It was winter. Why was it always winter there even in June? It was all so long ago that what truly happened had mixed with the murk of time, so she wasn’t quite sure what was real anymore. The air was cold, frosty even, and she tried not to shudder against its tenaciousness. The sun was bright outside, but even the rays could not penetrate that little cottage and banish away the demons that had come to stay.
The kitchen they both stood in was small, a cupboard compared to the one on the main estate. There was a kettle on the stove, an old one she was sure was an antique, one of many family heirlooms that had never made it to the dump. It was a darkened, hardy thing that required a towel to protect the hand of whoever took it from the heat. She thought at the time it needed cleaning, but then realised it had probably never been so much as threatened with water let alone washed with soap. She stood awkwardly, not sure if it would be too presumptuous of her to take a seat at the small, chipped wooden table that stood beneath the window, facing the only road that led to the cottage. Discoloured lace curtains hung to cover the window but after many years of being stained by sunlight they were a revolting yellow and looked close to falling to pieces. She had seen many webs in the corners of the low ceilings, spiders lurking behind the wooden planks that supported the floor above. Despite its potential for comfort, there was nothing remotely inviting about the cottage itself.
Bringing her back to her senses the kettle began to sing, but to Iona’s ears it droned, lifeless, as was everything else under the cottage’s roof, taunting her. An older woman, although not so old then, wrapped a tea towel around the handle and hauled the bulbous thing from the stove to pour it into a teapot that had been cracked for years, the flowers on the side fading until they were barely recognisable. Iona remained still, watching intently as a rabbit does a roaming fox, wondering if she would be noticed, contemplating if she would be caught. The tea was left to brew whilst the kettle was returned to another ring on the archaic stove.
The woman looked at her and Iona’s body tensed. Even if she wished to, she doubted she could have moved more than her eyelids in those moments. The gaze that was thrust on her, the eyes that spotted her from across the room were almost vacant, a chilling sense of carelessness that she could never remember seeing in such intensity before. Iona tried not to shiver.
“Well,” the woman began, leaning back on the edge of the counter, scorn filled her eyes as well as her tone, “You’re a real Tulloch now.”
She woke up. Despite the vast knowledge of the Tulloch family no one had ever been able to find out why distant memories one would rather forget made their way into dreams. It was cold in her room, just like it had been in the cottage all those years ago, but the similarity only made her feel exasperated. Sighing, her hand reached up to rub eyes that felt dry, like she’d been sleeping in a draft all night. It was still dark outside as winter continued to trickle in, stealing the long daylight hours of summer. She would have blamed the city for her nightmares, but they’d haunted her back on the main estate. Why was that one surfacing now? It was hard to tell when something was a premonition or just a mind deciding to waltz down memory lane during the midnight hours. Knowing she wouldn’t get back to sleep she whipped the cover from her body and gasped as the chill in the air reached her skin.
***
It was like she had never been asleep. The nightmare sapped her of all strength and concentration, and her already thin patience was growing more strained the longer she was made to stand behind the counter observing as customers came in. She wished, hoped fervently, no one with a serious problem would venture in because she didn’t know if she could be or do what they needed. It was shaping up to be a long morning.
The customers trickled in and flowed out like a sea at low tide, and as she stood behind the counter it felt as though the world was moving at a faster pace than she was. That dream, that place, and that time, they had all been buried so deeply she thought she would never remember them again. What had invoked it? Why that memory?
“Excuse me?” a raspy voice called out to her so for a moment she thought she was still asleep.
Falling out of her stupor she looked across the counter to see an old woman with lavender coloured hair and a knitted rose scarf wrapped around her neck to match. Her wizened, marked skin did nothing to hide the kindness and contentment that swam in her eyes like a fish around a tank. She emanated enthusiasm for life, one of such intensity it could only belong to someone who had seen plenty, of awful and blessed, but still be unjaded by it. Iona’s grandparents could do with taking a lesson from this customer.
