrieved an interesting olive green colored container which, surprisingly had retained most of its patina save for a little rust round the bottom edge. Oval in shape it was scalloped at the corners with a bright gold stripe running along the intricate contours of the lid where a colorful posy of flowers was painted. Judging from the faint outline of brush strokes, though he was no artist himself, Ewan thought it hand-painted. Turning the box this way and that he found no discernable markings or wording anywhere but he could feel something being jostled about inside. Deciding to have a look at the contents he carefully pried off the tight lid. Inside was nestled a small packet of letters and slips of paper, all bound together with a rough piece of twine.

Not wishing to disturb someone else's history, though the items were in remarkably good shape possibly due to years of being virtually hermetically sealed in the tin, Ewan gently pushed aside the string to read the postmark. The first envelope, dated October 1942, was addressed in a neat, graceful hand to a Mr. Duncan McKay, 82 Clark Lane, Glenbogle Village, Scotland. A return address for a Mr. Hamish MacDonald, Glenbogle House was written on the top left, while stamped in bold black letters kitty-corner across the bottom left were the words, RETURN TO SENDER.

"Oi! What's all of this?" Tall and imposing, Donald MacDonald boldly barged into the kitchen, eyes bulging at the mess. "Mmmm," an immense guttural utterance voiced, he grabbed a black and white striped tin from the table, "Liquorice Allsorts!" Struggling, he attempted to open the container. "Haven't had these in years! Great Uncle Horace MacDonald would bring us each a tin of allsorts every Christmas. What a treat! Even as children we had refined palates, Hector and I did. My favorites were the salted kind. Liquorice tins didn't often include them. A specialty they were." His teeth-clamped down and his tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth in concentration, the effort was making him perspire. "Oh for the love of," he frustratingly shouted, "This lid appears to be stuck! Just where did you buy these blasted sweets anyway, Ewan? Wherever it was," abandoning the idea, he flung the container back onto the table and began flapping his long arms about, "I'd absolutely return them! And I must repeat what on earth are you doing here, lad?"

"I'm cleaning out the kitchen, Donald." As Ewan spoke he placed the lid back on the olive green tin and hid it beneath a kitchen towel. "That candy there, it probably was brought by your Great Uncle Horatio!"

"Horace," Donald corrected then glanced back at the liquorice tin. He rolled his eyes, "Oh, I see. Having a clear out, are you?" Dressed in his usual garb, this day's clashing ensemble of blue plaid sports coat, beige pants, ecru bucks, and yellow and red ascot with matching pocket hanky, though not screaming genteel aristocracy conveyed the clear message that menial labor was never on Donald MacDonald's agenda.

"Haven't touched any of the drawers, have you, lad?"

"Touched the drawers? Nah, haven't reached them yet."

"Ah! Good!"

"Why?"

"What," Donald met Ewan's question with his own.

"Why?"

"Never mind why, dear boy." His eyes darting back and forth, Donald rushed toward an under counter drawer near the refrigerator as if struck with an "aha" epiphany. Sliding it open he began rummaging through the contents.

Curious, Ewan quietly walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder. "Can I help you find something?"

"Oh," startled, Donald stumbled back, slamming the drawer closed. "Nope! You just tend to your clean-up."

"Sure you don't need my help, Donald? I spend a lot of time in this kitchen. Just what are you looking for anyway?"

Hemming and hawing, Donald finally answered. "Well fine, if you must know I'm looking for a key."

"A key, you say?"

"Yes."

"To what?"

"To what? To my heart! Oh for pity sake, what it unlocks lad is none of your concern!"

"Okay, have it your way, you daft old man! But take a look at this," stepping back, Ewan opened another drawer. "Here, here are all the keys that may or may not belong to something in this house. Go on then, take a good gander at'em!"

Peeking into the drawer, Donald shuddered. Hundreds of keys shiny and dull, skeleton and paracentric, masters and double sided, were all jumbled together, metal sticks, arcs and pieces protruding at all angles. "Augh," he grumbled, "very well lad, very well. Step aside. The key I'm looking for is very distinctive. I shall be able to spot it in a jiff."

