Scots terms

Bairns – children

Pal – friend

Hankie – slang term for tissue – the kind you wipe your nose with. I think Kleenex is the most well-known brand, but this can also be used to refer to the cotton ones that you wash and re-use.

Sweetie – Scottish term for sweets, but not always chocolate. Mostly the boiled sweets you get, or things like Rowantree’s fruit pastilles (probably another very British thing), or Haribo? It’s a very broad term. I wouldn’t use it to refer to chocolate though, only non-chocolate treats.

Telly (pronounced like Jelly but with a T at the beginning) – Television/TV

Script

Episode 24 – The Frog in your throat

I’ve been thinking a lot about lying recently. Not surprising since mine seem to be piling up around me like the antiques in the shop. We’re always taught, in school, by our parents, and family, that lying is wrong. But why does that only seem to apply to bairns? Everyone lies. Whether it’s to prevent someone’s feelings from getting hurt or to save your own skin. Why do we feel guilty though? Why do secrets and lies eat away at us, even if we have a reason for keeping them? Is it just me? I’d love to be one of those people who’s at peace with their lies, who doesn’t even have the smallest bit of guilt at not telling the truth, at keeping something to themselves. I’m not talking whate lies, the ones you utter to keep the peace, I’m talking about the big ones. The family secrets, the deathbed confessions, the body you buried in the back garden. Why do they become burdens? It’s like they have a mind of their own sometimes, caged birds desperate to get out.

Mine are not quite like that, not yet. They still nag at me more often than not. Always afraid I’ll get caught, thinking about what’ll happen if I do. Having to keep track so I don’t trip up over my own lies is a task I’m not that fond of. Nothing bad happened after I took that brooch from Marion, though. Which means I interfered with Fate, and nothing happened. Does that mean the Madam’s wrong? Is that possible? It doesn’t matter, I said I’d just do it the one time, just because it was my pal. I’m not going to do it again. That was it.

The usual lull had descended the shop, that time of relative peace before the havoc breaks in. And on cue, the bell above the door informed us of a customer. Chronos and I didn’t need to take bets on this one, it was obvious by the way he hesitated in the door, eyes darting around like a lizard after a fly. He was a special customer. I was about to make a bet with Chronos on how long it’d take him to plod over to the counter when his feet moved and he came over, unprompted. He wouldn’t make eye contact with me but glanced at Chronos as if he wanted to pet him. A part of me wanted him to try, just to see what the wee shite would do.

Instead, he rifled through his pockets, and after pulling out loose change, a scrunched up hankie, and an empty sweetie wrapper he planted the familiar business card on the table. Before he mustered up the courage to touch Chronos I told him to follow me up the stairs where the Madam was waiting in the front room.

The customer had the nice timing not to start spilling his guts until after I’d rushed in with the tea pot and cups. My boss asked him what she could help him with, and his answer was the last thing I’d been expecting. He’d been having blurred vision.

I’ve heard some weird reasons before, some I’ve even been adamant are more appropriate for a medical professional, but this definitely sounded like one of them. I took glances at him between pouring the tea. I say glances but it felt like I was just outright staring. It’d been a while where a customer’s problem had sounded so mundane.

My boss asked him when it’d started. He answered the day before, then corrected himself and said a week ago, a month ago. The more answers slipped from his mouth the quicker I gave up the pretence that I wasn’t staring. You know when you’re tired or just not really paying attention, and something comes out of your mouth during a conversation that you don’t know where it came from. You weren’t even thinking that, not consciously, yet there it is, an anomaly in an otherwise normal conversation.

The way the customer kept correcting his answer, the growing scowl of frustration as he enunciated each one, reminded me of that. Except, rather than it just happening once, like most people, every time he said something it was like he hadn’t wanted to say it at all. His cheeks were beginning to flush, either with embarrassment or frustration, I couldn’t tell. The Madam held her hand up to stop him.

There was silence, his breathing laboured as if he’d sprinted up the stairs. Madam Norna let him calm down, but I could tell by the way her eyes surveyed the man on the sofa opposite that she was also using this time to think, to assess. I did the same, but I swear the woman can see things no one else can.

The customer couldn’t have been much older than me, maybe late twenties at the most. He was dressed casually, a jacket and jeans, mismatched socks, and shoes that looked like they’d seen better days a few years ago. He didn’t have any jewellery; no watch, smart or otherwise on his wrist, no ring on any of his fingers. He had the appearance of anyone you’d walk past in the street, smile awkwardly to when your eyes met as they sat opposite you on the train to work. His knee was bouncing up and down, erratically, quickly, like someone waiting for a job interview or bad news. His hand rested on his knee, but he was picking at a patch of his jeans that was scuffed, trying to turn it into a tear. His eyes were closed, but when they’d been open, he’d never looked at either me or the Madam. The teacups were more interesting than us, but his hadn’t been touched.

After a few more moments of silence the Madam asked, in her softest, calmest voice, if he was currently sitting in a living room. At first, I thought whatever was wrong with him had infected her as well. That’d be a first; a contagious problem. I hope that’s not a thing. I really do.

The customer’s answer was no.

I felt my face scrunch into a frown. It’d been a while since I’d felt so confused at one of these conversations. Did he not think the front room was a living room? Granted, there was no telly, but everything else was living room-esque. Sofas, cabinets, and a coffee table.

My boss’s second question was if he was wearing jeans. He said no.

I stared at his jeans, the same ones he was trying to poke a hole through as we spoke. I then started to question if they were jeans, why would he be saying they weren’t? I resisted the urge to reach out and feel the fabric to confirm.

Despite my utter confusion, the Madam nodded knowingly at each answer she was given. I waited patiently for an explanation. Eventually she informed him that he was unable to tell the truth.

He said no.

It hadn’t been a question. If this lad couldn’t tell the truth, then every word out of his mouth was a lie. He was sitting in a living room, but that was the truth so he couldn’t say. He was wearing jeans, but he couldn’t say that either. My head began to twinge, knowing I was in for a complicated conversation.

My boss inquired if he knew who had done it. He said yes, which meant no. *SFX: sighs irritably* Just to save myself the confusion, I’ll just skip straight to the answer. Due to this lad’s inability to tell the truth, every question had to be a yes or no answer, which went as slowly as you might expect.

At some point in the last fortnight, this lad had woken up one morning and found that he couldn’t tell the truth, not even about wee things. Someone asked him the time, and he lied. Someone asked him for directions to a place he knew, and he sent them the opposite way. Eventually the Madam’s card had found its way into his possession, and here he was, hoping she could solve his problem.

Luckily for him, she was an expert in it. I’d never seen her throw her hands up in defeat at a special customer. When she instructed me to go to the cabinet of wonders, I was giddy with excitement. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been allowed to go in there? Ages. Had anything changed? Were there new things to get distracted by?

I was looking for an incense cone, at least five. As soon as I opened the doors to the cabinet, I noticed the changes. The jars all labelled with letters had moved down to the bottom shelf. Where there’d been crystals and amulets before was now pieces ae paper with foreign symbols on them. I’d only ever seen incense sticks on the top shelf, but now there were only cones. They came in a rainbow of colours, there was even a white one sitting in the middle, as though it were an amalgamation of the rest. I was looking for the brown ones, similar in colour to the skin on an almond or hazelnut. It was hard to smell since the odour of the cabinet itself is so overpowering. I got a waft of coffee grounds, with a hint of apricot, but that could’ve been something else entirely.

I put the five cones into the customer’s outstretched hands, and for the first time he looked at me and gave me a half-smile to show his appreciation. As I sat back down my boss instructed the customer to burn one a night for five nights. By the time the last one had burnt itself out he’d be back to normal. If not, then he was to come back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a special customer return to the shop unless instructed, but there was a first time for everything.

The customer opened his mouth to say something, perhaps a thank you, perhaps a question, before he firmly closed it again, his shoulders slumping with disappointment. I started to feel bad. How frustrating must it be to not say what you want or even what you mean? Speech is such a large part of human agency, and to have it robbed from you like that was criminal.

Before he left, the Madam asked him one last question. Had he told anyone anything important in the days or weeks leading up to the curse? He confirmed that he had but being unable to elaborate the Madam let him go.

I sat, watching as the untouched tea in the customer’s cup rippled as the shop door was opened and closed, waiting for a story.

“He has a frog in this throat”, the Madam informed me.

He’d sounded fine to me. Every lie had been enunciated to perfection, and I presumed she didn’t mean literally. Again, I hope that’s not a thing. My boss told me that it was an old curse people used to cast on others, so they’d never be able to tell the truth. Sometimes it worked in making them unable to speak, others it actively made every word from their mouth a lie. Mercifully, there were few people alive who could cast such an archaic curse, and our old pal Madam Anora was probably behind this one.

Madan Norna continued that the customer had cheated on his partner and had hidden it from her for months before the guilt was too much for him. He confessed to his partner, and understandably they hadn’t taken it well. Just no for the reasons you might imagine. The partner actually knew about the cheating, they just didn’t want to acknowledge it. They were happy to stay with him and bury their head in the sand. This plan had obviously been foiled by the customer coming clean. These events had led them to Madam Anora, who’d cursed them to never tell the truth.

I cleaned away the cups and pot of tea, washed them in the sink and floated dazedly downstairs. Fionn was there with Chronos, having arrived after I’d gone upstairs. He noticed my confused stare and asked what was wrong. I told him about the customer and what had happened. What I was having trouble getting my head around is why? Why would someone not want to be told about their partner’s infidelities? Going so far as to curse them to not tell the truth when they did? Not knowing and continuing in ignorance wasn’t the same as finding out and then doing nothing about it. Wouldn’t you want to know why, at the least?

So even if the customer cheated again, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the partner. They wanted to be ignorant, or they wanted to ignore the cheating. Why?

Fionn was silent for a few moments, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t know either or he did and just didn’t know how best to explain it. Eventually he told me that sometimes people just can’t let go of a relationship, even if it’s bad for them. Because it’s easier to be in the relationship than out of it. Despite his words I still don’t understand, and probably never will. Relationships ofthat kind have always eluded me, so I’ll just have to take his word for it.

The only conclusion I can safely draw from this particular story is that people act strangely sometimes, and that Madam Anora must get almost as much business as we do.

Script – Scots

I’ve been thinkin’ a lot aboot lying recently. No’ surprising since mine seem tae be piling up roond me, like the antiques in the shop. We’re always taught, in school, by our parents and family, that lyin’ is wrong. But why does that only seem tae apply tae bairns? Everyone lies. Whether it’s tae prevent someone’s feelin’s frae getting’ hurt, or tae save your own skin. Why do we feel guilty though? Why do secrets and lies eat away at us, even if we have a reason fae keepin’ them? Is it just me? I’d love tae be one ae those people who’s at peace wi’ their lies, who doesnae even have the wee’est bit ae guilt at no tellin’ the truth, at keepin’ somethin’ tae themselves. I’m no talkin’ white lies, the ones ye utter tae keep the peace, I’m talkin’ aboot the big ones. The family secrets, the deathbed confessions, the body ye buried in the back garden. Why do they become burdens? It’s like they have a mind ae their own sometimes, caged birds desperate tae get oot.

Mine are no quite like that, no yet. They still nag at me, more often than not. Always afraid I’ll get caught, thinkin’ aboot what’ll happen if I do. Havin’ tae keep track so I dinnae trip up over ma own lies is a task I’m no that fond of. Nothin’ bad happened after I took that brooch frae Rowan, though. Which means I interfered wi’ fate, and nothin’ happened. Does that mean the Madam’s wrong? Is that possible? It doesnae matter, I said I’d just do it the one time, just because it was ma pal. I’m no gonnae dae it again. That was it.

The usual lull had descended the shop, that time ae relative peace before the havoc breaks in. And on cue, the bell above the door informed us ae a customer. Chronos and I didnae need tae take bets on this one, it was obvious by the way he hesitated in the door, eyes dartin’ roond like a lizard after a fly. He was a special customer. I was aboot tae make a bet wi’ Chronos on how long it’d take him tae plod over tae the counter when his feet moved and he came over, unprompted. He wouldnae make eye contact wi’ me, but glanced at Chronos as if he wanted tae pet him. A part ae me wanted him tae try, just tae see whit the wee shite would do.

Instead, he rifled through his pockets, and after pullin oot loose change, a scrunched up hankie, and an empty sweetie wrapper, he planteed the familiar business card on the table. Before he mustered up the courage tae touch Chronos, I told him tae follow me up the stairs, where the Madam was waitin’ in the front room.

The customer had the nice timing no tae start spillin his guts until after I’d rushed in wi’ the tea pot and cups. Ma boss asked him whit she could help him wi, and his answer was the last ‘hing I’d been expectin. He’d been havin’ blurred vision.

I’ve heard some weird reasons before, some I’ve even been adamant are more appropriate fae a medical professional, but this definitely soundeed like one ae them. I took glances at him between pourin’ the tea. I say glances but it definitely felt like I was just outright starin’. It’d been a while where a customer’s problem had sounded so mundane.

Ma boss asked him when it’d started. He answered the day before, then corrected himself and said a week ago, a month ago. The more answers slipped from his mouth the quicker I gave up the pretence that I wasnae starin’. Ye know when you’re tired, or just no really payin’ attention, and somethin’ comes oot ae your mouth durin a conversation that ye dinnae know where it came frae. Ye werenae even thinkin that, no consciously, yet there it is, an anomaly in an otherwise normal conversation.

The way the customer kept correctin’ his answer, the growin’ scowl ae frustration as he enunciated each one, reminded me ae that. Except rather than it just happening once, like most people, every time he said something it was like he hadnae wanteed tae say it at all. His cheeks were beginnin’ tae flush, either wi embarrassment or frustration, I couldnae tell. The Madam held her hand up tae stop him.

There was silence, his breathin laboured as if he’d sprinted up the stairs. Madam Norna let him calm doon, but I could tell by the way her eyes surveyed the man on the sofa opposite that she was also using this time tae think, tae assess. I did the same, but I swear the woman can see ‘hings no one else can.

The customer couldnae have been much older than me, maybe late twenties at the most. He was dressed casually, a jacket and jeans, mismatched socks, and shoes that looked like they’d seen better days a few years ago. He didnae have any jewellery, no watch, smart or otherwise on his wrist, no ring on any ae his fingers. He had the appearance ae anyone ye’d walk past in the street, smile awkwardly to when your eyes met as they sat opposite ye on the train tae work. His knee was bouncin’ up and doon, erratically, quickly, like someone waitin’ fae a job interview, or bad news. His hand rested on his knee, but he was pickin’ at a patch ae his jeans that was scuffed, tryin’ tae turn it intae a tear. His eyes were closed, but when they’d been open he’d never looked at either me or the Madam. The teacups were more interestin’ than us, but his hadnae been touched.

After a few more moments ae silence the Madam asked, in her softest, calmest voice, if he was currently sittin’ in a living room. At first I thought whitever was wrong wi’ him had infected her as well. That’d be a first, a contagious problem. I hope that’s no a thing. I really do.

The customer’s answer was no.

I felt ma face scrunch intae a frown. It’d been a while since I’d felt so confused at one ae these conversations. Did he no think the front room was a living room? Granted, there was no telly, but everythin’ else was living room-esque. Sofas, cabinets, a coffee table.

Ma boss’s second question was if he was wearin’ jeans. He said no.

I stared at his jeans, the same ones he was tryin’ tae poke a hole through as we spoke. I then started tae question if they were jeans, why would he be sayin’ they werenae? I resisted the urge tae reach oot and feel the fabric tae confirm.

Despite ma utter confusion, the Madam nodded knowingly at each answer she was given. I waited patiently fae an explanation. Eventually she informed him that he was unable tae tell the truth.

He said no.

It hadnae been a question. If this lad couldnae tell the truth, then every word oot ae his mouth was a lie. He was sittin’ in a living room, but that was the truth so he couldnae say. He was wearin’ jeans, but he couldnae say that either. Ma heid began tae twinge, knowin’ I was in fae a complicated conversation.

Ma boss inquired if he knew who had done it. He said yes, which meant no. *sighs irritably* Just tae save maself the confusion, I’ll just skip straight tae the answer. Due tae this lad’s inability tae tell the truth, every question had tae be a yes or no answer, which went as slowly as ye might expect.

At some point in the last fortnight, this lad had woken up one mornin and found that he couldnae tell the truth, no even aboot wee ‘hings. Someone asked him the time, and he lied. Someone asked him fae directions tae a place he knew, and he sent them the opposite way. Eventually the Madam’s card had found its way intae his possession, and here he was, hopin’ she could solve his problem.

Luckily fae him, she was an expert in it. I’d never seen her throw her hands up in defeat at a special customer. When she instructed me tae go tae the cabinet ae wonders, I was giddy wi excitement. Do ye know how long it’s been since I’ve been allowed tae go in there? Ages. Had anythin’ changed? Were there new ‘hings tae get distracted by?

I was lookin fae an incense cone, at least five. As soon as I opened the doors tae the cabinet, I noticed the changes. The jars all labelled wi letters had moved doon tae the bottom shelf. Where there’d been crystals and amulets before was noo pieces ae paper wi foreign symbols on them. I’d only ever seen incense sticks on the top shelf, but noo there were only cones. They came in a rainbow ae colours, there was even a white one sittin’ in the middle, as though it were an amalgamation ae the rest. I was lookin fae the brown ones, similar in colour tae the skin on an almond or hazelnut. It was hard tae smell since the odour ae the cabinet itself is so overpowerin. I got a waft ae coffee grounds, wi a hint ae apricot, but that couldae been somethin’ else entirely.