“You were somewhere else entirely,” the older woman commented.
Iona smiled awkwardly in reply and kept her gaze level, expectant. The woman handed over a small bracelet made of clear quartz, a sun and moon charm dangling from the elastic daintily. There was no doubting Isobel’s craftsmanship, which meant it had been languishing in the shop for at least a few years. Iona took it from the wizened hand and began to put the purchase through as the old woman fished out her purse from her leather handbag. In the typical way usually reserved for the elderly, or the compulsively exact, she began to count out the change on the counter, murmuring to herself how much she had put down. Patiently Iona waited, impatiently the younger woman in the queue behind began to fester.
She was young, perhaps more so than Iona, with freshly manicured nails, carefully done make-up, and a scowl to ruin what beauty she possessed. Briefly she met Iona’s gaze and rolled her eyes, as if they were in on a secret at the elderly woman’s expense. There could be no favouritism between customers and Iona tried her hardest to keep her gaze level, smothering all emotion like disapproval and irritation. As the counting of change continued the young woman became increasingly vocal about her disapproval, even going so far as to click her tongue loudly, glancing around her for support from the other customers. She received none.
Eventually the change was counted to the exact penny and Iona took it gratefully, thanking the old woman once more before seeing her leave. The disapproving young woman came marching up to the counter wearing an exasperated smile.
“I don’t know how you put up with that,” she snorted, “I mean if you’re going to give the right change do everyone the courtesy of counting it before you’re served.”
Just as Iona was about to give a sharp retort her eyes came across the item which the woman wished to purchase, and the words stopped dead at the back of her throat. Where the hell had that come from? She had taken multiple inventories of the products in the shop, and in the family archive upstairs, to accurately account for every family relic, cursed object, and enchanted charm she could find. She had never come across the ring that sat neatly on the counter before her, but she knew exactly what it was.
“Where did ye find this?” she queried the young customer, keeping the edge from her voice.
“Over there with the other small pieces of jewellery,” she motioned vaguely at the corner.
This ring was not one of Isobel’s creations, no one really knew where it had come from. It would be worth a great deal if someone were to ever find out how old it was, some of the stories stretched back to the 10th and 11th centuries. It, by some means of enchantment, changed with the times and so always looked new, shiny, and alluring. That wasn’t the only hazardous thing about it.
“It’s quite unusual, isn’t it?” the young woman commented, looking pleased with herself that she had snapped it up before anyone else.
Iona stifled a dark chuckle as she began to put the purchase through. She knew she should be torn. Knowingly selling something like this to someone seemed like it should be a mistake, a situation where she should make an excuse and refuse to hand it over. It was a rare ring, not quite one of a kind, but there weren’t many left in the world. Despite not knowing its origins there was one thing she did know about it. Back in the day, when witches didn’t adhere to rules and some strayed from the path of altruism, they used their powers to create objects that would hurt, terrorise, and curse. Over the centuries they had been tracked down and locked away by influential witching families, like the Tullochs, but those families were also rare and so not all these objects had been confiscated.
The enrapturing ring made of pure sterling silver contained one single fire opal. It was delicate, intricate almost, in the design on the thin band, but what the wearer didn’t see was the spell secretly carved on the inside. It was a cursed object of sorts, but some also said it was a blessed one. The reason was because it could both bless and curse the wearer. Someone, many centuries ago, had been very clever when they forged it. They had cast it so that it reversed the fortunes of anyone who wore it. It could be easily taken off, but very few people ever realised that it was the root of all problems or gifts.