"Right," said Ewan skeptically, "go to it then."

After spending some twenty minutes rifling nosily through the drawer of keys the only thing Donald emerged with was a forehead glistening with perspiration and two sets of blackened fingertips. Scratching his head, sweeping a sleeve along his sweaty brow, a look of defeat started setting into his features.

"Any luck?" Though the Ewan approached Donald, he did not seem to take notice of the young chef. "Donald," Ewan asked as he watched Donald's face and countenance transform before him into one of mischief and scheme. A face Ewan was all too familiar with. Without saying another word, Donald bolted from the kitchen.

"What's happening in here then? Having a clear-out are you?" Entering from the other door, Duncan reached over the black stove to nick a biscuit from a tray.

Turning toward him, Ewan slapped his forehead. "Och!"

"What? It's just one biscuit," Duncan stopped mid-chew, coughing up crumbs. "Surely you have more!"

"That's for Lexie!"

"No prob, mate." Duncan wiped his mouth on his leather clad sleeve. "I've left her at least a half dozen. I can run this upstairs to her if you'd like. Only," Duncan lifted the empty china cup, "where's the tea?"

"No, you don't understand. Lexie wanted a cuppa a few hours ago. I started fixing everything but then Paul kept goin' on and on about how to get rid of all of this bloody stuff. Must've gone right out of my head, that!"

"Aye," Duncan groaned, "Paul certainly knows how to run his mouth, doesn't he? Listen, don't worry about it. Here I'll put on the kettle again and take the tray on up to her with your apologies. I'll be able to smooth things over with Lex. She can't resist my charm. I mean just look at these dimples and these sad blue eyes."

"Yea, I suppose you're right. I think she was having a kip anyway."

Duncan put the filled kettle on the stove. "So, did you find anything good in all this junk?"

"Aye, actually," Ewan removed the towel from the olive green tin and pried off the lid, "I found these letters and some other things," he handed the container to Duncan, "but look at who they're addressed to."

"Duncan McKay? Get out! That was my granddad's name. That's who I was named for! What do the letters say?"

Ewan shrugged, "Don't know, do I? Just found them. Besides, they're not mine to open. At first I thought they might be love letters, but when I spotted your name—well, I guess it's your granddad's name, I thought it odd that they were in this house. Then I noticed the return to sender stamp at the bottom. Did you see the return address?"

"Aye, it's Glenbogle."

"Wonder who the Hamish chap was."

"Hector's dad, I think." The tea kettle whistled. "Well, I should probably run the tea up to Lexie while it's hot," he fitted the lid back on the tin, "but I'll definitely be back to look at those."

Upper Floor, Glenbogle Estate

More determined than ever was he now to find the key, Donald had set off to an upper floor, convinced it was hidden somewhere in Hector's bedroom. Not wishing to alert his son to any of his activities, he crept up the staircase in the main hall cautiously turning corners, making sure to look in every direction for he never knew where Paul might be lurking ready and waiting to catch him amidst some devious plan. Donald felt silly tip-toeing around the house even when he was acting all proper. Ever since returning to Glenbogle he'd felt the odd disconcertion of being a stranger in his own home.

As he approached the dim corridor which at one time led to his parents' bedrooms, he realized that despite the years some things remained unchanged. Like the creepy sight of the huge brown bird standing guard at the entrance to this particular hall, a sinister-looking taxidermy falcon set atop a wooden column, its beady eyes and sharp curving beak and talons still encompassing the power to scare the life out of him just as it had in his youth. Let alone the hall itself. This rectangular chamber always a bit echoic and cold, walled in soft ochre-colored marble, heavily streaked with dark veins. A mausoleum, it was.

Gathering his resolve, Donald reminded himself of his mission.