I put the five cones intae the customer’s outstretched hands, and fae the first time he looked at me, and gee me a half-smile tae show his appreciation. As I sat back doon ma boss instructed the customer tae burn one a night fae five nights. By the time the last one had burnt itself oot he’d be back tae normal. If not, then he was tae come back. I dinnae ‘hink I’ve ever seen a special customer return tae he shop unless instructed, but there was a first time fae everythin’.

The customer opened his mouth tae say something, perhaps a thank you, perhaps a question, before he firmly closed it again, his shoulders slumping wi’ disappointment. I started tae feel bad. How frustratin’ must it be tae no say whit you want, or even whit you mean? Speech is such a large part ae human agency, and tae have it robbed frae ye like that was criminal.

Before he left, the Madam asked him one last question. Had he told anyone anything important in the days or weeks leadin’ up tae the curse? He confirmed that he had, but being unable tae elaborate, the Madam let him go.

I sat, watchin’ as the untouched tea in the customer’s cup rippled as the shop door was opened and closed, waitin’ fae a story.

“He has a frog in this throat”, the Madam informed me.

He’d sounded fine tae me. Every lie had been enunciated tae perfection, and I presumed she didnae mean literally. Again, I hope that’s no a thing. Ma boss told me that it was an old curse people used tae cast on others so they’d never be able tae tell the truth. Sometimes it worked in making them unable tae speak, others it actively made every word from their mouth a lie. Mercifully, there were few people alive who could cast such an archaic curse, and our old pal Madam Anora was probably behind this one.

Madan Norna continued that the customer had cheated on his partner, and had hidden it frae her fae months before the guilt was too much fae him. He confessed tae his partner, and understandably they hadnae taken it well. Just no fae the reasons ye might imagine. The partner actually knew aboot the cheatin, they just didnae want tae acknowledge it. They were happy tae stay wi’ him and bury their heid in the sand. This plan had obviously been foiled by the customer comin’ clean. These events had led them tae Madam Anora, who’d cursed them to never tell the truth.

I cleaned away the cups and pot ae tea, washed them in the sink and floated dazedly doon stairs. Fionn was there wi Chronos, havin’ arrived after I’d gone upstairs. He noticed ma confused stare and asked whit was wrong. I told him aboot the customer and whit had happened. Whit I was havin’ trouble getting’ ma heid aroond is why? Why would someone no want tae be told aboot their partner’s infidelities? Going so far as tae curse them tae no tell the truth when they did? No knowin and continuin in ignorance wasnae the same as findin’ oot and then doin’ nothin’ aboot it. Wouldnae ye want tae know why, at the least?

So even if the customer cheated again, he wouldnae have been able tae tell the partner. They wanted tae be ignorant, or they wanted tae ignore the cheatin. Why?

Fionn was silent fae a few moments, and I couldnae tell if it was because he didnae know either or he did and just didnae know how best tae explain it. Eventually he told me that sometimes people just can’t let go of a relationship, even if it’s bad for them. Because it’s easier to be in the relationship than out of it. Despite his words I still dinnae understand, and probably never will. Relationships ae that kind have always eluded me, so I’ll just have tae take his word fae it.

The only conclusion I can safely draw frae this particular story is that people act strangely sometimes, and that Madam Anora must get almost as much business as we do.

Scots terms

Da/Ma – Dad/Mum

Freshers – a UK-wide term for first year university students.

a sneaky – quite similar to a cheeky, it just means something you’re not supposed to be doing, that’s low-key bad for you but not harmful.

Pal – friend

Prick – British slang for penis.

Chilly – cold.

Author’s note: The name of Maya’s flatmate in this script is Marion, but in the original audio, and the Scots script below, it’s Rowan. This is because I already used the name Rowan for a completely different character in episode 15 and obviously forgot by the time I wrote episode 23. I’ve changed it here to avoid confusion, but the audio, as of writing this note, is Rowan. In the realms of episode 23 Rowan=Marion.

Script

It’s the start of a new semester, and a new year. My final year. I honestly didn’t think I’d make it this far, especially given my part-time job, but here we are.

Not much happened over the summer, save for that time jump thing, visiting the first Madam Anora back in the bronze age. The town was a lot quieter in general, what with most of the students going home. I spent most of my time here, for the first time in my university career. I spent about half of my time at home with my Da’, and the other half in the flat, also eerily quiet. Instead of four of us, there was only two. At least I know now which flatmates cause the mess.

Summer’s over now, not that there’s ever really much of summer in Scotland. A few days if you’re lucky. The are few differences between Summer and Autumn, as though we only have three seasons here, missing the best one out entirely. The leaves have turned and started falling to the ground, the days grow shorter, and the weather gets chillier. Soon it’ll be scarves and hats across the campus.

It was the week before lectures started, when you begin seeing Freshers start to wander around looking like they escaped their nursery, that this particular story happened. I got a bit of a shock on the day in question. The bell above the door chimed in its usual way, and three of us looked up from what we were doing to eye the door, excluding Chronos who tried to sneakily move one of his Checkers over a square or two. Reid didn’t notice, and even though I did, I didn’t say anything. Seeing Reid lose to a cat is one of the highlights of my days sometimes.

Not on this day, though. I don’t keep the shop a secret from my pals or family. Everyone knows I work in an antique shop. For obvious reasons, I keep the finer details to myself. Given the nature of the shop, no one I know, or would even recognise, had come through the door. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.

This lassie’s name is Marion. We met during my second year. She was going out with one of my flatmates, they’ve since split up, but I kept in touch with her. We have a few lectures together now and then, but this past summer I’ve taken to seeing her more and more. She’d applied for an internship at a big company, which she’d got. It meant, like me, she was more often than not in the city when none of our other friends were. Since her company is close to the shop, we go for a sneaky lunch once a week.

The day she walked through the door of the shop wasn’t the day we had lunch. It was two days before. Marion looked as surprised to see me as I was her. For her it was a pleasant one. For me, it began to give me that feeling I usually got around customers who were about to buy something I knew would do them harm.

I’ve been working at the shop for nearly a year now, and not one person I know has walked through that door. Why now? Why her? Was it simply a law of probability? Just because I worked in the shop doesn’t mean the people in my life were immune to its siren song or the intrigues of Fate. My stomach lurched when I saw her, and it took me a minute to plaster some kind of friendly greeting on my face as she approached the counter.

Abashedly, she confessed that she’d never known where this shop was, despite trying to find it a few times when I first mentioned I worked there. Not surprising. A few of my pals had said the same thing over the last year. The shop, as ever, is invisible to people who don’t need to be there. Therefore, Marion did. It was the why that had me worried.

There was a brief moment when she reached into her pocket and I thought the business card was coming out. It was just her phone. Now that she’d found the shop, she said, she wanted to look around. I think I’d have preferred her to ask to see my boss.

I itched to go with her, follow her like a wee puppy after its Ma’, talking and distracting her from picking something up; or worse – buying it. Reid, Fionn, and Chronos went back to what they were doing before, but I could feel Reid watching me fidget as my eyes followed Marion around.

She came to the counter after a few minutes, blissfully empty-handed. And I thought it was over. I thought, for a fleeting moment, that she was immune. That there were people, however rare, who came into the shop and left with nothing.

I’ll not be that naïve again.

As she was talking to me across the glass counter, reaffirming our lunch plans for a few days later, her eyes snagged on something beneath the surface. I felt her attention wander to it, eyes glancing down every few seconds, not really listening to what I was saying. Eventually she asked to see something out, and I felt my stomach drop.

She tapped her nail on the glass as she indicated it was a brooch. When I looked down into the bright lights that made horrible things sparkle, I caught what she wanted to see. I could barely remember this brooch; it’d been that long since I’d last seen it.

I mentioned it at the time. It was back when Reid had left, and Fionn was my only familiar. One day when we’d come into the shop, there was this floral brooch lying on the counter. The Madam and Chronos were upstairs, and there were no customers in sight. We’d spent the best part of that morning daring each other to touch it and making bets on what it did. Instinctively, we both knew it was nothing to laugh at.

After that day it vanished. There in the morning and gone by the afternoon. Fionn maintained no one had bought it, and I hadn’t sold it to anyone in the time since. It’d simply sprouted legs and gone for a walk. Except, I began to realise, it hadn’t. It’d simply blended in with all the other shiny nightmares that lived beneath the glass counter.

Marion was eyeing me expectantly, her acrylic nail still resting on the glass surface. I thought she was going to start tapping again. Stiffly, I retrieved the brooch, flinching as my fingers brushed across the pearls set into the centre of each flower. I dropped it onto the glass, winced as the metal bar pin scraped against the surface.

It was a pretty piece, a decade or so old by the discolouration to the silver metal. It wasn’t hallmarked, so probably not real silver. It was a bunch of flowers, tied at their long stems with a fake diamond encrusted ribbon. Each blooming flower had a pearl set into its centre, and was surrounded by thin leaves, also sparkling the same as the ribbon.

Not everything in that cabinet is sinister, or so Chronos has told me, but I felt in my bones that this brooch probably was. I felt vindicated remembering that it’d also made Fionn feel uneasy. He’d refused to touch it the same as me. I dared a quick glance down at the finger that’d touched one of the flowers, expecting to see a burn or that the skin on my fingertips was changing colour, rotting, flaking off. It looked normal, and I let a quiet breath out.

I don’t think I need to spell the next part out. Despite my silent prayers that she’d change her mind, find it no to her liking, Marion bought the brooch, and happily left with her purchase. I thought allowing strangers to leave the shop with something horrible was bad, but it’s much worse when it’s someone you know, someone you’re pals with. And yet again, there was nothing I could do.

 It nagged at me constantly for the next two days. Whenever I had a spare minute, I’d be staring at my phone, at the blank text box on my messenger app, typing one lie after the next, something that’d make her return it, before deleting it and trying again a few hours later.

By the time we met for lunch I was half expecting her not to show up. But she did, and from appearances nothing bad had happened to her. She was her usual, friendly, cheerful self. I even caught the brooch pinned to the collar of her suit jacket. I was taken aback. Maybe we’d both been wrong, Fionn and I. Maybe it was some kind of shared delusion. He was my familiar, after all. Maybe I’d spread my own worries about the brooch like a virus, causing him to share in my delusion.

We sat down and ordered, getting past the awkward small talk of when you first meet someone, even if you’re pals with them. Everything was going fine until the drinks came. I started noticing something a wee bit strange. I have less things in common with Marion than most of my pals. To keep the peace, I usually sidestep certain topics in conversation, change the subject, even outright lie if necessary. I started to have trouble doing this early in the conversation. By the time our meals came I was certain it wasn’t just me not being able to hold my tongue.

The topic ae her internship came around, and somewhere during our back and forth I blurted that she wasn’t even getting paid for her time, and they’d told her there was no guarantee of future employment, so what was the point in trying so hard, and getting so upset about office politics? This should all have been internal monologue, but it was definitely external this time.

If looks could kill I don’t think I’d be recording this. Remembering the glare she gave me across my pasta still makes me shudder. Wisely, she changed the topic. Unwisely, she changed it to her boyfriend.

Let’s call a spade a spade here, the man’s a prick. Like many decent women before her, she can’t seem to see it. But it’s not my place to point it out. I always hold my tongue, always. That’s how you loose pals, by bad mouthing their partners – even if you’re right. I observe that rule, usually. I may as well have got up on the table and announced it to the whole bloody restaurant. It was like when I started, I couldn’t stop. Every bad thought I’d had about this boyfriend of hers was out in the open between us. The can was open, and the worms were everywhere.

Saying that the rest of the lunch was chilly would be an understatement. I’ve never wanted to leave somewhere so badly in my entire life. I apologised, barely. Marion told me that I wasn’t the first person to tell her about these things in the last few days. It suddenly felt like everyone was being a lot more truthful.

Well, that wasn’t a coincidence, was it?

Not unless coincidence was the name of that brooch perched on her collar.

I could tell my apology didn’t suffice. She usually hugs me before rushing back to work. All I got this time was a half-hearted wave, and no “I’ll see you next week” promise.

Hearing about what happens to customers allows me to keep a certain distance from the turmoil that these items create. I have an abstract understanding, but no empathy or sympathy. This was different. I was so close to this one that convincing myself it was Fate and that I shouldn’t interfere just wasn’t working.

Just one wee exception. That couldn’t matter. Just one tiny thing out of millions of others. Let the brooch pick another victim instead, just not one of my pals. There was a wee voice in my head, as I concocted my plan, that sounded an awful lot like the Madam. It was a reminder, a warning. We have no right to interfere with Fate. That doesn’t mean we can’t.

That weekend a few of ma pals were having a small gathering at Marion’s, to reunite after a long summer apart. She’d never messaged me rescinding my invitation, so I assumed I was still welcome. I bought the expensive wine for a change, just to make sure she knew I was sorry for what I said, or that fact I said it in the first place, and arrived on her doorstep.

I could tell by her greeting that she hadn’t quite forgiven me for the lunch, but she was thawing. I even got a half-hearted hug as a welcome. I took my space amongst the rest of my pals, on the sofa, and it wasn’t long before I noticed two things. The first was that she was still wearing the brooch. The second was that everyone in the room couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves. Even my quieter pals, the ones drowned out most of the time, were saying things I was sure they were going to regret later. After the first two heated arguments had broken out, I knew it was better to remove that brooch sooner rather than later.

You really can’t knock the classics. It was a shame I had to waste my glass of wine though. Marion had to go and change out of her drenched top, brooch included, and no long after she came back, I visited the wee lassies room, which was instead her room to search. It wasn’t on the wine-stained top, like I’d been hoping, but it was among her other bits of jewellery on a table in the corner. I swiped it quickly and left. There was peace for the rest of the night. No fights, few dirty looks, booze to make everyone forget. All in all, it was a successful night. I didn’t even have a hangover the next day.

I returned the brooch to the shop and was just about to put it back in the glass cabinet, out of sight, when the Madam came down with Chronos. She noticed the brooch and asked if a customer had returned it. Technically, they did. They just didn’t know it yet. I told a white lie to my boss.

Madam Norna explained what it did, unaware I’d already seen it firsthand. It was a brooch that caused the people around the wearer to tell the truth, even if they didn’t want to. Whatever enchantment was cast on it regarded omission as lying, hence why I couldn’t hold my tongue at lunch, the same as my other pals the night before. I wondered, aloud, why anyone would want an object that did that.

My boss replied that people feel strongly about lies and deceit. They want to know the truth, even if it’ll hurt them, because the thought of someone lying hurts them even more. To these people omission is a cousin of lies, not saying anything is just as bad as saying something untruthful. I wouldn’t get on with these people. I was glad my boss didn’t wear a brooch like that one.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me. Having a conversation about lying, about how bad it was, right after I’d told yet another lie. What the brooch, or the person who cursed it, doesn’t understand, is that a lot of people have a reason for lying. Whether it’s to keep the peace or keep their heads on their shoulders or to not learn about the consequences of interfering with Fate. Lies aren’t all bad, and the truth isn’t always good. But both are necessary; they must coexist.

Speaking hypothetically, I queried my boss why a customer would be drawn to this brooch. Why it was meant for them. If she was suspicious that I’d never asked before, she didn’t say. The Madam confessed that Madams can’t immediately tell the reasons why Fate has driven the customer to the shop or to that particular item. Just because Madams are guardians of Fate, doesn’t mean they know its plan.

She left me to return the brooch and hide it, along with ma lies, amongst the other items in the shop. Her answer nagged at me, tugged at something in my head. Madams were powerful, respected, even feared by some people, but weren’t they just hammers? Hiding behind Fate, doing as they were told, or using it as an excuse to do nothing at all, to turn their backs on decency?

If that’s the case, then I have a big problem. I’ve never been very good at following instructions.

Script – Scots

It’s the start ae a new semester, and a new year. Ma final year. I honestly didnae ‘hink I’d make it this far, especially given ma part-time job, but here we are.

No much happened over the summer, save fae that time jump ‘hing, visitin’ the first Madam Anora back in the bronze age. The town was a lot quieter in general, what wi’ most ae the students goin’ home. I spent most ae ma time here, fae the first time in ma university career. I spent aboot half ae ma time at home wi ma Da’, and the other half in the flat, also eerily quiet. Instead ae four ae us, there was only two. At least I know noo which flatmates cause the mess.

Summer’s over noo, no’ that there’s ever really much ae summer in Scotland. A few days if you’re lucky. The are few differences between Summer and Autumn, as though we only have three seasons here, missin’ the best one oot entirely. The leaves have turned and started fallin’ tae the ground, the days grow shorter, and the weather gets chillier. Soon it’ll be scarves and hats across the campus.

It was the week before lectures started, when ye begin seein’ freshers start tae wander roond lookin’ like they escaped their nursery, that this particular story happened. I got a bit ae a shock on the day in question. The bell above the door chimed in its usual way, and three ae us looked up frae whit we were doin tae eye the door, excluding Chronos who tried tae sneakily move one ae his checkers over a square or two. Reid didnae notice, and even though I did, I didnae say anythin’. Seein’ Reid lose tae a cat is one ae the highlights ae ma days sometimes.