Iona didn’t know the young woman’s circumstances, whether her wheel of fortune pointed the right way or not. From the way she was dressed to the glittering engagement ring on her finger Iona would say her luck wasn’t the worst. It should make Iona hesitate, and maybe she would have if the nightmare hadn’t stuck in her mind since last night. What she was more curious about was where the ring had come from when it hadn’t been in the shop before. Some books said it had a mind of its own, turning up and disappearing at will, others said it was only visible to the person who it had chosen as its next victim. No one really knew the truth, and with such a powerful force, who was Iona to interfere in its plan? As much as she wasn’t supposed to pass judgement on customers, she knew she’d already done so with the young woman. One day youth would no longer be on her side, she would wilt and wither and become just like the old woman she had cruelly mocked. However, in the meantime, let the ring have its fun, see if a lesson can’t be learned.
Iona wrapped the ring in tissue paper and handed it to the unsuspecting young customer. For a moment Iona felt a chill of dread grip her stomach before it was gone. The young woman’s fate was none of her concern, she understood from her brief encounter with the ring. She watched as the customer disappeared and forcefully quashed the whisper of guilt that ushered its way through her mind.
***
The nightmare that had plagued her during the darkest hours of the night remained clearly in her thoughts for the proceeding days, appearing in flashes and snippets. She had gotten no deeper into the memory in the sleeps since, but that scene, that hour, stubbornly stayed. Customers became distractions and she busied herself about the shop more, replenishing stock as soon as it sold out, checking herbs and making remedies, anything to keep her mind occupied and busy.
After an unusually long day in the shop, she went to lock the door and turn the sign around to deter any further customers. Just as she was about to reach for the bottom bolt, she saw someone running up the road carrying what looked to be a body in his arms. Silently she waited, watching, wondering if she was going to be dragged into the affairs of mortals as well as every other faction in the city. As they got closer, she thought she felt a flash of recognition. It was only when they stopped outside of her door, unable to get any further, that she drew a name from her memories. Albin Morrison stood at the boundary of the shop, a young woman draped over his arms, unconscious. Iona stared at him through the glass door for a moment before she unlocked it and stepped across the threshold, remaining within the barrier.
“You have to help me,” he panted, desperation brimming over his eyes.
She glanced at the young woman, as pale as death but not yet dead, and then back to the youngest Morrison brother in expectation.
“Please let us in,” he begged.
“No,” was her blunt retort.
The young woman in his arms was mortal, but there was something strange about her, like a feeling or a scent, a tiny part of her that was off kilter. Iona couldn’t tell what it was without closer examination, which she didn’t intend to do outside of the shop.
“She’s human!” he cried, “You help mortals. That’s the reason you’re here, isn’t it?”
The cogs in her head began to turn. There were no rules in case something as strange as this ever happened, no set protocol to turn to, and certainly no senior members of the clan to ask. Albin Morrison had a valid point, one she had iterated many times to immortals and spiritualists alike, and yet here she was refusing to aid. Who was the young woman, and what was her connection to the Morrison brother? Disliking the politics and bureaucracy swarming around the city between one faction and the other, Iona let down the barrier to the shop and permitted him to carry the young woman through to the back room where the jars of herbs and vials of essences lived. Her intention had been to let him in and throw him straight back out, but instead he lay the woman on one of the empty tables and continued to hold her hand, as if letting go would cause her to evaporate into thin air. Knowing that getting him to leave may take up valuable time, she shooed him away from the woman curtly and began her inspection.
She had lovely copper hair that cascaded in ringlets around her head like a man-made halo, with busy freckles on every part of her exposed skin, and full rose lips that were glossy and well maintained. However, it was not the woman’s appearance that she was most enraptured by but the discomforting aura that she had emanating from her like heat from a road in summer. It was twisted, grotesque in a way Iona hadn’t felt for a while. It was powerful magic, an almost forbidden enchantment that she had been made to believe was unknown to most outside of the Tulloch family. It was the second time since she had arrived in the city that a spell was too powerful for its own good.
Iona was under no illusion that the spiritualists were innocent, she felt the first hints of their magic before she began to delve into the miasma. It didn’t really matter which one, although they had to have had help to cast something as powerful as this.
