"The Rose of Achnacarry"

Achnacarry – 1862

That morning the manor was a whirlwind of activity.

Penance, however, chose to sleep in.

By the time he finally rolled out of bed, gently folding those familiar silk sheets back into place, the sun was high enough to shine through the glass window by his nightstand, bouncing off the gold and ivory ring resting there. The sight of it sent a certain electricity skittering through him, dancing up the nape of his neck.

A quarter century waking up to it and still the thing could raise his hackles.

He dressed plainly, donning a relatively worn white cotton shirt and unremarkable trousers. By instinct he prepared to slip his feet into his favorite shoes— a set of fine loafers hewn of deliciously soft and creamy black leather, oiled to a shine and heavy as a cloud— but he stopped himself before his toes could touch the shoes. He stepped back from the wardrobe, allowing one simple sigh to escape his lips, and then he went around to the other side of the bed, retrieving a pair of ratty hiking boots.

He put the boots on his feet; he put the loafers on the bed.

And then with one hard swipe at the nightstand he took up the gold and ivory ring in his fist. He ran his thumb along the sigil, 'reading' the five arrows resting there like a blind might scan a braille book. Then he left the room, shutting the door behind him with all the solemnity of a stone rolled over a tomb.

X

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He ignored the hustle and bustle of the house, moving methodically for the great parlor room on the first floor. One of the maids sat in a chair by the white doors. She was a long-runner among the staff, as 'long-runners' went in the days since Penance came to Achnacarry. For obvious reasons the staff was generally switched out at regular intervals— most lasting less than a few years— but this one came to the house in her late teens and by now was nearing her 30th birthday.

He had no pretenses around her, and for her part she only ever asked him one question.

His answer was 'sea ice'.

Today she was even less chatty, merely looking up at him with a solemn expression. He nodded at her and put his hand to the door, pausing a moment before entering the parlor and shutting the door behind him.

"I don't mean to intrude," he walked into the dark room. A smirk formed on his face, though he tried willing it away. "I never did mean to, you know..."

His eyes were drawn to the grand windows, all covered with heavy curtains. He motioned to them.

"Okay if I open these? Don't really see a reason to keep it this dark."

Penance pulled open the curtains, letting the early afternoon light stream into the parlor. He smiled as the warm rays hit his cheeks and then lifted his head up a bit to get the full effect. By the time he'd satisfied himself and returned his head to level his eyes were far more serious.

"There was news from America the other day." He turned around. "From the war. The Union and Confederacy fought a sea battle two weeks ago at some place called Hampton Roads." He stared down at his boots, chuckling. "I don't know how you can have a sea battle at a place with roads, but that wasn't the strangest thing about it. Two of their ships met there, and both of them were crafted in that strange new design— solid iron from top to bottom instead of wood. Rumors are they fought for over three hours— three hours— one-on-one, guns blazing and hulls smashing together, but they barely even scratched each other; they had to call off the fight when it got dark."

Penance's fanciful smile fell a bit. He walked over to a nearby chair and leaned over it, hands on the backrest.

"Obviously that isn't what exactly happened; it's just fanciful embellishment. Almost as dumb as that telegraph cable they tried laying across the ocean floor a few years back. But news like that always gets me thinking about the size of the world." He put one hand over his chest. "See, if I were a normal boy I might be frightened by how big the world around me seems. At least I felt that way when I was a normal boy. I think most kids do, one way or another; a big world can be a scary world. But being who I am now— what I am— it's kind of the opposite that scares me. Well, it concerns me, at least."

He circled around the chair, pulling it forward and sitting down, hands clasped over spread knees.

"I get anxious when I think about the world getting smaller around me. I mean, I guess that makes sense when you think about it. Prey doesn't tend to do well when its habitat shrinks. Feels boxed in. Neurotic. Well news like this—invincible, floating iron fortresses, or communication cables stretching all the way across the ocean floor— it all makes the world seem 'smaller'. I figure one day the time'll come when you might cross the Atlantic in a three-day-weekend— maybe even a single day. If a solid iron ship can float then I guess anything's possible."

He looked up, a small smile on his face.

"Except for Achnacarry shrinking. That can't happen. It's too small already. Everything about it is small: the grounds, the pace of life, the castle itself. Small for me, at least. Small for prey used to wider fields. But I never felt boxed in; I was never neurotic. Even when I had to do... the things I had to do, to stay here."

He got up from the chair and took a few slow steps forward.

"I guess we both did our share of nasty, scheming things to make this work, didn't we? We both had our share of sacrifices, too. Our world was small, wasn't it? And we made it that way for ourselves; that was our choice. I never really asked how that made you feel. Me? I never felt afraid. Never felt 'concerned'."

Penance gripped the side of the casket with his hands. He noticed Gilbarta's lace collar was uneven— crumpled on one side— and he gently reached over and straightened it out. The woman lay in stately repose in her best crimson dress, the elaborate fabrics all adorned with graceful creases along the length, as if her lower body were sprouting out of a gigantic flower's bud.

"However you felt," he said, "you were always as good as your word: no questions, and no curiosity. You never cared about what was, just what is. That's why it worked; that's why we could make our world that small."