No on this day, though. I dinnae keep the shop a secret frae ma pals or family. Everyone knows I work in an antique shop. Fae obvious reasons, I keep the finer details tae maself. Given the nature ae the shop, no one I know, or would even recognise, had come through the door. I suppose it was bound tae happen eventually.

This lassie’s name is Rowan. We met durin’ ma second year. She was goin’ oot wi one ae ma flatmates, they’ve since split up, but I kept in touch wi her. We have a few lectures together noo and then, but this past summer I’ve taken tae seein’ her more and more. She’d applied fae an internship at a big company, which she’d got. It meant, like me, she was more often than not in the city, when none ae our other friends were. Since her company is close tae the shop, we go fae a sneaky lunch once a week.

The day she walked through the door ae the shop wasnae the day we had lunch. It was two days before. Rowan looked as surprised tae see me as I was her. Fae her it was a pleasant surprise. Fae me, it began tae gee me that feelin’ I usually got roond customers who were aboot tae buy somethin’ I knew would do them harm.

I’ve been workin’ at the shop fae nearly a year noo, and not one person I know has walked through that door. Why now? Why her? Was it simply a law ae probability? Just because I worked in the shop doesne mean the people in ma life were immune tae its siren song, or the intrigues ae fate. Ma stomach lurched when I saw her, and it took me a minute tae plaster some kind ae friendly greetin’ on ma face as she approached the counter.

Abashedly, she confessed that she’d never known where this shop was, despite tryin’ tae find it a few times when I first mentioned I worked there. No surprisin’. A few ae ma pals had said the same ‘hing over the last year. The shop, as ever, is invisible tae people who dinnae need tae be there. Therefore, Rowan did. It was the why that had me worried.

There was a brief moment when she reached intae her pocket and I thought the business card was comin’ oot. It was just her phone. Noo that she’d found the shop, she said, she wanted tae look roond. I think I’d have preferred her tae ask tae see ma boss.

I itched tae go wi’ her, follow her like a wee puppy after its Ma, talkin’ and distractin her frae pickin somethin’ up, or worse, buyin’ it. Reid, Fionn, and Chronos went back tae whit they were doin’ before, but I could feel Reid watchin’ me fidget as ma eyes followed Rowan aroond.

She came tae the counter after a few minutes, blissfully empty-handed. And I thought it was over. I thought, fae a fleeting moment, that she was immune. That there were people, however rare, who came intae the shop and left wi’ nothin’.

I’ll no be that naïve again.

As she was talkin’ tae me across the glass counter, reaffirmin our lunch plans fae a few days later, her eyes snagged on somethin’ beneath the surface. I felt her attention wander tae it, eyes glancing doon every few seconds, no really listening tae whit I was sayin’. Eventually she asked tae see somethin’ oot, and I felt ma stomach drop.

She tapped her nail on the glass as she indicated it was a brooch. When I looked doon intae the bright lights that made horrible ‘hings sparkle I caught whit she wanted tae see. I could barely remember this brooch, it’d been that long since I’d last seen it.

I mentioned it at the time. It was back when Reid had left, and Fionn was ma only familiar. One day when we’d come intae the shop, there was this floral brooch lyin’ on the counter. The Madam and Chronos were upstairs, and there was no customer in sight. We’d spent the best part ae that mornin’ darin’ each other tae touch it, and makin’ bets on whit it did. Instinctively, we both knew it was nothin’ tae laugh at.

After that day it vanished. There in the mornin’ and gone by the afternoon. Fionn maintained no one had bought it, and I hadnae sold it tae anyone in the time since. It’d simply sprouted legs and gone fae a walk. Except, I began tae realise, it hadnae. It’d simply blended in wi’ all ae the other shiny nightmares that lived beneath the glass counter.

Rowan was eyein’ me expectantly, her acrylic nail still restin’ on the glass surface. I thought she was gonnae start tappin’ again. Stiffly, I retrieved the brooch, flinchin’ as ma fingers brushed across the pearls set intae the centre ae each flower. I dropped it ontae the glass, winced as the metal bar pin scraped against the surface.

It was a pretty piece, a decade or so old by the discolouration tae the silver metal. It wasnae hallmarked, so probably no real silver. It was a bunch ae flowers, tied at their long stems wi’ a fake diamond encrusted ribbon. Each blooming flower had a pearl set intae its centre, and was surrounded by thin leaves, also sparklin’ the same as the ribbon.

No everythin’ in that cabinet is sinister, or so Chronos has told me, but I felt in ma bones that this brooch probably was. I felt vindicated rememberin’ that it’d also made Fionn feel uneasy. He’d refused tae touch it the same as me. I dared a quick glance doon at the finger that’d touched one ae the flowers, expectin’ tae see a burn, or that the skin on ma fingertips was changing colour, rotting, flakin’ aff. It looked normal, and I let a quiet breath oot.

I dinnae ‘hink I need tae spell the next part oot. Despite ma silent prayers that she’d change her mind, find it no tae her likin’, Rowan bought the brooch, and happily left wi’ her purchase. I thought allowin’ strangers tae leave the shop wi’ somethin’ horrible was bad, but it’s much worse when it’s someone ye know, someone you’re pals wi’. And yet again, there was nothin’ I could do.

 It nagged at me constantly fae the next two days. Whenever I had a spare minute I’d be starin’ at ma phone, at the blank text box on ma messenger app, typin’ one lie after the next, somethin’ that’d make her return it, before deletin’ it and tryin’ again a few hours later.

By the time we met fae lunch I was half expectin’ her no tae show up. But she did, and frae appearances nothin’ bad had happened tae her. She was her usual, friendly, cheerful self. I even caught the brooch pinned tae the collar of her suit jacket. I was taken aback. Maybe we’d both been wrong, Fionn and I. Maybe it was some kind ae shared delusion. He was ma familiar, after all. Maybe I’d spread ma own worries aboot the brooch like a virus, causin’ him tae share in ma delusion.

We sat doon and ordered, gettin’ past the awkward small talk ae when ye first meet someone, even if you’re pals wi’ them. Everythin’ was goin fine until the drinks came. I started noticin’ somethin’ a wee bit strange. I have less ‘hings in common wi’ Rowan than most ae ma pals. Tae keep the peace I usually sidestep certain topics in conversation, change the subject, even outright lie if necessary. I started tae have trouble doin’ this early on in the conversation. By the time our meals came I was certain’ it wasnae just me no bein’ able tae hold ma tongue.

The topic ae her internship came roond, and somewhere durin our back and forth I blurted that she wasnae even getting’ paid fae her time, and they’d told her there was no guarantee ae future employment, so whit was the point in tryin’ so hard, and gettin’ so upset aboot office politics? This should all ha been internal monologue, but it was definitely external this time.

If looks could kill I dinnae ‘hink I’d be recordin this. Rememberin’ the glare she gee me across ma pasta still makes me shudder. Wisely, she changed the topic. Unwisely, she changed it tae her boyfriend.

Let’s call a spade a spade here, the man’s a prick. Like many decent women before her, she cannae seem tae see it. But it’s no ma place tae point it oot. I always hold ma tongue, always. That’s how ye loose pals, by bad mouthin’ their partners, even if you’re right. I observe that rule, usually. I may as well have got up on the table and announced it tae the whole bloody restaurant. It was like when I started, I couldnae stop. Every bad thought I’d had aboot this boyfriend ae hers was oot in the open between us. The can was open and the worms were everywhere.

Sayin’ that the rest ae the lunch was chilly would be an understatement. I’ve never wanted tae leave somewhere so badly in ma entire life. I apologised, barely. Rowan told me that I wasnae the first person tae tell her these things in the last few days. It suddenly felt like everyone was bein’ a lot more truthful.

Well, that wasnae a coincidence, was it?

Not unless coincidence was the name ae that brooch perched on her collar.

I could tell ma apology didnae suffice. She usually hugs me before rushin’ back tae work. All I got this time was a half-hearted wave, and no “I’ll see you next week” promise.

Hearin’ aboot whit happens tae customers allows me tae keep a certain distance frae the turmoil that these items create. I have an abstract understandin’, but no empathy or sympathy. This was different. I was so close tae this one that convincin’ maself it was fate and that I shouldnae interfere just wasnae workin’.

Just one wee exception. That couldnae matter. Just one tiny thing oot ae millions ae others. Let the brooch pick another victim instead, just no one ae ma pals. There was a wee voice in ma heid, as I concocted ma plan, that sounded an awful lot like the Madam. It was a reminder, a warnin. We have no right tae interfere wi fate. That doeasnae mean we cannae.

That weekend a few ae ma pals were havin’ a small gatherin’ at Rowan’s, tae reunite after a long summer apart. She’d never messaged me rescinding’ ma invitation, so I assumed I was still welcome. I bought the expensive wine fae a change, just tae make sure she knew I was sorry fae whit I said, or that fact I said it in the first place, and arrived on her doorstep.

I could tell by her greetin’ that she hadnae quite forgiven me fae the lunch, but she was thawin. I even got a half-hearted hug as a welcome. I took ma space amongst the rest ae ma pals, on the sofa, and it wasane long before I noticed two ‘hings. The first was that she was still wearin’ the brooch. The second was that everyone in the room couldnae keep their opinions tae themselves. Even ma quieter pals, the ones drowned oot most ae the time, were sayin’ hings I was sure they were gonnae regret later. After the first two heated arguments had broken out, I knew it was better tae remove that brooch sooner rather than later.

You really cannae knock the classics. It was a shame I had tae waste ma glass ae wine though. Rowan had tae go and change oot ae her drenched top, brooch included, and no long after she came back I visited the wee lassies room, which was instead her room tae search. It wasnae on the wine stained top, like I’d been hopin’, but it was among her other bits ae jewellery on a table in the corner. I swiped it quickly, and left. There was peace fae the rest ae the night. No fights, few dirty looks, booze tae make everyone forget. All in all, it was a successful night. I didnae even have a hangover the next day.

I returned the brooch tae the shop and was just aboot tae put it back in the glass cabinet, oot ae sight, when the Madam came doon wi’ Chronos. She noticed the brooch and asked if a customer had returned it. Technically, they did. They just didnae know it yet. I told a white lie tae ma boss.

Madam Norna explained whit it did, unaware I’d already seen it firsthand. It was a brooch that caused the people aroond the wearer tae tell the truth, even if they didnae want tae. Whatever enchantment was cast on it regarded omission as lying, hence why I couldnae hold ma tongue at lunch, the same as ma other pals the night before. I wondered, aloud, why anyone would want an object that did that.

Ma boss replied that people feel strongly aboot lies and deceit. They want tae know the truth, even if it’ll hurt them, because the thought ae someone lying hurts them even more. Tae these people omission is a cousin ae lies, no’ saying anything is just as bad as saying something untruthful. I wouldnae get on wi’ these people. I was glad ma boss didnae wear a brooch like that one.

The irony ae the situation wasnae lost on me. Havin’ a conversation aboot lying, aboot how bad it was, right after I’d told yet another lie. Whit the brooch, or the person who cursed it, doesnae understand, is that a lot ae people have a reason fae lyin’. Whether it’s tae keep the peace, or keep their heids on their shoulders, or tae no learn aboot the consequences ae interferin’ wi fate. Lies aren’t all bad, and the truth isnae always good. But both are necessary, they have tae coexist.

Speakin’ hypothetically, I queried ma boss why a customer would be drawn tae this brooch. Why it was meant fae them. If she was suspicious that I’d never asked before, she didnae say. The Madam confessed that Madams cannae immediately tell the reasons why fate has driven the customer tae the shop, or tae that particular item. Just because Madams are guardians ae fate, doesnae mean they know its plan.

She left me tae return the brooch and hide it, along wi ma lies, amongst the other items in the shop. Her answer nagged at me, tugged at somethin’ in ma heid. Madams were powerful, respected, even feared by some people, but werenae they just hammers? Hiding behind fate, doin’ as they were told, or using it as an excuse tae do nothin’ at all, tae turn their backs on decency?

If that’s the case, then I have a big problem. I’ve never been very good at followin’ instructions.

Scots terms

Da – Dad

Crannog – A type of iron-age Scottish dwelling that was usually built over Lochs. At the time of writing this episode the one they built on Loch Tay was still intact but was unfortunately destroyed mere weeks later by fire. They are currently making efforts to rebuild it.

Kirtle – this isn’t actually a Scottish word, but it is used in the historical costuming community to refer to mainly women’s dress in the medieval period. I didn’t really know what else to call it, so stole that word as it should be quite a similar garment.

Script

Are you ever too old to read pop-up books? I feel by the time you’re eight or nine you’re expected to read stories with more words, more characters, and less pictures. When you’re an adult all books are nothing but text.

There are a few books in the antique shop, although not as many as you might expect. There’s no area tucked away in a darkened corner where the smell of old bound books invites you to stay for too long, or where the marked and cracked spines of well-loved books beckon you to draw a finger gently across the grooves before you eventually slide one out of the row. There are books, they’re just not on shelves. Like everything else they’re everywhere. Hidden in the drawer of one of the wardrobes, lying on a vanity where the perfume bottles should be, or hidden beneath silver thimbles and cards wound with antique lace.

I liberated this book from the sewing supplies, drawing my eyes over the title. The Ruins Underneath. No author to be found. The cover was illustrated, a mix of watercolour and acrylic, soft pastel backgrounds to bright distinct foregrounds. It was a painting of somewhere that only existed in someone’s imagination, too fantastical to be real. A large waterfall, soft rose water running down, framed one side of the picture, whilst the rest was taken up with a sprawling city dotted with lanterns, rooves of multicoloured tiles, and a forest that surrounded it all. There stood one person, a lone girl, at the top of the waterfall, looking out at the view. Her face was mostly obscured, out of focus, but her long red hair shimmered in a breeze that I could almost feel on my face from the top of that waterfall.

I retreated to my corner of the shop, the quiet corner where I always go if neither of my familiars is around to bicker with each other. Chronos, as if predicting I would find something to inspect, was already waiting, curled up on the set of drawers that I sit on the floor beside.

Gently, hearing the crackle of the pages as I separated them for the first time in a while, I opened to the first page. The shapes sprawled out like a bud blooming into a flower, until when it was fully open a grand scene was before me, a temple of some kind, similar to the ones for Rome and Greece, except this one wasn’t abandoned, and wasn’t all white. If I were to ever imagine what those ancient temples looked like when they were used, the book reflected that. There were pillars painted with scenes, colourful people in colourful clothes riding on horse like creatures, walking through garlands and cheering crowds, proclaiming something from their stationary mouths, triumphant processions through streets, elaborate feasts with more dishes than people, epic battles fought over very little. It was ancient, yet it wasn’t. It was Greek or Roman, yet it wasn’t. I couldn’t recognise any of these scenes, if they were alluding to myths or legends from these once great empires.

In this temple were carved statues, also painted in similar colour, of what I could only presume were deities or Gods, the beings this temple was built to worship or praise. Each had their own alcove, and before each were different offerings; toys, money, tools, rolls of silks, jewels, and everything else a God may wish to be given by the mortals they control.

Despite these objects, the care and attention given to the maintenance of the artwork on the pillars and the details on the statues, there wasn’t a soul inside this temple. Save for one. A girl stands alone inside, beneath the stone roof, winding in and out of the statues and alcoves, stopping at one to inspect, to consider an offering. I recognise her, mostly her ginger hair, as the same shade as the one on the cover, standing atop the waterfall and looking out. The strangest thing about this girl is that when I glance over the temple the first time, she’s emerging from behind a pillar. The next time I glance to inspect a statue of a nameless Goddess, she’s standing in front of another. She moves, as if alive within this paper temple, this glossy marvel, as though she has her own curiosities, her own desire to inspect and see this sacred place.

As I flip over the page, I see the place that’s on the cover, and the girl is on top of the waterfall again. I study the lanterns, the slate rooves of differing shades of amber, purple and red, and when I look again the girl is standing on the small bridge that crosses the river that circles the city. I never see her move, even over the rest of the pages, but she never stays in the place I see her first, or second, as though she’s a soul running over the pages as I turn them, beginning in the place I do and guiding me to spots of interest and wonder. A 2D tour guide. There’re no words on these pages, no box filled with text leading through a story. It feels more like an art book where every page, every piece, is abstract. None are the same place. They’re all different.

I never get to the end of this book, something close catches my eye, a light twinkling deeper within the shop. There’re no windows where I am, just more stuff surrounding me on all sides. I look deeper into the pile, through the shelves, the one fur coat tossed over a coffee table, and past a few typewriter containers, and the light remains constant, like a pinprick in the dark or a star in the night sky. I put the book down and crawl over to where the light is, starting to move some of the clutter to get a closer look. There shouldn’t be a light here, unless there’s a hole in the wall somewhere and it’s just daylight pouring through.

I hear Chronos behind me, get up and jump down from the set of drawers, his tail running up my legs as he comes to inspect what I’m doing. The more items I move the larger the light becomes, more like a full moon than a twinkling star. It gets larger the further we get to it, until it seems to suck us in.

It’s hard to explain this part, even for me. I was on the ground, sliding things out of the way so I could get a better look. I could feel the ground beneath my knees, hear them creaking and groaning as I moved, promising they’d have their revenge in the form of arthritis when I was older, and then the ground just wasn’t there anymore. I’ve never gone skydiving or bungee jumping, or anything that involves flinging yourself out or off of things and hoping that whatever parachute or cord you have works. This is what I imagine it to be like though.