“What is it? What’s wrong with her?” Albin Morrison’s concerned voice piped up from behind her.
Iona turned to him with a frown, “Tell me what happened.”
“I was walking her home, we’d just been out for dinner, and then all of a sudden, she collapsed. I didn’t know where else to take her.”
“The hospital never crossed your mind?”
The youngest brother looked away sheepishly, reluctant to meet her probing gaze. He must have suspected something supernatural else he wouldn’t have brought her straight to the Tulloch shop.
“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” he confessed with reluctance.
She began to bite the inside of her lip. The war up until now had been a word bandied about freely since she had arrived but there had never been any evidence that any such battle existed. It was truly despicable each side were resorting to using these unfair tactics. If this was a battle between immortals and spiritualists why were mortals being dragged in?
“Who is this woman, Mr Morrison?” she demanded coldly.
“Can you help her or not?”
Iona remained stubbornly quiet. She was beginning to think the youngest Morrison brother was not as wily as the elder ones.
He sighed, “She’s my girlfriend, Olivia.”
She tried desperately to hide her surprise but felt that it shimmered as obviously from her face as her anger did. An immortal in a relationship with a human? She had never heard of such a thing. They could have their fun, burn through as many of them as they wanted, but at the end of the day immortals would outlive everything, including their paramours. Trying to regain her composure, Iona took another glance at the sleeping beauty on her table and stifled a sigh of exasperation.
“I can help her,” she announced, “but I have a condition.”
“Anything, I’ll do anything you want.”
She was certain he was the only Morrison brother she would ever hear those words from.
“If I help her then you’ll end your relationship,” Iona stated.
From the crestfallen look on his face Iona was certain that had not been one of the things he had been expecting to hear. He visibly paled and then looked away, glancing longingly at Olivia lying near death on the table. She could see his mind turning, looking backwards and forwards, reliving fond memories he assumed there would be more of in the future. Such a demand was perhaps unreasonable, but from the knowledge she had gathered as a Tulloch it was obvious that an immortal’s relationship with a mortal wouldn’t last long by definition. If that immortal was a part of the most hated family in all the city, then her life would constantly be in danger from some external force. One she had no hope of triumphing over.
“She’s human, they’re not made to live in both our world and their own,” Iona reasoned, “If ye truly care about her then you’ll break things off. I can help her this time but there may be an instance in the future where I can’t, and then you’ll lose her permanently.”
An immortal couldn’t be the client of a Tulloch witch. Even though she was unconscious Olivia was the true customer. Her life was in danger because she was associating with an immortal in a city where they were waging a war on people who could wield any magic they wished. As a Tulloch Iona had a responsibility to help a mortal, even if they didn’t realise they needed it. If she had to persuade Albin Morrison to give up his girlfriend to complete her duty, then she would.
“The spiritualists did this, didn’t they?” he queried quietly.
She had expected anger, outrage, something that would make him like his oldest brother, but instead he appeared to be weary, as if a great burden was on his shoulders.
She nodded.
“Why is it always me they target?” he asked, more to himself than her.
“Because you’re the only one who has something precious to lose.”
Like many immortals before, Iona was under no doubt that Harold and Leif Morrison went through men and women like they went through identities, humans were only kept until they were inconvenient. It didn’t appear to be the same case for their younger brother.
“If I agree she’ll wake up?” he checked.
“Ye have my word.”
“And you have mine. From now on she’ll never see me again.”
If only that was enough to keep Olivia completely out of danger. Even if their relationship was to come to an end the spiritualists would continue to target the mortal in the hopes of exploiting any lingering feelings. Iona would have to do more than just wake the poor woman up.
She began busying around the room, collecting herbs, candles, and talismans. Her concentration would need to be completely focused on breaking the curse placed on Olivia. It was a trap, a horrible dreamland that she couldn’t escape from. If she died in the dream she would die in reality, any injuries she received would mark her skin. It was truly despicable, and as far as she knew frowned upon in the community. Very rarely did a mortal escape unscathed. Yet another primitive spell had surfaced in the city, and Iona knew she wouldn’t get any answers from the Mistress, or the past.