A dull roar of raised voices sounded beyond the parlor's closed doors, out near the foyer. Penance smirked mischievously as the muffled bickering went on for some time. He looked back down at the woman.

"The nephews," he said. "I think they've got their solicitor with them, too." The boy's voice lilted playfully as he brushed a stray thread of hair off the woman's pillow. "I think you may have broken our little rule. You know the one: how I came here with nothing, and how I meant to leave..."

He pulled the gold and ivory ring from his pocket and held it up, again admiring the elegant simplicity of its design.

"But you also talked about that little 'gift' right? The one 'befitting a guest' of Clam Cameron? I never thought about it much before. Never really wanted it." He turned the ring over, eyes following the curves of the graceful gold band. "I don't know if a 25-year stay makes me a 'guest' or not, but I was kind of thinking I'd take you up on the offer; I will be leaving here with a gift, if that's alright. I will be taking something. All I can hope is that you'd approve of me taking it. And when I wear it..."

Penance held the woman's cold, waxy right hand, gently moving it up. He placed the gold and ivory ring on her dress, then he lay her palm down over it, curled around the cold metal.

"...when I wear it, I just hope I'm worthy of it."

The argument out in the foyer grew more heated but Penance ignored it. He got up on tiptoes to bend his body over the casket, planting a small kiss on Gilbarta's forehead. He smiled uneasily.

"I can't cry for you," he said. "I don't mean anything by that; I just don't anymore, not for death. Not like this, at least. Don't think I can't grieve. Don't think I'm not. It's just... I do it in a different way. I don't have any more tears left for death. And I won't say my heart is broken, either. It was broken, but that was before I met you. It'd be denigrating your memory to say it's broken again." He rested his own warm hand over the woman's cold fingers. "It's enough to say it aches, but any heart worth its salt kinda aches at least a little for a fallen cherry blossom." He looked up at her face, his uneasy smile becoming more content. "Or a rose."

With one last squeeze of the woman's hand he stepped back from the casket. He turned and noticed, for the first time, that the maid had snuck into the room sometime during his little speech— a eulogy meant for no mourners. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched the boy. Penance looked away, uneasy, and then walked away from the room's center, moving for the white doors beyond.

"I'm sorry, sir, I—"

"It's alright," the boy spoke as if waking from a dream. "She deserves to be cried over."

It's funny how little things can stay with you far longer than you might expect, but it wasn't until much later in life that Penance would come to understand that the maid's tears on that day weren't for Gilbarta, at least not entirely. It might've been obvious in retrospect, but at the time he didn't even consider the possibility.

And when he looked back and thought about that day Penance always regretted not giving her a little hug or the like. Might've done wonders for her, emotionally-speaking.

Might not have been too bad for himself, either.

As it was the two participants in this secret eulogy parted without another word; Penance moved out into the foyer.

"Any of those amendments are null and void!" One of the nephews— a fat young man with a boil bulging under his chin— railed at a man in a sharp black suit. "It's duress. Witchcraft, even! All that vicious little hob's doing!"

Another nephew, this one dressed up in a horrid suit of haplessly mismatching colors, voiced his agreement.

"Aunt Gilby would never see her flesh and blood put out, all for the sake of some dirty changeling..."

The man's voice trailed off as Penance wordlessly walked past the duo and their lawyer. The attorney, at least, was more tactful than his clients, silently following the boy to a table near the front door. He spoke as Penance retrieved a satchel beneath the table. Galabeg sat atop it, fastened down with her own special straps.

"Young sir: I serve you notice." He held out a small bundle of papers. "We're contesting these final changes to the Lady Cameron's will. Once you've engaged a solicitor you can have them go over this offer. There's terms in there for a very fair and very lucrative settlement, to avoid the trouble of bothering the courts, you see..."

Penance slung the satchel over his shoulder and then turned his attention to the man. He looked at the papers in the lawyer's hand with disinterest, then wordlessly turned away and moved for the doors.

"Now wait just a minute there, little hob!" The fatter nephew bellowed at the boy, waddling after him like an angry duck, but a sharp glare from the child stilled his feet. He was loathe to give chase once Penance continued on, and so the boy emerged from the castle alone.

The carriage he'd hired was already waiting at the base of the stone steps by then. It took him out beyond the castle grounds. Achnacarry disappeared from view without Penance's acknowledgement; he never once looked back.

Hours later he disembarked from the carriage and walked into a railway station. Gone were all the trappings and airs of the 'wee Lochiel'. In their place is what existed before he arrived and what would endure after: the "gille gu bràth" that was always lurking beneath that shoddy veneer of a proper young lad.

He was still the 'forever boy', unchanging and as constant as a star; he left Achnacarry with as much as he had upon entering it.

Save for that little 'gift', at least.

He walked up to the counter and the employee behind it glanced down at him.

"Aye, lad?"

"There's a ticket reserved for me. Glasgow. One way."

"Mmm." The man went to his folders under the desk, rooting through the papers. "Name on that?"

"Cameron," the boy said. "My name is Cameron."