It only lasted for a second. It was white everywhere, no shadow, no anything, just white. The ground had disappeared, whatever I’d had in my hand was gone. The only thing I did see, amongst the Dulux white, was a flailing black-furred creature posed to land on its feet, if we did land at all. I couldn’t have the wee shite dying on me, so I reached out and grabbed him, pulling him to my chest and bracing myself for the landing.

There was none. The feeling of falling faded, as though I’d jolted myself awake when I was trying to get to sleep. When I dared to open my eyes, I saw wilderness; luscious, green, and wild Scottish wilderness. I’m not familiar with every part of the Scottish countryside, but this felt different, even looked different. The mountains in the distance were larger, snow covered their peaks. The trees were thicker and spanned everywhere I looked, trees I didn’t even recognise amongst the firs, pine, and alder.

Chronos was still in my arms, cradled as though he were a baby, and just by a glance I could tell he didn’t hate it as much as he was going to pretend to later. I asked him if he was alright, and he jumped down nimbly with a flick of his black tail. The wee shite was fine. More importantly, so was I.

But where the fuck were we?

I looked to my companion, he stared back, and if he could shrug his shoulders, I’m sure he would’ve. Had we stumbled into a portal, a vortex of some kind, that throws you across the universe, or in this case across the country? There wasn’t another soul in sight, only trees, streams, and birds singing to each other. I had no sense of direction, no idea which way was north or south, and no idea where the nearest civilisation was.

Thankfully, I had my phone. Not so thankfully, up there in the middle of nowhere, I didn’t have any signal. Strange how easily our phones become bloody useless.

The only thing to do was walk. I mean there must be someone in one direction if we walked for long enough. Chronos followed. You know you’re in the shite when the talking, semi-immortal cat lets you take the lead. We walked, past more trees, past vicious, untamed brambles which attempted to slice my arm and rip my clothes. Everything about this place was untamed. There were no perfectly lined bushes to separate the fields, no overturned patches of land where the tractors had been, or white dots on the hillside where the sheep have been left to roam and get lost. It was as though we’d been thrown into a pocket of untouched scenery, immune to the changes of time, climate change, and technology. There wasn’t even a sign for a public footpath, or any of those markers you get in beauty spots telling you which route you’re on.

Eventually we came across sheep. Well, I think they were sheep, but they’re not the ones you imagine, the ones that litter the countryside these days. These were a lot smaller than any I’d ever seen, all with dark faces, some with horns that I wouldn’t get too close to if you paid me. Rather than a sea of white cotton dots with legs sticking out, these sheep had shorter wool, and only one or two were white, the most common being an off-brown, and some were even pure black.

Chronos saw these animals, staring at us curiously, warily, and he stopped. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking given cats – domestic cats at least – don’t usually have more than a few facial expressions.

“I know when we are,” Chronos announced.

Don’t you mean where? I replied, hoping I’d misheard, but knowing better.

I was right. Chronos didn’t mean where. I’d never seen sheep like the ones in front of us before because they were extinct. Chronos couldn’t place the exact time just from the animals still staring at us, jostling each other, thinking about running the opposite way.

We had no choice but to carry on, hoping we, or let’s not kid ourselves, Chronos, could pick up some more clues. I haven’t walked that far in ever. My legs were aching by the time we came across some civilisation, and that was being generous.

Ma Da’s really interested in history, more specifically Scottish history. He used to have a subscription to this magazine, which they don’t print anymore, that had loads of information on pre-historic Scotland. That’s where I first saw the pictures of a crannog, a type of wooden hut-like structure that’s built on posts above water, usually a Loch. There’s only one way to get out to these buildings, across a timber causeway, a kind of bridge, also on posts above the water. This one looked really similar to the one they recreated on Loch Tay.

There was only one of these at the edge of this Loch, and smoke was snaking out of the doorway and through thatched roof. I couldn’t remember much about crannogs, when they were built, when they were occupied, or even who occupied them. This place looked so old, so prehistoric, that I began to feel sick. I thought we’d been hurled back a few centuries, not a few millennia!

What were we supposed to do now? Were we even real? Was this like the time I’d been sent back to the Madam’s past when she was apprentice? Only the then Madam Norna could see me, but I was invisible to everyone else. I think I preferred mindless walking to the panic attack I could feel constrict my throat.

It was Chronos’s turn to lead, and dazedly I followed, thankful that he might have more of an idea on what we were supposed to do. The causeway that joined the crannog to the mainland was sturdily built, unlike what I’d imagined. It didn’t sway beneath our feet or bounce up and down like a rope bridge. Inside the doorway was darkness, which didn’t really dissipate as we entered.

Inside was spacious, cavernous with a high ceiling and low walls. Bracken was spread across the floor. There was a hearth in the middle, dug into the floor and encircled with stones and pebbles. A fire burned and crackled between two women sitting on what I assumed to be a wooden stool but was covered in animal hides. It smelled mainly of smoke, musky and strong, yet somehow comforting, as though in here was safe from the elements outside. It wasn’t cold, despite an open door, but since there were no windows or chimney, the heat had few other places to go. The cow at the back of the crannog would also have helped with warmth.

Our arrival didn’t disturb the women, they continued with their conversation, in a language that I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t English, and I only know basic Gaelic, and that wasn’t it either. One woman, sitting on the right side of the hearth, looked worried, her hands twisting into themselves, her fingers pulling at the cuffs of her woollen kirtle. The woman sitting on the opposite side of the fire observed her guest, not her pal from the way she was sizing her up. The fire reflected something in her eyes, feral, almost predatory.

“That’s Madam Anora,” Chronos informed me.

I’d seen Madam Anora up close and personal the last time, and she looked nothing like either of the woman in the crannog. I said as much.

“Not our Anora, the Anora, the original.”

That wave of nausea returned. It wasn’t something I’d ever considered. Where did the line of Madams stretch, one woman after another discarding her name to be the servant of Fate?

Chronos began to weave the tale of the first Madam, the one sitting in her crannog at the edges of a Loch, talking over the fire with what I assumed to be one of the first customers. Many millennia ago, when tools weren’t made of iron but bronze, and where pottery would be the only thing to remain long after its users were gone. Where houses were built on Lochs, or under earth, and where people were buried with expensive items and trinkets to see them through death and into whatever was next. A woman was born into this world, in a small settlement in the middle of nowhere in what would one day be Scotland.

This woman was special, she could do things others couldn’t, could tap into power no one could explain. She was gifted these abilities by Fate. No one knows why, we mortals never know Fate’s motivations or reasons. This woman became the first Madam, although she’d take different names over the proceeding millennia, through language and culture shifts.

But, like many who gain power too quickly, she began to abuse the gifts she was given. Manipulating those who came to see her, to ask for her help. Rather than keep a balance, help guide Fate’s hand, she wrought havoc with it instead. Fate realised what they’d done, understood the mistake they’d made. But they couldn’t take the power back. It’d been gifted to this woman at birth, and when the time came, for Fate and Time are independent beings, another would take her place.

Something had to be done in the meantime. Fate couldn’t wait and hope that her successor would be better. So, Fate created another Madam, but this time chose a woman whose nature and character were already formed. Someone who was born and raised just as everyone else, in a settlement dug into the ground to keep the howling winter winds at bay, who shared their house with a cow and a few sheep, who sat by the hearth on the longest nights and heard stories about long distant myths and legends.

Madam Anora’s are born. Madam Norna’s are made. Both balance each other out, one cannot defeat the other. They are two sides of the same coin.

I don’t think I would’ve believed this story if Fionn or even Reid had told me. I didn’t appreciate before now how far this all stretches back, to when people were surviving in huts on the water and living with their livestock for warmth. How many women had there been? How many over the centuries, over the thousands of years, who’d taken the title of Madam and forfeited their life, their loves ones, to live for a few centuries longer than normal, be the hand that guided other people’s fates? I was just another tally mark on Fate’s board.

By the time Chronos had finished his history lesson Anora’s guest was in tears, which I found unsurprising, and was leaving the crannog with something I couldn’t see gripped tight in her hand. I half-wished I could say something to her, warn her that nothing was worth listening to Anora, but it was apparent that Chronos and I were invisible, ghosts not from the past but the very distant future. Or perhaps this was all just an echo, a time and place that resonates through the centuries, and the shop picks up like an antenna.

Regardless of what it was, I wanted out. Like the last time I’d been hurled back into history, I half expected the current, the original, Anora to come sauntering over to us like a predator after prey and speak. This time was different. Just like her guest, she didn’t see us at the door.

I didn’t have to fret long about how we were going to get back. From the doorway behind me, down the causeway and onto the mainland, a hand reached out and grabbed my arm. I’d felt a slight draft at first, as though there’d been some flailing before they found me, but when they did, they weren’t gentle about it. I barely managed to get a hold of Chronos before I was pulled through the void between this time and mine.

My landing back in the shop wasn’t as pain free and my arse slammed straight onto the wooden floor so hard I knew I’d be feeling an echo of the pain for the next few days. Chronos jumped out of my arms, not a fucking scratch on the wee shite. I’ll let him fend for himself the next time. Fionn had been the one to reach into the gaping white light in the wall and get us out.

The Madam, my Madam, threw something, a stone of some kind, into the light, and then it began to shrink, the edges curling in on themselves until the hole was nothing bigger than a keyhole into an ancient time. Soon, even that disappeared.

Over some calming tea in the front room upstairs, my boss told me it was normal, from time to time, for the shop to reach into the past and hurl someone there. It’d happened to her back in the day. I wasn’t reassured by this phenomenon. It was bad enough the cat and half of the things in the bloody shop had a mind of their own, let alone the shop itself. I could do without being thrown into a time before toilet paper and hot showers. At least I knew now, don’t go into the light. Never go into the light.

I never asked Madam Norna about what I’d seen, about the first Madams. I couldn’t imagine she had much to add to Chronos’s story. The queasiness still simmers whenever I think back, all that time in the past, and how small I feel in comparison. There’s nothing like a bit of legacy to ground you.

Historical notes: This was meant to be a simple episode, finally revealing the origins of the madams, but in typical me fashion, I chose the one era of history I don’t know much about. So, I had to fall through the rabbit hole of prehistoric Scottish history. I even looked up the construction notes of the crannog at Loch Tay just to be sure I wasn’t putting anything in that wouldn’t have been there. I did have to gloss over some details, so take this story with a pinch of salt.

The main inaccuracy is that Madam Anora wouldn’t have been living in a crannog all by herself. They’re quite spacious, the ones that have been found, and the one that they recreated in Loch Tay is said to have held around 20 people, possibly a bit less. Families, including extended families, would have lived in these buildings; grandparents, parents, children, aunts and uncles, etc. I was right about the animals though. It was quite common throughout the British Isles, I think, at this time. It provided warmth and kept the livestock safe from wild animals. The animals kept in the crannog would’ve been livestock, not necessarily pets.

I recommend looking into the Crannog Centre on Loch Tay. I’m ashamed to say I’ve never been. They have a Youtube channel where they’ve got short, informative videos about items they’ve found. And from there you can possibly fall down the rabbit hold that I did about Scottish pre-history. I do love this podcast; I never know where it’s going to take me next. We can all learn together.

Script – Scots

Are ye ever too old tae read pop-up books? I feel by the time you’re eight or nine you’re expecteed tae read stories wi’ more words, more characters, and less pictures. When you’re an adult all books are nothin’ but text.

There are a few books in the antique shop, although not as many as ye might expect. There’s no area tucked away in a darkened corner where the smell ae old bound books invites ye tae stay fae too long, or where the marked and cracked spines ae well-loved books beckons ye tae draw a finger gently across the grooves before ye eventually slide one oot ae the row. There are books, they’re just no on shelves. Like everythin’ else they’re everywhere. Hidden in the drawer ae one of the wardrobes, lying on a vanity where the perfume bottles should be, or lying hidden beneath silver thimbles and cards wound wi’ antique lace.

I liberated this book frae the sewing supplies, drawin’ ma eyes over the title. The Ruins Underneath. No author tae be found. The cover was illustrated, a mix ae watercolour and acrylic, soft pastel backgrounds tae bright distinct foregrounds. It was a painting ae somewhere that only existed in someone’s imagination, too fantastical tae be real. A large waterfall, soft rose water running doon, framed one side of the picture, whilst the rest was taken up wi’ a sprawling city dotted wi’ lanterns, rooves ae multicoloured tiles, and a forest that surrounded it all. There stood one person, a lone girl, at the top ae the waterfall, looking oot at the view. Her face was mostly obscured, oot ae focus, but her long red hair shimmered in a breeze that I could almost feel on my face frae the top ae that waterfall.

I retreated tae ma corner ae the shop, the quiet corner where I always go if neither ae ma familiars is aroond tae bicker wi each other. Chronos, as if predictin’ I would find somethin’ tae inspect, was already waitin’, curled up on the set ae drawers that I sit on the floor beside.

Gently, hearin’ the crackle ae the pages as I separated them fae the first time in a while, I opened tae the first page. The shapes sprawled oot like a bud blooming intae a flower, until when it was fully open a grand scene was before me, a temple ae some kind, similar tae the ones fae Rome and Greece, except this one wasnae abandoned, and wasnae all white. If I were tae ever imagine whit those ancient temples looked like when they were used, the book reflecteed that. There were pillars painted wi scenes, colourful people in colourful clothes riding on horse like creatures, walking through garlands and cheering crowds, proclaiming somethin’ frae their stationary mouths, triumphant processions through streets, elaborate feasts wi more dishes than people, epic battles fought over very little. It was ancient, yet it wasnae. It was Greek or Roman, yet it wasnae. I couldnae recognise any ae these scenes, if they were alluding tae myths or legends from these once great empires.

In this temple were carved statues, also painteed in similar colour, ae whit I could only presume were deities or Gods, the beings this temple was built tae worship or praise. Each had their own alcove, and before each were different offerings; toys, money, tools, rolls of silks, jewels, and everything else a God may wish to be given by the mortals they control.

Despite these objects, the care and attention given tae the maintenance ae the artwork on the pillars and the details on the statues, there wasnae a soul inside this temple. Save fae one. A girl stands alone inside, beneath the stone roof, winding in and oot ae the statues and alcoves, stoppin at one tae inspect, tae consider an offering. I recognise her, mostly her ginger hair, as the same shade as the one on the cover, standing atop the waterfall and looking oot. The strangest ‘hing aboot this girl is that when I glance over the temple the first time she’s emerging frae behind a pillar. The next time I glance tae inspect a statue ae a nameless Goddess, she’s standing in front ae another. She moves, as if alive within this paper temple, this glossy marvel, as though she has her own curiosities, her own desire tae inspect and see this sacred place.

As I flip over the page I see the place that’s on the cover, and the girl is on top ae the waterfall again. I study the lanterns, the slate rooves ae differing shades of amber, purple and red, and when I look again the girl is standing on the small bridge that crosses the river that circles the city. I never see her move, even over the rest ae the pages, but she never stays in the place I see her first, or second, as though she’s a soul running over the pages as I turn them, beginning in the place I do and guiding me tae spots ae interest and wonder. A 2D tour guide. There’s no words on these pages, no box filled wi’ text leading through a story. It feels more like an art book where every page, every piece is abstract. None are the same place. They’re all different.

I never get tae the end ae this book, somethin’ close catches ma eye, a light twinklin’ deeper within the shop. There’s nae windows where I am, just more stuff, surroundin’ me on all sides. I look deeper intae the pile, through the shelves, the one fur coat tossed over a coffee table, and past a few typewriter containers, and the light remains constant, like a pinprick in the dark, or a star in the night sky. I put the book doon and crawl over tae where the light is, startin’ tae move some ae the clutter tae get a closer look. There shouldnae be a light here, unless there’s a hole in the wall somewhere and it’s just daylight pourin’ through.

I hear Chronos behind me, get up and jump doon frae the set ae drawers, his tail running up ma legs as he comes tae inspect whit I’m doin. The more items I move the larger the light becomes, more like a full moon than a twinklin’ star. It gets larger the further we get tae it, until it seems tae suck us in.

It’s hard tae explain this part, even fae me. I was on the ground, slidin’ things oot ae the way so I could get a better look. I could feel the ground beneath ma knees, hear them creakin’ and groanin as I moved, promisin they’d have their revenge in the form ae arthritis when I was older, and then the ground just wasnae there anymore. I’ve never gone skydivin’ or bungee jumpin’, or anything that involves flingin’ yourself oot or aff ae things and hopin’ that whatever parachute or cord ye have works. This is whit I imagine it tae be like though.

It only lasted fae a second. It was white everywhere, no shadow, no anything, just white. The ground had disappeared, whatever I’d had in ma hand was gone. The only thing I did see, amongst the Dulux white, was a flailing black furred creature posed tae land on its feet, if we did land at all. I couldnae have the wee shite dyin on me, so I reached oot and grabbed him, pullin’ him tae ma chest and bracin’ maself fae the landin’.

There was none. The feeling ae fallin’ faded, as though I’d jolted maself awake when I was tryin’ tae get tae sleep. When I dared tae open ma eyes I saw wilderness, luscious, green, and wild Scottish wilderness. I’m no familiar wi’ every part ae the Scottish countryside, but this felt different, even looked different. The mountains in the distance were larger, snow covered their peaks. The trees were thicker and spanned everywhere I looked, trees I didnae even recognise amongst the firs, pine, and alder.