Iona took Olivia’s hands and felt the blood orange markings on her arms tingle and burn in places, as if they were writhing about beneath her skin, trapped there but wishing to be free. She focused her mind on the aura, the curse that had buried itself deep within the mortal’s mind. The muttering in her own voice seemed far away to her, as if she had transcended the small room, the shop, even the city, and was straining to hear from a great distance. The world behind her eyes was murky, streaks of light slashing left and right across the blackness that enveloped her. Her tattoos began to sting, painfully this time, but it only made her grasp the hand harder. There was no way she was going to let a curse cast by a spiritualist defeat her.
Time stretched so seconds felt like hours, and her body began to feel heavy, the skin on her arms set on fire from the power it would take to break the curse. After a few more mutterings the blackness imploded, shattering like glass thrown on a stone floor. The silence in the little room of the shop was heavy to her ears, although the blood that pumped around her head made her feel dizzy. It had taken more effort than she would ever admit to free Olivia of her curse. Her aura was cleansed, and she no longer emanated spiritualist magic. In a few hours she would be awake.
“It’s done,” Iona stated, “but there’s one more thing.”
She walked heavily over to one of the counters and rummaged around in the only disorganised looking drawer. Every stone, crystal, and carved figure accomplished something different. The genuine ones were rarely put on display in the shop because they were far too powerful to be circulated around mortals. Eventually, Iona picked up a blue quartz that looked more like a sapphire than a mere mineral. It glistened in the dimming light outside as the moon took its place in the blackened night sky.
“This is a stone that deflects any magic cast upon the wearer back to where it came from. I think even if you distance yourself, she’ll still be in danger. Make sure she wears this, or at least always keeps it near her,” Iona told him, handing him the stone.
“I will,” he nodded determinedly, “I promise.”
Shortly afterwards she let Albin Morrison out of the shop in the dead of night and watched as he carried Olivia out of sight. It left Iona to ruminate on the circumstances surrounding their relationship. How it had come about, how long it had been going on for, and how much the mortal woman knew about the Morrisons, was of no interest to Iona, but what had got her thinking was the dangerous space Olivia occupied. The threshold between the supernatural world and the mortal one was a carefully guarded secret. It was a no man’s land, nomad country, making it the most dangerous. Helpless to protect herself from immortals and spiritualists, but having some more knowledge than everyone she knew, life could become very confusing and be cut very short. Even Tullochs were not encouraged to associate romantically with mortals as it would eventually involve divulging things that were best kept hidden.
It was not only mortals and immortals where this gap lay, even within species some sort of missing space was present. A place where they were neither one thing nor another, where they knew some things but were not permitted to be involved or know about others. The Tulloch clan were notorious secret keepers, even amongst its own members, but anyone marrying into it was dealt an even worse hand. Iona had seen it for herself, felt the bitterness, experienced the pain and confusion, yet was made to remain quiet. Why is it that people always get hurt the most because of the people they love?
***
The weeks went by, and she heard nothing more from Albin Morrison or his vulnerable girlfriend, Olivia. Whether he had kept his word to end their relationship also remained a mystery, but Iona didn’t feel inclined to pursue the inquiry. She had made it very clear to the youngest Morrison brother that if he continued to see the mortal she would continue to be thrown into harm’s way. If he truly cared for her then he would break it off. The nature of their relationship remained a matter of curiosity to Iona, who when thinking on the matter further wondered what his brothers thought of his connection. Harold hadn’t seemed like the type to turn a blind eye. Perhaps he didn’t care, and thought of it as a mere dalliance, she would never know.