Kitchen, Glenbogle Estate

Lifting firmly in his hands the walnut tray with all its fixings, Duncan sailed down the servant's corridor to the circular flight at the end and took the shallow, smoothly-worn concrete steps two by two. He'd always made Molly nervous when he carried trays for Lexie, worrying, she would, that his lightening-quick speed would one day result in calamity, her good china smashed to bits. But Duncan prided himself on his athleticism. Years of trekking through the highlands had made him agile and strong and no one could argue that he wasn't graceful in his movements and a delight to watch in motion. And as such, his perfect record for never having spilled a drop of tea, remained firmly intact.

Hector's Bedroom, Glenbogle Estate

It had seemed almost prophetic and fitting that it was Hector, the 14th Laird of Glenbogle who'd inherited their father's old room, while Donald's was, much like himself, forgotten, tucked in as it was amongst the attic rafters, a squirrel's nest hidden away from view. As he looked around the garnet-hued bedroom, though evidence of his older brother's essence could still be found here and there it was the house of his youth that Donald was seeing. What a grand treat it had been for him on those rare occasions when he was allowed a glimpse into the inner sanctum of his father's private world. The chests and cubbies, the little locked wooden boxes and the desk which had the large compartment in the back hidden by a trick panel, all the mysterious things he was never permitted to touch in his childhood were now left to him. And still, he was reluctant.

Lifting and latching the heavy wooden lid to the huge built-in soaking tub, Donald ran his fingers along the smooth porcelain interior, feeling for the chip along the rim where Grandfather Bertie had once dropped a massive pair of stag horns. Or so the story went. That the tale hadn't made sense to Donald hadn't matter, that his father had spent the time telling it to him, had.

Picking up a tiny plastic boat he turned it back and forth, waiting for the light to catch it at just the right spot. And there it was. Carved into the plastic on the port side was scrawled The SS Donaldo and on the starboard side, The Ark. Sailing into a memory, Donald recalled the one time he'd been allowed to soak luxuriously in that very tub.

It was late in the summer of 1945 or 1946, Donald would have been around the age of 6 and the family, including his pet dog—Shadow was his name had gone for a lazy Sunday picnic by the loch. Discovering that Shadow had wandered off, uncharacteristic for the pet that was always at Donald's side, the young lad had pleaded for his family to form a search party. Not wishing perhaps to disturb their perfect day by having to roam about the scrub and brush, they'd assured their son that there was no need to panic. Shadow would find his own way back. But the tenacious Daring Donald would have none of it and deeming his parents' decision to be unsatisfactory the distressed boy took it upon himself to find his beloved pet on his own.

And find him, he did. About an hour or so later the pair came limping back. Still unclear as to why the pooch had run off it was very clear from the burning-red, blotchy rash that had developed on Donald's arms, legs, and face that while on his search he'd found a patch of poison ivy or the like.

So his parents' guilt was how he came to soak in the tub and spend the remainder of his recovery tucked snuggly into his father's bed, the joy of this honor superseding the pain and discomfort of his condition. It was wonderful having his Mother and Father doting all over him instead of Hector—a fact he secretly admitted to himself, lavishing him with sweets, stories and attention, fussing over his every whim and trying in vein to stop him from scratching at his itchy skin. All he needed to do was call out for them and they were there. Just call out for them.

The memory dissolving as quickly as it had appeared, Donald thought he'd heard a real voice, faint and barely audible calling out for him, or for someone. Fluffing it off as his mind playing tricks, he closed the lid on the tub. But then he was sure he'd heard it again. Training his ear toward the next room, he heard, "Help. Someone…oh please…help me." Opening the door, all he heard was a thud. He felt the troublesome sound in the pit of his stomach.

Emerging from the stairwell at the opposite end of the hall, Duncan saw a figure slumped against a doorframe, legs outstretched along the carpeted floor. Losing his grip on the tray, tea and chocolate biscuits, china and silver, and the dainty flower— a last minute gesture he'd thought to include, sent crashing ruinously to the hard stone landing.

His perfect record, be damned.