Chronos was still in ma arms, cradled as though he were a bahby, and just by a glance I could tell he didnae hate it as much as he was gonnae pretend to later. I asked him if he was alright, and he jumped doon nimbly wi’ a flick ae his black tail. The wee shite was fine. More importantly, so was I.

But where the fuck were we?

I looked tae ma companion, he stared back, and if he could shrug his shoulders, I’m sure he wouldae. Had we stumbled intae a portal, a vortex ae some kind that throws ye across the universe, or in this case across the country? There wasnae another soul in sight, only trees, streams, and birds singin’ tae each other. I had no sense ae direction, no idea which way was north or south, and no idea where the nearest civilisation was.

Thankfully, I had ma phone. Not so thankfully, up there in the middle ae nowhere, I didnae have any signal. Strange how easily our phones become bloody useless.

The only thing tae do was walk. I mean there must be someone in one direction, if we walked fae long enough. Chronos followed. Ye know you’re in the shite when the talking, semi-immortal cat lets you take the lead. We walked, past more trees, past vicious, untamed brambles which attempted tae slice ma arm and rip ma clothes. Everythin’ aboot this place was untamed. There were no perfectly lined bushes tae separate the fields, no overturned patches ae land where the tractors had been, or white dots on the hillside where the sheep have been left tae roam and get lost. It was as though we’d been thrown intae a pocket ae untouched scenery, immune tae the changes ae time, climate change, and technology. There wasnae even a sign fae a public footpath, or any ae those markers ye get in beauty spots telling ye which route you’re on.

Eventually we came across sheep. Well, I think they were sheep, but they’re no the ones ye imagine, the ones that litter the countryside these days. These were a lot smaller than any I’d ever seen, all wi dark faces, some wi horns that I wouldnae get too close tae if ye paid me. Rather than a sea ae white cotton dots wi legs stickin’ oot, these sheep had shorter wool, and only one or two were white, the most common bein’ an off brown, and some were even pure black.

Chronos saw these animals, starin’ at us curiously, warily, and he stopped. It’s impossible tae tell whit he’s thinkin given cats – domestic cat at least – dinnae usually have more than a few facial expressions.

I know when we are, Chronos announced.

Don’t you mean where? I replied, hoping I’d misheard, but knowin’ better.

I was right. Chronos didnae mean where. I’d never seen sheep like the ones in front ae us before because they were extinct. Chronos couldnae place the exact time just frae the animals still starin’ at us, jostlin’ each other, thinkin’ aboot runnin’ the opposite way.

We had no choice but tae carry on, hopin’ we, or let’s no kid ourselves, Chronos, could pick up some more clues. I havenae walked that far in ever. Ma legs were achin’ by the time we came across some civilisation, and that was bein generous.

Ma Da’s really interested in history, more specifically Scottish history. He used tae have a subscription tae this magazine, which they dinnae print anymore, that had loads ae information on pre-historic Scotland. That’s where I first saw the pictures ae a crannog, a type ae wooden hut-like structure that’s built on posts above water, usually a Loch. There’s only one way tae get oot tae these buildings, across a timber causeway, a kind ae bridge, also on posts above the water. This one looked really similar tae the one they recreated on Loch Tay.

There was only one ae these at the edge ae this loch, and smoke was snakin’ oot ae the doorway and through thatched roof. I couldnae remember much aboot crannogs, when they were built, when they were occupied, or even who occupied them. This place looked so old, so prehistoric, that I began tae feel sick. I thought we’d been hurled back a few centuries, no a few millennia!

Whit were we supposed tae do now? Were we even real? Was this like the time I’d been sent back tae the Madam’s past, when she was apprentice? Only the then Madam Norna could see me, but I was invisible tae everyone else. I think I preferred mindless walkin’ tae the panic attack I could feel constrict ma throat.

It was Chronos’s turn tae lead, and dazedly I followed, thankful that he might have more ae an idea on whit we were supposed tae do. The causeway that joined the crannog tae the mainland was sturdily built, unlike whit I’d imagined. It didnae sway beneath our feet or bounce up and down like a rope bridge. Inside the doorway was darkness, which didnae really dissipate as we entered.

Inside was spacious, cavernous wi’ the high ceiling and low walls. Bracken was spread across the floor. There was a hearth in the middle, dug intae the floor and encircled wi’ stones and pebbles. A fire burned and crackled between two women sitting on whit I assumed tae be a wooden stool, but was covered in animal hides. It smelled mainly ae smoke, musky and strong, yet somehow comforting, as though in here was safe from the elements ootside. It wasnae cold, despite an open door, but since there were no windaes or chimney, the heat had few other places tae go. The cow at the back ae the crannog would also have helped wi warmth.

Our arrival didnae disturb the women, they continued wi their conversation, in a language that I couldnae understand. It wasnae English, and I only know basic Gaelic, and that wasn’t it either. One woman, sitting on the right side ae the hearth, looked worried, her hands twisting intae themselves, her fingers pulling at the cuffs ae her woollen kirtle. The woman sitting on the opposite side ae the fire observed her guest, no’ her pal frae the way she was sizin’ her up. The fire reflecteed somethin’ in her eyes, feral, almost predatory.

That’s Madam Anora, Chronos informed me.

I’d seen Madam Anora, up close and personal the last time, and she looked nothin’ like either ae the woman in the crannog. I said as much.

Not our Anora, the Anora, the original.

That wave of nausea returned. It wasnae somethin’ I’d ever considered. Where did the line ae Madams stretch, one woman after another discarding her name tae be the servant ae Fate?

Chronos began tae weave the tale ae the first Madam, the one sittin’ in her crannog at the edges ae a loch, talkin over the fire wi’ whit I assumed tae be one ae the first customers. Many millennia ago, when tools werenae made ae iron but bronze, and where pottery would be the only ‘hing tae remain long after its users were gone. Where hoosees were built on lochs, or under earth, and where people were buried wi’ expensive items and trinkets tae see them through death and intae whitever was next. A woman was born intae this world, in a small settlement in the middle ae nowhere in what would one day be Scotland.

This woman was special, she could do things others couldnae, could tap intae power no one could explain. She was gifted these abilities by Fate. No one knows why, us mere mortals never know Fate’s motivations or reasons. This woman became the first Madam, although she’d take different names over the proceeding millennia, through language and culture shifts.

But, like many who gain power too quickly, she began tae abuse the gifts she was given. Manipulating those who came tae see her, tae ask fae her help. Rather than keep a balance, help guide Fate’s hand, she wrought havoc wi’ it instead. Fate realised whit they’d done, understood the mistake they’d made. But they couldnae take the power back. It’d been gifteed tae this woman at birth, and when the time came, for Fate and Time are independent beings, another would take her place.

Somethin’ had tae be done in the meantime. Fate couldnae wait and hope that her successor would be better. So, Fate created another Madam, but this time chose a woman whose nature and character were already formed. Someone who was born and raised just as everyone else, in a settlement dug intae the ground tae keep the howling winter winds at bay, who shared their hoose wi’ a cow and a few sheep, who sat by the hearth on the longest nights and heard stories aboot long distant myths and legends.

Madam Anora’s are born. Madam Norna’s are made. Both balance each other oot, one cannot defeat the other. They are two sides ae the same coin.

I dinnae ‘hink I wouldae believed this story if Fionn, or even Reid had told me. I didnae appreciate before now how far this all stretches back, tae when people were surviving in huts on the water and livin’ wi’ their livestock fae warmth. How many women had there been? How many over the centuries, over the thousands ae years, who’d taken the title ae Madam and forfeited their life, their loves ones, tae live for a few centuries longer than normal, be the hand that guided other people’s fates? I was just another tally mark on Fate’s board.

By the time Chronos had finished his history lesson Anora’s guest was in tears, which I found unsurprising, and was leaving the crannog wi’ something I couldnae see gripped tight in her hand. I half-wished I could say somethin’ tae her, warn her that nothin’ was worth listenin tae Anora, but it was apparent that Chronos and I were invisible, ghosts no’ frae the past but the very distant future. Or perhaps this was all just an echo, a time and place that resonates through the centuries, and the shop picks up like an antenna.

Regardless ae whit it was, I wanted oot ae it. Like the last time I’d been hurled back intae history, I half expected the current, the original, Anora tae come saunterin over tae us like a predator after prey and speak. This time was different. Just like her guest, she didnae see us at the door. This scenario must be different tae the last time, then.

I didnae have tae fret long aboot how we were gonnae get back though. Frae the doorway behind me, doon the causeway and ontae the mainland, a hand reached oot and grabbed my arm. I’d felt a slight draft at first, as though there’d been some flailin before they found me, but when they did they werenae gentle aboot it. I barely managed tae get a hold ae Chronos before I was pulled through the void between this time and mine.

My landin back in the shop wasnae as pain free and ma arse slammed straight ontae the wooden floor so hard I knew I’d be feelin an echo ae the pain fae the next few days. Chronos jumped oot ae ma arms, no a fuckin scratch on the wee shite. I’ll let him fend fae himself the next time. Fionn had been the one tae reach intae the gapin’ white light in the wall and get us oot.

The madam, my madam, threw somethin’, a stone ae some kind, intae the light, and then it began tae shrink, the edges curlin’ in on themselves until the hole was nothin’ bigger than a keyhole intae an ancient time. Soon, even that disappeared.

Over some calming tea in the front room upstairs, ma boss told me it was normal, frae time tae time, fae the shop to reach intae the past and hurl someone there. It’d happened tae her, back in the day. I wasnae reassured by this phenomenon. It was bad enough the cat and half ae the ‘hings in the bloody shop had a mind ae their own, let alone the shop itself. I could do withoot bein’ thrown intae a time before toilet paper and hot showers. At least I knew now, dinnae go intae the light. Never, go inae the light.

I never asked Madam Norna aboot whit I’d seen, aboot the first Madams. I couldnae imagine she had much tae add tae Chronos’s story. The queasiness still simmers whenever I think back, all that time in the past, and how small I feel in comparison. There’s nothin’ like a bit ae legacy tae ground ye.

Scots terms

Helheim – This isn’t actually a Scottish term. It’s from old norse mythology and is the name they gave to the underworld where everyone who wasn’t a warrior went after they died. It’s mostly referred to as Hel, but can be called Helheim, which I chose here because it sounds exactly the same as the Christian hell. I might’ve been playing God of War 2018 at the time of writing this script, as the game refers to the realms with the suffix of “heim”.

Roasters – idiots, ne’er do wells.

Script

Are you afraid of spiders? I feel like it’s one of the fashionable phobias to have. Heights, spiders, and flying. Everyone has at least one, don’t they? I don’t mind heights, it’s the falling off them that bothers me. Flying isn’t fun, but it beats hours in a car or on public transport across long distances.

As for spiders, it’s the ones with the disproportionately long legs that raise the hairs on my arms. The way they put a leg out at a time, as if feeling their way along the wall, slowly crawling from one corner to the next. Don’t even get me started on their acrobatic performances hanging from the ceiling, always in front of your face, or right on top of your head, almost like their wee pals dared them to go as close to the human as possible.

I usually leave the wee ones, you can barely see them anyway, but if it’s any bigger than a nail I usually find something to kill it. Some of my flatmates think it’s cruel; they should be let outside. My Grannie always used to say there were two kinds of spiders: house and outdoor. Neither could survive in the climate of the other. Putting indoor spiders out of the window was the same as killing them, it just prolonged the process. No to mention, the wee bastards might try and find a way back inside. Better to put them out of their misery.

Do you know I’ve never seen a spider in the shop. I never thought it was strange, never thought about it at all. You’d expect something in a place like that, a spiderweb in the corner, or pulled like a tightrope between two pieces of furniture, waiting for you to walk face first into it. Yet, I’ve never seen a silky thread glistening in the sunlight, never seen an eight-legged creature moving over its web to catch the poor fly that’s been caught.

I’d never given it a second thought until I saw one skittering across the door of a wardrobe. At first, I thought it was just a mark in the wood, the grain or whorls that ran like watermarks from one side of the door to the other. Then it began to move, to crawl slowly across the polished surface.

But wait a wee minute. I feel as though I’m forgetting something, forgetting to mention something. When’s the last time I recorded?

SFX: Sound design of a mouse and keyboard

Oh, I have missed something. Madam Anora. We were in that derelict house. It feels like that happened so long ago now, and so much has happened since.

Let’s catch up.

Madam Anora cornered me in the house, offering me a way out of my apprenticeship. All she wanted in return was a wee bit of my life. A few decades or so, perhaps? She never named the price at the time, but more fool her, if she had it might’ve swayed me. Anora wasn’t letting me go until I gave her an answer. To take the deal, or refuse.

Looking back, I’m pretty sure she would’ve killed me, or at least trapped me in some Helheim dimension where I couldn’t escape, if I’d refused. I had the sense to realise, at the time, that refusing her deal wasn’t going to turn out well for me.

I started to think at the time, to become curious. There were many things she wouldn’t answer, but perhaps I could turn that to my advantage. I couldn’t stop thinking of the why? What did it matter to her that Madam Norna had an apprentice? Was my existence such an irritation that she’d offer me a deal just to get rid of me? There had to be a reason, something I wasn’t or couldn’t see.

I gambled and asked. What was in this deal for her?

A shadow of irritation, as though she were dealing with a brat in the shop having a tantrum, moulded her features for a brief second before she smothered the feeling. She wasn’t used to being questioned. I’ve thought about her next expression so many times I’m beginning to feel I imagined it. I swear she was about to tell me, like a villain revealing their master plan. A flash of triumph, of arrogance, like I was the last piece in her puzzle. Then it vanished, her face a mask of nonchalance. She refused to answer my question.

Stalemate.

I took another gamble, one that makes me sweat even now. I gave Madam Anora a taste of her own medicine. I offered her a deal. When she answered my question truthfully, then I would truthfully give her an answer about her deal. It’s tempting to make it seem as though I knew what I was doing, like I knew this would work. I didn’t, not entirely. I knew that Madam Norna couldn’t force people to make deals with her, but I wasn’t sure if that rule applied to Anora.

But confidence is half the battle.

So, I walked towards the door like I knew I was right. And she didn’t stop me.

I’ve thought about that deal a lot since. What I would’ve done if Anora hadn’t been bluffing. Or what I’m going to say to her if she appears and answers my question, tells me her evil plan. There are times when I don’t like being an apprentice. The thought of becoming the Madam one day makes me feel nauseous. The thought of living a longer life than any person should, of watching as the world leaves me behind, as everyone I’ve ever known or cared about passes on, whilst I’m stuck, stagnant, at the beck and call of forces beyond my control. Giving up my name, giving up my life. I still don’t know if I’m willing to do it.

But what’s the alternative? I’d like to believe Anora could’ve given me all the things she showed me, but it sounded too good to be true at the time, and I’ve just become more convinced. Nothing, if it has to do with Fate or the shop or the Madams, ever neatly works out happily for everyone. There’s no easy way out of this for me.

Besides, I’m Scottish. I’ll probably only live until I’m 40 anyway, and if Anora wanted half of my life, then I’d be dead as soon as I’d made the deal. Let’s just hope she doesn’t come back and answer my question.

Speaking of things that do come back, let’s talk about that spider. There was nothing special about it, nothing distinctive. It was dark, a dark brown or black, it had eight long, thick legs, and a body that looked like it would make a mess if I squashed it on the wardrobe door. It was minding its own business. But it was also in the shop, and I liked that the only cleaning I really had to do was the floor. I didn’t fancy having to clean up spiderwebs as well.

I don’t really know why I had the urge to get rid of it. I just couldn’t stand the sight of it crawling over the furniture and clothes, leaving its glistening web behind it. I also wasn’t really in a great mood that day. Fionn was gone, Chronos was up the stairs with the Madam, and the bell above the door hadn’t rung all day. The shop was empty. Bad empty. And whenever the shop became silent my mind started to reminisce about the times when it wasn’t, when the two roasters would bicker and squabble, and I would complain, not realising I preferred that to the stillness.

It felt like an age ago that I’d told Reid to leave, but it could only have been…what…a fortnight? The looking up at every ring of the bell had passed in the first week, the hope that he’d come marching in dour faced and angry being dashed every time it was a curious customer. I know it’s for his own good. I know that. But why does it not make me feel any better?

I killed the spider. I waited until it had scuttled across the wardrobe, following it from shelf to rail, to wall, before I swept it onto the floor and crushed it beneath my feet. I picked up the shrivelled corpse with a tissue and threw it in the bin, having to face the silence once more with very little to occupy my mind.

The next day and at least there were a few customers. One even bought something, and whilst I was putting the order through, they told me there was a large spider on one of the bookshelves. What were the odds of that? Almost a year without seeing a single spider, and there were two on consecutive days. There was probably a bloody clan of them, and I’d killed the breadwinner, forcing the others to go and fend for themselves.

After the customer had left, and to fend off the heavy silence and heavier memories, I went in search of this second spider. It wasn’t hard to find. It had crawled halfway down the bookshelf by the time I arrived. It looked exactly like the one from the day before, down to the bulbous body and furry legs. It stopped when I came near, as though hoping I hadn’t seen it.

I killed this one too.

I then spent the next few hours searching for places where spiders often hide. Small holes in the skirting boards, high corners where no one can reach, hollow spaces under chairs and between boxes. But there was nothing. I still hadn’t even seen the glint of a spiderweb.