Iona found herself doing something rather mundane and peculiarly mortal. She had never lived on her own before. The housekeeper had always bought the shopping, cleaned the rooms, and organised meals when she was still living on the main family estate, but now that she was in the rooms situated above the shop, she found herself perpetually starving and without much in the way to eat. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cook, she just found that she was terrible at it. For a Tulloch it was expected that they could mix herbs, cast enchantments, and know all the properties of every mineral in existence, but the ability to cook a nutritional meal had been something excluded from her education.
The supermarket was a busy, crowded palace where all the perishable goods people could ever want resided. Why were there five different cans all containing beans, but with increasing prices? What could someone possibly want with an entire cut of beef that was due to go off that very same day? Why were there so many things to eat for breakfast? Her mind had boggled when she had first wandered in. The local supermarket at home was less than a quarter of the size of the one she frequented in the city, and there were no choices of brands, there was one of each item. Once she had put everything she needed into her basket, she made her way to the checkout. After unloading her items onto the conveyor belt, she waited until the woman in front of her was finished being served.
The customer in front rummaged around in her purse for all the change she could scrape together and counted it out to the cashier. With an absent mind Iona gave a brief glance over and noticed something glistening wickedly on the woman’s hand. The blood flowing through her veins began to curdle as she took a closer look at the person stood in front of her in the queue counting out change.
“I’m so sorry, I do have the right money, it’s just been a bit tight lately, you know?” she began to natter to the cashier, “I just lost my job, and then my fiancé called off the wedding…,” she trailed off.
The customer, with no tolerance for the elderly, who had come into the shop a few weeks previously, was standing in front of Iona in the supermarket, doing the exact same thing that she had ridiculed the old woman for doing in the shop. Iona stifled a small shudder at the ring’s apparent sense of justice. The emotions that had flashed through her the first time resurfaced as it caught her eyes, twinkled ominously in the glaring lights of the supermarket. She should have taken it from the young woman when she had bought it, refused to sell it, but she had been in a foul mood that day and so hadn’t. Even though her mood had levelled out, she still was not inclined to take the ring back. She didn’t try to ignore the little bubbles of satisfaction as she watched the young woman meticulously count out pennies. Perhaps the legends were right in that it did have a mind of its own, and if that were so then she didn’t have a right to interfere. It had hidden itself from her and chosen the woman. Iona may be a Tulloch, but she didn’t want to try her luck going against a cursed object as mysterious and unknown as that ring. The judgemental and impatient young woman had been doled out justice by a trinket which she had innocently bought. It was a brutal lesson, but one that would hopefully be long lasting. The hard ones usually were.
***
It was always cold, even in June. Why was it always cold there? The cottage was small, the fires always crackling somewhere, and the heating was by no means inferior despite the rural location, but there was always a chill. The nightmare had plagued her intermittently for a week, and after a long battle to ignore it, there came a point when she acknowledged that there may be a reason it kept recurring.
She hadn’t wanted tea; she could remember that. The only thing she had kept thinking about was how much she wanted to leave, as if the sense of a long, awkward conversation was on her mind. Every time the older woman had looked at her, she would tense, her jaw clench together desperately. The way she leaned back against the counter, the judgemental and harsh way she regarded Iona across that small kitchen was something she had never managed to forget.
“Well,” she had half sighed, “you’re a real Tulloch now.”
Those words, so simple, yet filled with so much bitterness and hatred that they rang down through the years into the present like a restless ghost. Iona had never forgotten them, and she knew by now that she never would. They were ingrained, burned almost, into her memories. She may have called it a nightmare, but it wasn’t only fictional dreams that plagued people when they were asleep.
“I was always a real Tulloch,” she had said in reply, breaking eye contact with the older woman by looking at the chips in the floor tiles.
“Ye don’t know what it means to be a real Tulloch yet,” the woman muttered as she turned around to the teapot and began pouring the dark amber liquid into cups.
“I know more than ye do about it,” Iona threw sharply.
The teapot clanged down on the countertop so hard she thought it was going to break. The woman rounded on Iona, eyes flying open in her rage.
“Don’t act so high and mighty with me, lass, who do ye think I am?”
“The woman who abandoned me?” she shot back bitterly.
The older woman’s eyes grew wider as she pushed herself off the counter to propel forward and close the gap that had seemed so large before, but now was not big enough for Iona’s liking. In her shock, and with a mind that she was about to be hit, she stood up abruptly, the painted wooden chair’s faded legs screeching on the stone floor as she did so.
“How dare ye!” the older woman spat, “How dare ye accuse me of that.”
“It’s true, isn’t it? Ye scuttled away to your rabbit warren and left me at the main estate. They’re taking better care of me than ye ever could here in your hovel.”
It was vicious, but then, teenagers often were. Her memories of that fight were as pointed as her words had been. Regret still lingered there, as it did in many of her unhappier memories, but this one had chosen to stand out recently. Teenagers are often very self-centred, and Iona, despite her heritage, was just like any other. All she could think about was herself and how she bad been left, not about the woman who now lived in reduced circumstances when before she had enjoyed the same privileges.
“I gave birth to ye, Iona, not them!” she screeched, slapping her palm to her chest so hard Iona was sure it would leave marks.
“Maybe you should act a bit more like it then,” the young Iona spat back before storming out of the door, nearly taking it from its hinges as she slammed it shut.
Distantly she heard a light tapping, a sound that didn’t fit with the energy or the force of the memory. Her eyes opened weakly, and she looked around at the shop trying to regain her bearings after having immersed herself in the unpleasant memory. She had hoped that by doing so she would be permitted to sleep unhindered by its reappearance. It was mid-afternoon by her reckoning and there were no customers in the shop. She allowed her body to relax from the tenseness that had set in her muscles at reliving the memory, the emotions along with the physical reactions. The regret was harder to let go of.
Her eyes floated around the shop, looking for the tapping sound that had grasped her tightly and liberated her from her memories. Considering that there were no customers present she grew more concerned at the noise until something eventually caught the corner of her eye. Casting her gaze out of the window she noticed an unwelcome but familiar face peering in through the glass, both hands holding cardboard cups steaming in the late autumnal chill. Again, she thought about ignoring him, but she knew he wouldn’t leave if she did. Lethargically, she made her way outside, closing the door behind her to the shop. Leif Morrison handed her one of the cups he was holding, his eyes scouring over her face as if he had seen something that sparked his interest.
“Are you feeling well?” he inquired.
“I was,” she retorted curtly before taking a sip of the coffee. It was the one from the park, she remembered the bitterness well.
“Evidently,” he smirked in an irritatingly knowing way, “Perhaps the day you’re civil to me will be the day to begin worrying.”
“I’m always civil,” she reminded, “I’m just not always polite.”
This elicited a snicker from the middle Morrison brother. It had been a few weeks since their paths had crossed, and for some reason she was curious as to why the sudden gap when it seemed that not a week could go by without their meeting somehow. The last Morrison she had met had been carrying a mortal woman in his arms demanding her help, but that had been the last she had heard from any of them. Emerging from her thoughts she noticed the look that he was giving her, expectant with a lining of confusion.
“What?” she demanded.
“This is the first time we’ve met when you haven’t demanded to know what I want from you,” he observed mirthfully.
She didn’t wish to admit that his company was not completely unwelcome this time. She was grateful that his interruption had prevented her from falling further into that memory. Standing with him outside the shop and drinking coffee was a welcome distraction, and prevention from returning to obsess over the events of that day. Leif Morrison inhaled deeply beside her, taking in the steadily growing winter.
“I don’t know what’s plaguing you,” he admitted freely, “and I know you wouldn’t tell me if I asked, but I will say this. Talking about problems is an undervalued resource.”