This pattern continued for days. Every time I was in the shop, I’d either see the wee shite myself or a customer would tell me where it was. Every time I killed it, either with my shoe or something else. If I spent as long as an hour in the shop without seeing one I went in search of it. I just couldn’t let it lie, didn’t like the thought of it just crawling all over everything. I even started to think it was the same spider. It was the Messiah of spiders, resurrecting itself after I’d killed it time and time again.

I started having dreams, started seeing a glimpse of it on the wall in my bedroom, climbing over the cereal boxes in the kitchen, hanging in the corner watching as I brushed my teeth before bed.

I had Fionn kill it one day, thinking maybe I was the problem. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he was worried. I’d become almost frantic, fidgeting, always on the prowl for this spider. It didn’t work, and the next day the spider reappeared.

Chronos was outraged I even asked him to kill it, as if it were beneath him. I suppose going after this spider so doggedly was probably beneath me too, so I couldn’t be angry at him. I never told the Madam because I think I knew what she’d say. Or perhaps it was some kind of sacred spider that only crawled out of storage once a year for some freedom before returning.

Days after it’d all began, I ended up trapping the spider in a jar. It used to hold coins, a mixture of discoloured and polished, worn and faded symbols, Latin, and profile heads on their surface. I’d tipped the contents into something else and brushed the spider into the glass.

I felt bad as it tried to climb up the walls, scrambling to get out. Perhaps killing it was actually the kinder thing to do. I ended up sitting on the ground down one of the aisles of the shop, staring down at this spider in a jar on the floor with me.

The shop was empty, again.

I missed Reid. Even though he never said much, he was just…there. He had a presence, he found interesting items in the shop, he played cards or chess with Chronos, bickered with Fionn and I in equal measure. He was as much a part of the shop as any of us, and now he was gone it felt emptier than it ever had. I’d been in the shop without him before, but I couldn’t remember those days well. It was as if Reid had always been here somehow. Except now he wasn’t, and I fucking hated that.

I’d tried to distract myself, with the spider, with the customers, with Fionn, with anything else just so I wouldn’t wallow. But I’m tired of trying to pretend I’m not hurt that he just left. I know I let him go, I know it was the right thing to do, but after all of that time, did I really just imagine that we were close to being pals? Even though I didn’t know much about him, his family, his background, I still knew him. How I’m convinced he actually liked bickering with Fionn, or how he got secretly frustrated every time he lost to a creature that had no opposable thumbs, or how excited he got when he found something in the shop, or how arrogant he’d get whenever I didn’t know something.

I may have let him go. But I was hoping he’d come back. And he didn’t.

My eyes started to sting. That hot feeling you get when the world becomes blurry through the tears building in your eyes. The glass jar where the spider sits still has gone out of focus. I don’t hear the bell go. Something that’s becoming a habit. I hear floorboards creak and presume it’s Chronos or the Madam. Someone sits down opposite me, on the other side of the jar, and asks me what I’m doing.

I recognise the tone, the voice, the frown that it’s said with.

“I cannae kill this spider,” I say to what I presume is a hallucination of Reid.

“Why kill it?” He says, “Why no’ just keep it around? It’s no’ doin’ any harm.”

Reid reaches out and tips up the jar, and as I watch the spider crawl as fast as its legs will take it under the nearest set of drawers, I realise that my hallucination picked the jar up in the first place. He put it back on the floor between us. I resist the urge to reach out and pinch him.

He stops me when I start to speak, saying that he has something he wants to say. He’s frowning, as always, eyebrows drawn in, but he’s not angry. His tone is steady, calm, as he tells me that I’d never asked him what he wanted. I’d assumed for him; I’d made the decision for him. He claimed he was pissed at me for that, and that’s why he’d left, why he’d stayed away for weeks. He’d convinced himself that I didn’t like him, and just wanted to get rid of him. Which he wasn’t having.

He offered to be my familiar again, to return everything the way it was before. I refused. I didn’t want what we had before. A connection that wasn’t equal, one I’d always wonder was the reason he was around. I told him that Fionn was my familiar now, and went to show him the dragon head on the ring, only to find there was now a fox’s head there too.

Madam Norna later explained that there’s varying degrees for familiars. The connection can be like we had before, mutually beneficial, weighed heavily in my favour, or it can be like it was now, with both Fionn and Reid. Equals. Friends. Allies. The ring nothing but a symbol, and in certain circumstances a beacon in the dark.

I never saw the spider after Reid returned. I’m still convinced it was the same spider returning day after day. Perhaps it learned its lesson after being trapped in a jar, a fate worse than death and resurrection. I’ll never really know, and I don’t want to tell the Madam in case I’ve been killing some kind of ancient deity or something worse. I think this one’s best left unanswered. Just this once.

Warning: I’m about to explain what the spider was. If you either don’t care or are ok not knowing, then you can skip this part. This is the first explanation, and hopefully only, I’ll have to add to the end of episodes, but I just felt it was a bit clumsy to add into the episode itself. The spider was real, and to me the spider really represents the emotions that Maya isn’t allowing herself to deal with regarding Reid’s departure. She becomes so annoyed with the fact that she can’t kill it because she also can’t get rid of her grief at losing Reid. And she gets to caught up, or obsessed over killing it, because it’s also serving as a distraction. Obviously she doesn’t know that it’s connected to her, which is why I couldn’t have her telling the Madam because obviously she would’ve told Maya the truth. She tells herself multiple times through the last few episodes that she did it for his own good, that it was for him, but by doing that she kind of prevents herself from exploring how sad she is about the whole thing. Obviously, Reid’s been around since the beginning, since she started, and everything she’s learned, everything she’s seen about this new world, he’s been there. Tot really hand holding, but just being there, usually to explain. He goes from being such a big part of shop life, to not being there at all, and as she says in the episode she wanted him to chouse to stay, and obviously at the time he didn’t. This kind of compounded the fear that she had that she was just using him, and that he was there because he had to be, and that was it. So she’s spent weeks trying not to think about that, trying not to get bogged down by this sadness, I suppose it’s loss of some kind, although obviously he’s not dead. The spider is meant to be a manifestation of that, and it’s also why she can’t kill it, nor can anyone else in the shop. The only way to solve a problem, or in this case killing an immortal spider, is by acknowledging it as a problem and working through it, which obviously Maya hasn’t really done.

Anyway, I just thought there might be some listeners who would be annoyed I hadn’t actually explained what the spider is. I will try to avoid this in the future, although I would be curious as to how many of you thought it might be something like that, or how many of you were ok in not having an explanation for this one? I quite enjoyed writing it, I thought difficulty with that kind of emotional range, but I think everyone knows what it’s like to ignore a problem or ignore emotions until something forces you to confront them. Maya obviously has it easier than the rest of us in that the shop will quite happily manifest people’s problems.

Script – Scots

Are ye afraid ae spiders? I feel like it’s one ae the fashionable phobias tae have. Heights, spiders, and flying. Everyone has at least one, don’t they? I dinnae mind heights, it’s the fallin’ aff them that bothers me. Flyin’ isnae fun, but it beats hours in a car or on public transport across long distancees.

As fae spiders, it’s the ones with the disproportionately long legs that raise the hairs on ma arms. The way they put a leg oot at a time, as if feelin’ their way along the wall, slowly crawlin frae one corner tae the next. Dinnae even get me started on their acrobatic performances hangin’ frae the ceilin’, always in front ae your face, or right on top ae your heid, almost like their wee pals dared them tae go as close tae the human as possible.

I usually leave the wee ones, ye can barely see them anyway, but if it’s any bigger than a nail I usually find somethin’ tae kill it. Some ae ma flatmates ‘hink it’s cruel, they should be let ootside. Ma grannie always used tae say there were two kinds ae spiders; hoose and outdoor. Neither could survive in the climate ae the other. Puttin’ indoor spiders oot ae the windae was the same as killin’ them, it just prolonged the process. No tae mention, the wee bastards might try and find a way back inside. Better tae put them oot their misery.

Do ye know I’ve never seen a spider in the shop. I never thought it was strange, never thought aboot it at all. You’d expect somethin’ in a place like that, a spiderweb in the corner, or pulled like a tightrope between two pieces ae furniture, waitin’ fae ye tae walk face first intae it. Yet I’ve never seen the silky thread glistening in the sunlight, never seen an eight-legged creature movin’ over its web tae catch the poor fly that’s been caught.

I’d never given it a second thought until I saw one skitterin’ across the door ae a wardrobe. At first, I thought it was just a mark in the wood, the grain or whorls that ran like watermarks frae one side ae the door tae the other. Then it began tae move, tae crawl slowly across the polished surface.

But wait a wee minute. I feel as though I’m forgettin’ something, forgettin’ tae mention somethin’. When’s the last time I recorded?

• Sound design of a mouse and keyboard

Oh, I have missed somethin’. Madam Anora. We were in that derelict hoose. It feels like that happened so long ago noo, and so much has happened since. Let’s catch up.

Madam Anora cornered me in the hoose, offerin me a way oot ae ma apprenticeship. All she wanted in return was a wee bit ae ma life. A few decades or so, perhaps? She never named the price at the time, but more fool her, if she had it mightae swayed me. Anora wasnae lettin’ me go until I gave her an answer. Tae take the deal, or refuse.

Lookin’ back I’m pretty sure she wouldae killed me, or at least trapped me in some Helheim dimension where I couldnae escape if I’d refused. I had the sense tae realise, at the time, that refusin her deal wasnae gonnae turn oot well fae me.

I starteed tae ‘hink at the time, tae become curious. There were many ‘hings she wouldnae answer, but perhaps I could turn that tae ma advantage. I couldane stop ‘hinkin of the why? What did it matter tae her that Madam Norna had an apprentice? Was ma existence such an irritation that she’d offer me a deal just tae get rid ae me? There had tae be a reason, somethin’ I wasnae or couldnae see.

I gambled and asked. What was in this deal fae her?

A shadow ae irritation, as though she were dealin’ wi a brat in the shop havin’ a tantrum, moulded her features fae a brief second before she smothered the feelin’. She wasnae used tae bein questioned. I’ve thought aboot her next expression so many times I’m beginnin’ tae feel I imagined it. I swear she was aboot tae tell me, like a villain revealin’ their master plan. A flash ae triumph, ae arrogance, like I was the last piece in her puzzle. Then it vanished, her face a mask of nonchalance. She refused tae answer ma question.

Stalemate.

I took another gamble, one that makes me sweat even noo. I gee Madam Anora a taste ae her own medicine. I offered her a deal. When she answered ma question truthfully, then I would truthfully give her an answer aboot her deal. It’s temptin tae make it seem as though I knew whit I was doin, like I knew this would work. I didnae, no entirely. I knew that Madam Norna couldnae force people tae make deals wi her, but I wasnae sure if that rule applied tae Anora.

But confidence is half the battle.

So, I walked towards the door like I knew I was right. And she didnae stop me.

I’ve thought aboot that deal a lot since. Whit I wouldae done if Anora hadnae been bluffin’. Or whit I’m gonnae say tae her if she appears and answers ma question, tells me her evil plan. There are times when I dinnae like bein an apprentice. The thought ae becomin’ the Madam one day makes me feel nauseous. The thought ae livin’ a longer life than any person should, ae watchin as the world leaves me behind, as everyone I’ve ever known or cared aboot passes on, whilst I’m stuck, stagnant, at the beck and call ae forces beyond ma control. Givin’ up ma name, givin’ up ma life, I still dinnae know if I’m willing tae do it.

But whit’s the alternative? I’d like tae believe Anora couldae given me all the hings she showed me, but it sounded too good tae be true at the time, and I’ve just become more convinced. Nothin, if it has tae do wi fate or the shop or the Madams, ever neatly works out happily for everyone. There’s no easy way oot ae this fae me.

Besides, I’m Scottish. I’ll probably only live until I’m 40 anyway, and if Anora wanted half ae ma life, then I’d be deid as soon as I’d made the deal. Let’s just hope she doesnae come back and answer ma question.

Speakin’ ae ‘hings that do come back, let’s talk aboot that spider. There was nothin’ special aboot it, nothin’ distinctive. It was dark, a dark brown or black, it had eight long, thick legs, and a body that looked like it would make a mess if I squashed it on the wardrobe door. It was mindin’ its own business. But it was also in the shop, and I liked that the only cleanin I really had tae do was the floor. I didnae fancy havin tae clean up spiderwebs as well.

I dinnae really know why I had the urge tae get rid ae it. I just couldnae stand the sight ae it crawlin over the furniture and clothes, leavin’ its glistening web behind it. I also wasnae really in a great mood that day. Fionn was gone, Chronos was up the stairs wi’ the Madam, and the bell above the door hadnae rung all day. The shop was empty. Bad empty. And whenever the shop became silent ma mind started tae reminisce aboot the times when it wasnae, when the two roasters would bicker and squabble, and I would complain, no realisin’ I preferred that tae the stillness.

It felt like an age ago that I’d told Reid tae leave, but it could only have been…what…a fortnight? The lookin’ up at every ring ae the bell had passed in the first week, the hope that he’d come marchin’ in dour faced and angry bein dashed every time it was a curious customer. I know it’s fae his own good. I know that. But why does it no make me feel any better?

I killed the spider. I waited until it had scuttled across the wardrobe, followin’ it frae shelf tae rail, tae wall, before I swept it ontae the floor and crushed it beneath ma feet. I picked up the shrivelled corpse wi a tissue and threw it in the bin, havin’ tae face the silence once more wi’ very little tae occupy ma mind.

The next day and at least there were a few customers. One even bought somethin’, and whilst I was putting the order through they told me there was a large spider on one ae the bookshelves. What were the odds ae that? Almost a year withoot seein’ a single spider, and there were two on consecutive days. There was probably a bloody clan ae them, and I’d killed the breadwinner, forcin’ the others tae go and fend fae themselves.

After the customer had left, and tae fend aff the heavy silence and heavier memories, I went in search ae this second spider. It wasnae hard tae find. It had crawled halfway doon the bookshelf by the time I arrived. It looked exactly like the one frae the day before, doon tae the bulbous body and furry legs. It stopped when I came near, as though hopin I hadnae seen it.

I killed this one too.

I then spent the next few hours searchin’ fae places where spiders often hide. Small holes in the skirtin’ boards, high corners where no one can reach, hollow spaces under chairs and between boxes. But there was nothin’. I still hadnae even seen the glint ae a spiderweb.

This pattern continued fae days. Every time I was in the shop I’d either see the wee shite maself or a customer would tell me where it was. Every time I killed it, either wi’ ma shoe, or something else. If I spent as long as an hour in the shop withoot seein’ one I went in search ae it. I just couldnae let it lie, didnae like the thought ae it just crawlin’ all over everythin’. I even started tae ‘hink it was the same spider. It was the messiah ae spiders, resurrecting itself after I’d killed it time and time again.

I started havin’ dreams, started seein’ a glimpse ae it on the wall in ma bedroom, climbin’ over the cereal boxes in the kitchen, hangin’ in the corner watchin’ as I brushed ma teeth before bed.

I had Fionn kill it one day, thinkin’ maybe I was the problem. I could tell by the way he was lookin’ at me that he was worried. I’d become almost frantic, fidgetin, always on the prowl fae this spider. It didnae work, and the next day the spider reappeared.

Chronos was outraged I even asked him tae kill it, as if it were beneath him. I suppose goin’ after this spider so doggedly was probably beneath me too, so I couldnae be angry at him. I never told the Madam because I ‘hink I knew whit she’d say. Or perhaps it was some kind ae sacred spider that only crawled oot ae storage once a year fae some freedom, before returnin’.

Days after it’d all began I ended up trappin’ the spider in a jar. It used tae hold coins, a mixture ae discoloured and polished, worn and faded symbols, Latin, and profile heids on their surface. I’d tipped the contents intae somethin’ else, and brushed the spider intae the glass.

I felt bad as it tried tae climb up the walls, scrambling tae get oot. Perhaps killin’ it was actually the kinder ‘hing tae do. I ended up sittin on the ground doon one ae the aisles ae the shop, starin’ doon at this spider in a jar on the floor wi’ me. The shop was empty, again.

I missed Reid. Even though he never said much, he was just…there. He had a presence, he found interestin’ items in the shop, he played cards or chess wi’ Chronos, bickered wi Fionn and I in equal measure. He was as much a part ae the shop as any ae us, and now he was gone it felt emptier than it ever had. I’d been in the shop withoot him before, but I couldnae remember those days well. It was as if Reid had always been here somehow. Except noo he wasnae, and I fuckin’ hated that.

I’d tried tae distract maself, wi the spider, wi the customers, wi Fionn, wi anythin’ else just so I wouldnae wallow. But I’m tired ae tryin’ tae pretend I’m no hurt that he just left. I know I let him go, I know it was the right ‘hing tae do, but after all ae that time, did I really just imagine that we were close tae bein’ pals? Even though I didnae know much aboot him, his family, his background, I still knew him. How I’m convinced he actually liked bickerin’ wi’ Fionn, or how he got secretly frustrated every time he lost tae a creature that had no opposable thumbs, or how excited he got when he found somethin’ in the shop, or how arrogant he’d get whenever I didnae know somethin’.

I may have let him go. But I was hopin’ he’d come back. And he didnae.

Ma eyes started tae sting. That hot feelin ye get when the world becomes blurry through the tears buildin’ in your eyes. The glass jar where the spider sits still has gone oot ae focus. I dinnae hear the bell go. Somethin’ that’s becomin’ a habit. I hear floorboards creak and presume it’s Chronos or the Madam. Someone sits doon opposite me, on the other side ae the jar, and asks me whit I’m doin.

I recognise the tone, the voice, the frown that it’s said wi’.

I cannae kill this spider, I say tae what I presume is a hallucination ae Reid.

Why kill it? he says, why no just keep it around? It’s no doin’ any harm.

Reid reaches oot and tips up the jar, and as I watch the spider crawl as fast as its legs will take it under the nearest set ae drawers, I realise that ma hallucination picked the jar up in the first place. He put it back on the floor between us. I resist the urge tae reach oot and pinch him.

He stops me when I start tae speak, sayin that he has somethin’ he wants tae say. He’s frownin’, as always, eyebrows drawn in, but he’s no angry. His tone is steady, calm, as he tells me that I’d never asked him whit he wanted. I’d assumed for him, I’d made the decision for him. He claimed he was pissed at me fae that, and that’s why he’d left, why he’d stayed away fae weeks. He’d convinced himself that I didnae like him, and just wanted tae get rid ae him. Which he wasnae havin’.

He offered tae be ma familiar again, tae return everythin the way it was before. I refused. I didnae want whit we had before. A connection that wasnae equal, one I’d always wonder was the reason he was around. I told him that Fionn was ma familiar noo, and went tae show him the dragon heid on the ring, only tae find there was noo a fox’s heid there too.

Madam Norna later explained that there’s varying degrees for familiars. The connection can be like we had before, mutually beneficial, weighed heavily in ma favour, or it can be like it was noo, wi’ both Fionn and Reid. Equals. Friends. Allies. The ring nothin’ but a symbol, and in certain circumstances a beacon in the dark.

I never saw the spider after Reid returned. I’m still convinced it was the same spider returnin’ day after day. Perhaps it learned its lesson after bein trapped in a jar, a fate worse than death and resurrection. I’ll never really know, and I dinnae want tae tell the Madam in case I’ve been killin’ some kind ae ancient deity, or somethin’ worse. I ‘hink this one’s best left unanswered. Just this once.

Scots terms

Roaster – idiot, ne’er do well.

Baws – Balls/bollocks.

To get tae (t-ay) – Probably a Glaswegian saying that is means to go to hell.

Da – Dad

Script

I’ve not mentioned anything normal in a while, have I? The life that used to be my everything before coming into the shop. Clubs, pubs, pals, lectures, and deadlines. They all fade into white noise, the kind you listen to as you’re trying to go to sleep. But in between all of these tales of mine, all of these adventures, I have to clean the flat, go to lectures, and most appropriately just now, study for exams.

I was hoping that working in the shop made me braver, less susceptible to tense and anxious atmospheres. Nope, it hasn’t. It’s like a miasma has settled over the campus. More students have congregated in the last few weeks of study time than the entire semester put together. Every floor in the library is crammed, all the desks and study rooms are booked unless you feel like going in the middle of the night, which you can since the university have been enabling enough to keep the library open for 24 hours. The student union is arguably worse as by the time people get there, they’ve usually stalked furiously around the library for best part of half an hour looking for a desk. You get two kinds of people in the union. The ones who go to the café, order the cheapest thing, and sit all day scribbling or typing away in the hopes it’ll save them from the dreaded fail. The second are the ones at the bar at noon ordering drinks, playing snooker or table tennis, claiming they don’t need to revise as they’re so fucking clever they just remember it all. I hope karma hears them.

And the worst place of all. The flat. The one where no one’s cleaning because none of us have time. The pizza boxes and curry trays are piling up dangerously. I suppose I can kiss our deposit goodbye. Everyone keeps to their rooms like caged birds, only coming out for food or water. And when they do emerge, they look like they’ve clawed their way out of a swamp or were rejected extras on the Walking Dead.

This leaves the antique shop as the only possible place to study. It’s relatively quiet these days, or so I thought, and hardly any interruptions. I’ve set up a wee desk for myself in one of the back corners of the cavern, unable to see the door so I don’t get distracted as easily. Turns out the door isn’t the biggest problem. I must’ve looked through hundreds of photo albums, cigarette cards, and sewing patterns by now. And none of them will be in my exam. In between, I’m highlighting lines of lecture notes that I don’t even remember getting let alone listening when they were explained to me. Concepts are being referred to like I know what they mean, which I don’t, so I have to dig out another set of notes to find what it all means. It’s a nightmare, and I only have myself to blame.

Every so often it gets too much, and I let my head hit the table in the hopes that the damage will make my memory better somehow or give me the ability to go back in time and stop myself from being such a roaster and pay attention in lectures. Occasionally, Chronos will be lounging beside me, curled up with not a care in the world. In the last few days I’ve often wished I could find something in the shop that would allow me to swap places with him.

One time after hearing the thud on my desk Fionn decided he was going to pop his head around the corner, and I don’t really think he realises how lucky he is to still have it attached. Helpful as usual, he began to muse that he didn’t understand why I was bothering with uni, it’s not as if I was ever going to use it. I snapped back that he wasn’t helping. He came closer, inspected the ring binders and notepads scribbled on with notes and questions, and then repeated his misgivings, pointing out that I was choosing to stress myself out this much. I told him where to go.

He, of course, had a point. It was just one I didn’t want to think about. Not then, at least.

Fionn and I had settled into a weird kind of relationship. Weird in that it wasn’t any different to what it’d been before I had the wyvern ring on my finger. I don’t really like it that much, but I think that’s because it’s on the same finger as my last one. It feels strange to look down at my pinky and see the deep green eyes of a wyvern, which looks an awful lot like a dragon, staring back at me instead of a fox. I haven’t heard from Reid since he left – since I told him to go. He’s not been far from my thoughts either.

I find it hard to believe that the charming Fionn is a dragon-like creature. I mean, how big are we talking? I found it easier to believe a fox could take a human form, but a huge mythical creature shrinking down to something so small in comparison? It also left the question of what he could do? It’d never seemed to me that Reid had any powers, so to speak, but was it different for Fionn? He tried to be all arrogant about it once he’d told me and I’d voiced my disbelief. Chronos was quick to put him down, mentioning that Wyverns were distinctly less formidable than dragons due to having less limbs, and generally being smaller. Waspishly, Fionn warned Chronos that even with two less legs he was still better than a shop cat.

Even I don’t believe that’s what Chronos is, not really. Nothing is as it appears; not Fionn, not Reid, not most of the customers. Why should the wee shite be any different? After that, Fionn transformed into grandpa mode, informing me about the good old days when wyverns were feared and revered.

As interesting as it was at the time, now I was baws deep revising subjects that made no mention of dragons, wyverns or shop cats, I had no time for Fionn and his difficult questions.

Despite the notes, flashcards, highlighted lines, and desperate cramming the night before and morning of, my first few exams went tits up. If only they did give you a mark for putting your name on the front. The gruelling exam timetable carried on, like sand down an hourglass, and with each passing one I began to feel worse. Hopelessness set in, and the last ounce of rage that I had wasn’t far behind it.

How was I this shite at everything? I was out of my depth in the shop, and now I was out of my depth with uni’, with the part of my life that was normal, the part that’d been my anchor, a source of stability. Was this how it was for people who dipped their toes into the shop side of the world? They thought they knew what was what, how things worked, only to be told different. Yet, no matter how long they’re exposed, or how hard they try to understand or learn, the confusion seeps into everything. I used to feel like I belonged in my life, that was where I was meant to be. But lately it feels like I don’t. And it’s not like I feel any more at home in the shop and the world surrounding it.

I’ve turned into an outlier, not sure where they’re supposed to be, which side of the line they’re meant to be on. Trudging through no man’s land hoping not to step in something that’ll kill them. These doubts weighed me down, invaded my dreams, kept me up the nights before exams. When I did go to the shop and desperately try to revise Fionn would be there, asking questions I didn’t want to answer. Everything in my life was flowing through my hands like water, and I was desperately trying to scoop it back up.

Then came my penultimate exam. Another in a perpetual string of shite papers. The torture had finished before midday, and I contemplated going to the student’s union and opening a tab so I could drink myself to oblivion, before realising I could do it much cheaper if I got the booze from the shop and did it at home instead. Despair swirled in my head as I made the journey to the nearest shop, and then something caught my eye.

It’s only bad things that catch my eyes these days and I struggled with my brain trying to stop it from looking. But I did and saw a creature I hadn’t seen since the blissful ignorance of my first few months in the shop. A wee brown rabbit perched on the edge of the pavement on the opposite side of the road. Its nose twitched, whiskers moving up and down as it smelled the air. It sat there, staring at me. I’d stopped abruptly, forcing the woman behind me to swerve to avoid a collision. She muttered something pretty appropriate, but not very nice, at me as she stalked off. The last time I’d seen that wee thing I’d met Fionn, and we’d met one of a string of loose cannons who wanted to hurt people. Despite its button nose, cotton tail, and unassuming appearance, that creature meant trouble. And that was the last thing I needed.

I took a few shaky steps forwards, almost able to see the glowing sign of the shop where they kept the booze. Another few paces staring determinedly forwards. I wasn’t looking. It could get tae. A few more steps. I could see the aisle in my mind, the cheapest of cheap wine in my hand at the checkout. Then my mind began to wander. Back to that night in the alleyway with Fionn and the strange man. The mostly unconscious lassie who’d been his sacrificial lamb. If I’d never followed the rabbit then what would’ve happened to her? What if it was a similar situation now?

I could live with it. After all of the shite that’d gone on in the last few weeks, I was due some time off. Just this one time.

I think we all fucking know what happened. I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I’d walked away. I’d have been living in torture wondering if I’d left someone to die. With an infantile huff I crossed the road and followed the sodding rabbit, wandering if rabbit pie was hard to make.

It wasn’t a short walk either, not like the last time. This was quite a way out from the campus, in an area that’d been cleared by the council in the last few years. It was a place on the outskirts of an industrial area where factories and warehouses were. They’d been council houses until recently, but since the expansion of the area into industry everyone had been moved elsewhere and the houses were left abandoned until the site was bought by a developer. On inspecting them I hoped they hadn’t looked as bad when people had been living in them.

They had the essence of abandonment. Windows and doors were boarded up with metal sheets to stop vagrants and squatters from getting in, locked with padlocks so heavy it would’ve taken two of the strongest people in the country just to get them on. What small gardens had been attached were overgrown with weeds, dandelions, and the occasional rogue daisy. There were no cars on the street, and no one walking past. I started to feel like following had been a mistake. I’d seen too many horror films to think this was going to end well for me.

Sure enough, the rabbit disappeared from the pavement and made its way into one of these buildings. When my gaze followed it I saw that this particular house didn’t have a padlock on the front door, and the metal board used to block it up was lying discarded in the front garden. Anybody else would’ve turned around. But that was too sensible for me.

I approached the door, which was ajar and wide enough for me to squeeze through and regret the two sausage rolls I’d had for breakfast. As soon as I’d finished brushing off the dust and grime from my jacket I looked up. The rabbit was gone.

I was in a club. Not unlike the one I’d been in the first time I’d seen the rabbit. People were dancing around me, jumping up and down to music I couldn’t hear. It wasn’t packed, and there were few enough people for me to wind my way in and out of them, but I moved slowly, as if wading through water. I eventually saw a familiar face. My own. Surrounded by my pals with their drinks in their hands, not caring who or what they spilled them on. We were having a great time. We always did on nights out. But they’d been rarer to come by recently, and it wasn’t just because of exams. I’d just not felt like it. I’d made excuses, or I’d been working late in the shop and by the time I got back they’d already left.

I looked happy. Happier than I was now, and I hated that. I moved on past the group towards a doorway that was lit up, not dissimilar to a fire exit. The bar across the door gave way when I pushed it and I emerged into the bright sunlight of a summer’s day. There are people around me dressed in black robes, multicoloured hoods draped over their shoulders, or hanging off them. Everyone’s dressed smartly, high heels, fancy dresses, suits, and ties. There’re cameras everywhere, from the professional to the one on people’s phones, and most people are posing, grinning and smiling widely as the flashes go off. This is graduation. I scan the crowd, and eventually I find myself, dressed like everyone else in my Sunday best. There’s a professional photographer with his camera strap around his neck, aiming the lens straight at me and my Da, who stands as proud as he is awkward. He puts his arm around me and squeezes, and I can see his beaming grin from where I’m standing.

Then there’s one flash too many as the scene changes again. This time I’m in a fancy reception area of a building. Marble floor, pretentious art on the walls, and uncomfortable sofas in the waiting area. In what is a recurring theme I’m sitting on one of the chairs, pretending to look through a woman’s health magazine, even though my eyes are darting everywhere but at the page. I’m dressed up again in a suit that I don’t even own, wearing shoes that look so new I can feel my feet cry out with agony. Eventually someone approaches me and shakes my hand, telling me to follow them and I do, looking like a shark’s just invited me over to dinner. I notice the company name on the reception desk and realise this is the place where most graduates from my degree get jobs afterwards.

The final scene I’m shown is the most bizarre. It’s a café, the one that does the best coffee in my opinion, and suitably beyond a student’s budget. The seats are empty, save for one table. I’m there again, but someone’s sitting opposite me. A someone I’ve not seen in weeks. Reid. We each have a mug, Reid has a slice of their dark chocolate cake, and he’s talking in-between mouthfuls, telling me something that I laugh at or agree with. There’s nothing special here, this is a normal conversation. It looks so easy, so why did we never do it?

The café fades, all of the scenes fade, and I’m left in the empty front room of the ruined house. The walls are covered with mould, the bare floorboards are covered with scratches and marks, some coming loose in places. It should be dark, pitch black, but the window at the back of the room has been uncovered and lets just enough light in that I can see the dilapidation. I’m facing that window and can see the forest the back garden has become sway in the steady breeze. The rabbit hasn’t reappeared, and I’m left there wondering what this was all about.

I didn’t need to wonder long, as when I turned around to go over to the front door and leave, a figure was blocking my path. I inhaled sharply through my teeth when I saw her, looking even more intimidating in this setting than in the shop.

Madam Anora.

Since she’d been the last thing I was expecting, it took me a few minutes to gather my thoughts. No one of them was coherent. Like my Madam, Anora didn’t need me to voice my queries. She informed me, in her harsh tone, that she was here to help.

She explained that what I’ve seen was the future, a possible future. A normal life with graduations, careers, pals, and family. A real friendship with Reid, not one that was tainted by an archaic and unfair bond. A life that was of my choosing.

Madam Anora offered to release me from my apprenticeship.

I haven’t uttered many words by this point, but I have learnt one thing being in the shop, watching as all of these desperate people come in and beg to be saved. There’s always a price. So what was it?

Och, no big deal, she says, just a wee bit of my life; so wee I’d hardly notice. Deep down I know what she means. She wanted years, my years. I don’t ask how many because I know she won’t give me an answer.

Also learning from the customers, I ask her how much time I have to make up my mind? The answer is immediately. She wouldn’t let me leave the house until I gave her an answer.

It was nice to think I could use the same power on her now as I did when she came into the shop, but I didn’t think I could do that again, not in that situation. My first thought was if she was telling the truth. Was releasing me even possible? What about Fate, destiny, and all of that shop shite? Did Madam Anora really have the power to sidestep all of that? But if she couldn’t, then why would she lie? Why would she go to all of this trouble to speak with me?

A thought that has occurred to me since is why was she offering me this? What did she have to gain from this deal? I still can’t figure that out.

I took some time, probably not as long as I should’ve. And now I’m home, without my wine, staring at my binders and lecture notes and flash cards.

I’ve made my decision. Now I just need to live with it, for however long that is.

Script – Scots

I’ve no mentioned anything normal in a while, have I? The life that used to be my everything before comin’ intae the shop. Clubs, pubs, pals, lectures, deadlines. They all fade intae white noise, the kind ye listen tae as you’re tryin tae go tae sleep. But in between all ae these tales ae mine, all ae these adventures, I have tae clean the flat, go tae lectures, and most appropriately just noo, study fae exams.

I was hopin’ that workin’ in the shop made me braver, less susceptible tae tense and anxious atmospheres. Nope, it hasnae. It’s like a miasma has settled over the campus. More students have congregated in the last few weeks ae study time than the entire semester put together. Every floor in the library is crammed, all the desks and study rooms are booked unless ye feel like goin’ in the middle ae the night, which you can since the university have been enabling enough tae keep the library open fae 24 hours. The student union is arguably worse as by the time people get there they’ve usually stalked furiously roond the library fae best part ae half an hour lookin fae a desk. Ye get two kinds ae people in the union. The ones who go tae the café, order the cheapest ‘hing, and sit all day scribblin or typin away in the hopes it’ll save them frae the dreaded fail. The second are the ones at the bar at noon orderin’ drinks, playin snooker or table tennis, claimin’ they dinnae need tae revise as they’re so fuckin’ clever they just remember it all. I hope karma hears them.

And the worst place of all. The flat. The one where no one’s cleanin’ ‘cause none ae us have time. The pizza boxes and curry trays are pilin’ up dangerously. I suppose I can kiss our deposit goodbye. Everyone keeps tae their rooms like caged birds, only comin’ oot fae food or water. And when they do emerge they look like they’ve clawed their way oot ae a swamp, or were rejected extras on the Walking Dead.