Tullochs were that resource for customers daily, often multiple times, yet when it came to internal issues there was no such thing as conversation. Who could Iona talk to in the large city who would listen? Who would understand? Tullochs weren’t ones for friends.
“Why are ye here?” she queried, a small smile playing on her lips.
The corner of his lip tugged with humour, eyes sparkling with the mirth that she felt she needed in that moment. The fresh air was rejuvenating and breathing it in instead of the shop air improved her mood. Yet, she knew as soon as she stepped foot over the threshold back inside, her sudden buoyancy would abruptly deflate.
“I heard what you did for Albin and his girlfriend.”
Iona took a strategic sip of the coffee, remaining steady to her reputation of being secretive. After all their meetings Iona still couldn’t fathom the middle brother’s agenda, if he had one at all. If he was the agent of Harold, his own self, or something else entirely, Iona had yet to find out.
“He told me that you saved Olivia’s life in exchange for him never seeing her again,” he paused thoughtfully, “I’m glad someone managed to separate them. He would never listen to me on the subject, and if Harold had ever found out then the end would have been much less kind.”
“Your brother wouldn’t have approved?” she checked.
“For all his liberties my eldest brother is intolerant to lasting affection, especially with mortals. Dalliances are inevitable, but anything further is prevented.”
Iona recalled the first and only time she had met the eldest Morrison brother. His reaction when she had rebuked his invitation to talk had seemed one of irritation, as if no one ever dared to oppose him or speak to him in the manner that she had. Her observations fitted with Leif’s description of Harold – an immortal who was used to getting his own way. She didn’t want to contemplate what he would have done to Olivia if he had found out about her relationship with his youngest brother.
“He has stopped seeing Olivia, hasn’t he?” Iona ensured.
Mr Morrison nodded, “Of course. We are a family who keep our words when we have given them. It’s a matter of pride.”
She nodded vaguely and took another sip of the deliciously bitter coffee.
“Why did you help Albin?” he asked, and she could hear the curiosity in his tone.
“I didn’t,” she corrected, “Customers can never be immortals. I helped Olivia.”
“And if I asked for your help, with no mortal involved?”
Iona spared him a glance, unsure whether he was asking in earnest. She had been worried about some hidden agenda of his, the reason why he had been mysteriously helpful to her ever since she had arrived in the city. She may tell herself that she helped Olivia, and that it was the mortal who was her official customer, but it had been Albin who had asked her for aid. The two were not independent of each other; in helping Olivia she had granted Albin’s wish. It was a technicality that could be easily explained to and accepted by the family, helping Leif Morrison when there was no mortal in sight could not. Did she owe him a favour or two for all the information he had given, even if it was of his own free will? Was that why he continued to seek her out and feed her information she needed? More unusual was her inability to answer him directly. The answer was no, he was not a mortal therefore he couldn’t be a customer, so why couldn’t she say those words?
“There’s no need to fret,” he reassured calmly, “I hopefully won’t ever have to put you in that position.”
Iona disliked the uncertainty his voice seemed to hold, even if he didn’t hear it himself.
“Is that why ye keep telling me things about the city, and your family?” she blurted.
“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, “or maybe I think if I share enough with you it’ll be reciprocated.”
He laughed lightly as she threw him a look of disbelief.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure making their way to the shop, and she held the door open when they arrived telling them she would be inside soon. Even though her coffee wasn’t finished, she had duties to attend. A small part of herself admitted that she had enjoyed this particular coffee with Leif Morrison, but that small part was hushed rather quickly. Just as she was about to turn back inside the shop Mr Morrison said one more thing to her.
“One day, Miss Tulloch, you’ll tell me your secrets of your own free will.”
“Ye can’t possibly predict that,” she threw back as she opened the door to the shop.
“I predicted that the first coffee I bought you wouldn’t be the last, and I was right,” he reminded smugly.
“Coffee doesn’t equate to secrets,” she smirked as she closed the door.