This leaves the antique shop as the only possible place tae study. It’s relatively quiet these days, or so I thought, and hardly any interruptions. I’ve set up a wee desk fae maself in one ae the back corners ae the cavern, unable tae see the door so I dinnae get distracted as easily. Turns oot the door isnae the biggest problem. I mustae looked through hundreds ae photo albums, cigarette cards, and sewing patterns by noo. And none ae them will be in ma exam. In between I’m highlighting lines ae lecture notes that I dinnae even remember gettin’ let alone listening when they were explained tae me. Concepts are being referred tae like I know whit they mean, which I dinnae, so I have tae dig oot another set ae notes tae find whit it all means. It’s a nightmare, and I only have maself tae blame.

Every so often it gets too much and I let ma heid hit the table in the hopes that the damage will make ma memory better somehow, or gee me the ability tae go back in time and stop maself frae bein such a roaster and pay attention in lectures. Occasionally Chronos will be loungin’ beside me, curled up wi’ no a care in the world. In the last few days I’ve often wished I could find something in the shop that would allow me tae swap places wi’ him.

One time after hearin’ the thud on ma desk Fionn decided he was gonnae pop his heid roond the corner, and I dinnae really think he realises how lucky he is tae still have it attached. Helpful as usual, he began tae muse that he didnae understand why I was botherin’ wi’ uni, it’s no as if I was ever gonnae use it. I snapped back that he wasnae helpin’. He came closer, inspected the ring binders and notepads scribbled on wi notes and questions, and then repeated his misgivings, pointin’ oot that I was choosin’ tae stress maself oot this much. I told him where tae go.

He, of course, had a point. It was just one I didnae want tae ‘hink aboot. No then, at least.

Fionn and I had settled intae a weird kind ae relationship. Weird in that it wasnae any different tae what it’d been before I had the wyvern ring on ma finger. I dinnae really like it that much, but I think that’s because it’s on the same finger as ma last one. It feels strange tae look doon at my pinky and see the deep green eyes ae a wyvern, which looks an awful lot like a dragon, starin’ back at me instead ae a fox. I havenae heard frae Reid since he left, since I told him tae go. He’s no’ been far frae ma thoughts either.

I find it hard tae believe that the charmin’ Fionn is a dragon like creature. I mean how big are we talkin? I found it easier tae believe a fox could take a human form, but a huge mythical creature shrinkin’ doon tae somethin’ so small in comparison? It also left the question ae whit he could do. It’d never seemed tae me that Reid had any powers, so tae speak, but was it different fae Fionn? He tried tae be all arrogant aboot it once he’d told me and I’d voiced ma disbelief. Chronos was quick tae put him doon, mentionin’ that Wyverns were distinctly less formidable than dragons due to havin’ less limbs, and generally being smaller. Waspishly, Fionn warned Chronos that even wi’ two less legs he was still better than a shop cat.

Even I dinnae believe that’s what Chronos is, no really. Nothin’ is as it appears, no Fionn, no Reid, no most ae the customers. Why should the wee shite be any different? After that Fionn transformed intae grandpa mode, informin’ me aboot the good old days when wyverns were feared and revered.

As interestin’ as it was at the time, noo I was baws deep revisin’ subjects that made no mention ae dragons’ wyverns, or shop cats, I had no time fae Fionn and his difficult questions.

Despite the notes, flashcards, highlighted lines, and desperate cramming the night before and morning of, ma first few exams went tits up. If only they did gee ye a mark fae puttin’ your name on the front. The gruelling exam timetable carried on, like sand doon an hourglass, and wi’ each passin’ one I began tae feel worse. Hopelessness set in, and the last ounce ae rage that I had wasnae far behind it.

How was I this shite at everythin? I was oot ae ma depth in the shop, and noo I was oot ae ma depth wi’ uni’, wi’ the part ae ma life that was normal, the part that’d been ma anchor, a source ae stability. Was this how it was fae people who dipped their toes intae the shop side ae the world? They thought they knew whit was what, how ‘hings worked, only tae be told different. Yet no matter how long they’re exposed, or how hard they try tae understand or learn, the confusion seeps intae everythin’. I used tae feel like I belonged in ma life, that was where I was meant tae be. But lately, just sometimes, it feels like I dinnae. And it’s no’ like I feel any more at home in the shop and the world surroundin’ that.

I’ve turned intae an outlier, no really sure where they’re supposed tae be, which side ae the line they’re meant tae be on. Trudging through no man’s land hopin’ no tae step in somethin’ that’ll kill them. These doubts weighed me doon, invaded ma dreams, kept me up the nights before exams. When I did go tae the shop and desperately try tae revise Fionn would be there, askin questions I didnae want tae answer. Everythin’ in ma life was flowin’ through ma hands like water, and I was desperately tryin’ tae scoop it back up.

Then came ma penultimate exam. Another in a perpetual string ae shite papers. The torture had finished before midday, and I contemplated goin’ tae the student’s union and openin’ a tab so I could drink maself tae oblivion, before realisin’ I could do it much cheaper if I got the booze frae the shop and did it at home instead. Despair swirled in ma heid as I made the journey tae the nearest shop, and then somethin’ caught ma eye.

It’s only bad ‘hings that catch ma eyes these days and I struggled wi’ ma brain tryin tae stop it frae lookin’. But I did and saw a creature I hadnae seen since the blissful ignorance ae ma first few months in the shop. A wee brown rabbit perched on the edge ae the pavement on the opposite side ae the road. Its nose twitched, whiskers moving up and doon as it smelled the air. It sat there, starin’ at me. I’d stopped abruptly, forcin’ the woman behind me tae swerve tae avoid a collision. She muttered somethin’ pretty appropriate, but no very nice, at me as she stalked aff. The last time I’d seen that wee ‘hing I’d met Fionn, and we’d met one ae a string ae loose cannons who wanted tae hurt people. Despite its button nose, cotton tail, and unassuming appearance, that creature meant trouble. And that was the last ‘hing I needed.

I took a few shaky steps forwards, almost able tae see the glowin’ sign ae the shop where they kept the booze. Another few paces starin’ determinedly forwards. I wasnae lookin’. It could get tae. A few more steps. I could see the aisle in ma mind, the cheapest ae cheap wine in ma hand at the checkout. Then ma mind began tae wander. Back tae that night in the alleyway wi Fionn and the strange man. The mostly unconscious lassie who’d been his sacrificial lamb. If I’d never followed the rabbit then whit wouldae happened tae her? Whit if it was a similar situation noo?

I could live wi’ it. After all ae the shite that’d gone on in the last few weeks, I was due some time aff. Just this one time.

I ‘hink we all fuckin’ know whit happened. I knew I couldnae live wi maself if I’d walked away. I’d ha been livin’ in torture wondering if I’d left someone tae die. Wi an infantile huff I crossed the road and followed the sodding rabbit, wanderin’ if rabbit pie was hard tae make.

It wasnae a short walk either, no like the last time. This was quite a ways oot frae the campus, in an area that’d been cleared by the council in the last few years. It was a place on the outskirts ae an industrial area where factories and warehouses were. They’d been council hooses until recently, but since the expansion ae the area intae industry everyone had been moved tae elsewhere and the hooses were left abandoned until the site was bought by a developer. On inspectin’ them I hoped they hadnae looked as bad when people had been livin’ in them.

They had the essence ae abandonment. Windoas and doors were boarded up wi’ metal sheets tae stop vagrants and squatters frae gettin’ in, locked wi’ padlocks so heavy it wouldae taken two ae the strongest people in the country just tae get them on. Whit small gardens had been attached were overgrown wi weeds, dandelions, and the occasional rogue daisy. There were no cars on the street, and no one walkin’ past. I started tae feel like followin’ had been a mistake. I’d seen too many horror films tae ‘hink this was gonnae end well fae me.

Sure enough the rabbit disappeared frae the pavement and made its way intae one ae these buildings. When ma gaze followed it I saw that this particular hoose didnae have a padlock on the front door, and the metal board used tae block it up was lying discarded in the front garden. Anybody else wouldae turned roond. But that was too sensible fae me.

I approached the door, which was ajar wide enough fae me tae squeeze through and regret the two sausage rolls I’d had fae breakfast. As soon as I’d finished brushin’ aff the dust and grime frae ma jacket I looked up. The rabbit was gone.

I was in a club. No unlike the one I’d been in the first time I’d seen the rabbit. people were dancin’ roond me, jumpin’ up and doon tae music I couldnae hear. It wasnae packed, and there were few enough people fae me tae wind ma way in and oot ae them, but I moved slowly, as if wadin’ through water. I eventually saw a familiar face. Ma own. Surrounded by ma pals wi their drinks in their hands, no carin’ who or whit they spilled them on. We were havin’ a great time. We always had on nights oot. But they’d been rarer tae come by recently, and it wasnae just because ae exams. I’d just no felt like it. I’d made excuses, or I’d been workin’ late in the shop and by the time I’d got back they’d already left.

I looked happy. Happier than I was noo, and I hated that. I moved on past the group towards a doorway that was lit up, no dissimilar tae a fire exit. The bar across the door gave way when I pushed it and I emerged intae the bright sunlight ae a summer’s day. There’s people roond me dressed in black robes, multicoloured hoods draped over their shoulders, or hangin’ aff them. Everyone’s dressed smartly, high heels, fancy dresses, suits and ties. There’re cameras everywhere, frae the professional tae the one on people’s phones, and most people are posin, grinning and smiling widely as the flashes go aff. This is graduation. I scan the crowd, and eventually I find masel’ dressed like everyone else in ma Sunday best. There’s a professional photographer wi his camera strap roond his neck, aimin’ the lens straight at me and ma Da, who stands as proud as he is awkward. He puts his arm roond me and squeezes, and I can see his beaming grin frae where I’m standin’.

Then there’s one flash too many as the scene changes again. This time I’m in a fancy reception area ae a building. Marble floor, pretentious art on the walls, and uncomfortable sofas in the waiting area. In whit is a recurring theme I’m sittin on one ae the chairs, pretendin’ tae look through a woman’s health magazine, even though ma eyes are dartin’ everywhere but at the page. I’m dressed up again in a suit that I dinnae even own, wearin’ shoes that look so new I can feel ma feet cry out wi’ agony. Eventually someone approaches me and shakes ma hand, tellin’ me tae follow them and I do, lookin’ like a shark’s just invited me over tae dinner. I notice the company name on the reception desk and realise this is the place where most graduates frae ma degree get jobs afterwards.

The final scene I’m shown is the most bizarre. It’s a café, the one that does the best coffee in ma opinion, and suitably beyond a student’s budget. The seats are empty, save fae one table. I’m there again, but someone’s sittin’ opposite me. A someone I’ve no seen in weeks. Reid. We each have a mug, Reid has a slice ae their dark chocolate cake, and he’s talkin’ in between mouthfuls, tellin’ me something that I laugh at or agree wi’. There’s nothin’ special here, this is a normal conversation. It looks so easy, so why did we never do it?

The café fades, all ae the scenes fade, and I’m left in the empty front room ae the ruined hoose. The walls are covered wi mould, the bare floorboards are covered wi scratches and marks, some comin’ loose in places. It should be dark, pitch black, but the windae at the back ae the room has been uncovered and lets just enough light in that I can see the dilapidation. I’m facin that windae, can see the forest the back garden has become sway in the steady breeze. The rabbit hasnae reappeared, and I’m left there wonderin’ whit this was all aboot.

I didnae need tae wonder long, as when I turned roond tae go over tae the front door and leave, a figure was blockin’ ma path. I inhaled sharply through ma teeth when I saw her, lookin’ even more intimidating in this setting than in the shop. Madam Anora.

Since she’d been the last ‘hing I was expectin’ it took me a few minutes tae gather ma thoughts. No one ae them was coherent. Like my Madam, Anora didnae need me tae voice ma queries. She informed me, in her harsh tone, that she was here tae help.

She explained that whit I’ve seen was the future, a possible future. A normal life wi’ graduations, careers, pals, and family. A real friendship wi’ Reid, no one that was tainted by an archaic and unfair bond. A life that was ae ma choosin’.

Madam Anora offered tae release me frae ma apprenticeship.

I havnae uttered many words by this point, but I have learnt one ‘hing bein in the shop, watchin’ as all ae these desperate people come in and beg tae be saved. There’s always a price. So whit was it?

Och, no big deal, she says, just a wee bit ae ma life, so wee I’d hardly notice. Deep doon I know whit she means. She wanted years, ma years. I dinnae ask how many because I know she won’t gee me an answer.

Also learnin’ frae the customers, I ask her how much time I have tae make up ma mind? The answer is immediately. She wouldnae let me leave the hoose until I gave her an answer.

It was nice tae ‘hink I could use the same power on her noo as I did when she came intae the shop, but I didnae ‘hink I could do that again, no in that situation. Ma first thought was if she was tellin’ the truth. Was releasin’ me even possible? Whit aboot fate, destiny, and all ae that shop shite? Did Madam Anora really have the power tae sidestep all ae that? But if she couldnae, then why would she lie? Why would she go tae all ae this trouble tae speak wi me?

A thought that has occurred tae me since is why was she offerin’ me this? Whit did she have tae gain frae this deal? I still cannae figure that oot.

I took some time, probably no as long as I shouldae. And noo I’m home, withoot ma wine, starin’ at ma binders and lecture notes and flash cards. I’ve made my decision. Noo I just need tae live wi’ it, fae however long that is.

Scots terms

Bairn – child

Ma/Da – Mum/Dad

To gripe – to complain; to moan.

Crabbit – grumpy or grouchy.

A nosy – a look at something you’re not supposed to stare at. Essentially to be nosy but visually.

Ijit – idiot

Tele – TV

Bucky – Buckfast. A brand of fizzy wine, and apparently has caffeine in it. Can you tell I’ve never had it (?), but it’s quite famous in Glasgow during nights out.

Script

You remember that silence I used to love in the shop, the one I fervently wished would return? Turns out it’s not so great after all. It’s like when you’re a bairn, afraid of the dark, so you get a night light. Mine had crescent moons and stars rotating on a screen so they’d dance across the ceiling and walls, warped and stretched when they’d have to navigate over furniture. You remind your Ma and Da every time they tuck you in to leave it on, and they do, but when you wake up in the morning, somehow, it’s off. As you get older you realise being scared of the dark is for bairns, and you’re not a bairn, you’re going to be 8 this year. You’re Da goes to switch it on, and you tell him you don’t need it, you’re no longer afraid of the dark and the monsters that lurk there. He obliges. But when that door is shut, and the light pollution of the town isn’t enough to illuminate all the shadows, you find yourself leaning over and flicking that switch, sighing with relief when you see the stars and moons glide across the room.

Telling Reid to go is the same. I thought I’d be fine, not afraid of the beasts in the dark. Except the difference is no matter how hard I scramble around; I’m never going to find that switch because the night light is gone. I thought I’d like the silence, but I like it about as much as I liked the dark.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Fionn and Chronos. But sometimes, the days when Fionn isn’t in the shop, when Chronos is up the stairs with the Madam, the shop feels uncomfortably big, and I find myself unable to move around the antiques with as much ease as I’m used to. If something happens to me, if I touch something dangerous, then there’s no one to find me, no one to help. By the time the Madam comes down it might be too late.

But I’m not here to gripe about my woes. Not exclusively. This day it was Fionn and me in the shop. I could only assume Chronos was upstairs because I didn’t see him all day. Fionn and I had been spending most of our time staring at a floral brooch that’d appeared on the counter. Neither of us had taken it out or found it anywhere. A customer hadn’t donated it or returned it. There it was when I’d arrived. It’d also been there when Fionn had arrived an hour or two earlier. And that’d been our morning. Discussing what to do with it and daring each other to touch it.

Madam Norna found us both at the counter, a few metres away from this thing, both keeping our eyes on it like an arachnophobe does with the giant spider in the corner of their bedroom. Seeing the Madam come down to the shop, unprovoked and unsummoned, set dread simmering away in my gut. Fionn obviously felt the same kind of surprise as he asked her if anything was wrong. I inspected her, the way she walked towards us, steady, almost normal, the way her lips were closed, definitely normal, and the level look she gave Fionn at his question. Whatever it was obviously wasn’t urgent.

Carefully she placed a small piece ae white paper on the glass counter, just beside the possibly sinister brooch. The Madam said she was fine, but that a pal of hers might not be, and she wanted me to go to her house and check. The address was on the piece of paper. Careful not to touch the brooch, I picked the paper up and examined the address, feeling like I knew it or knew of it. It’d been in the news or someone had told me about the street. Some celebrity had bought one of the houses on this street, best part of a million quid apparently. They were old houses, built in the bustle of the industrial revolution by the people who’d benefitted the most. A few hundred years later and they were still occupied by the rich and morally questionable.

It wasn’t that far from the shop, a ten-minute bus ride at the most. I folded the paper up and slid into my pocket. Fionn, in a softer tone of voice than usual, offered to come with me. I stared at him, eyes narrowed and lips beginning to purse with suspicion. He’d never offered to come on a trip outside the shop. Not once. And aye, that could be because Reid always did, but that didn’t mean I always had to have a babysitter. Looking back with hindsight I may have been overly sensitive to the offer. Fionn was trying to be nice, to keep me company, and I just threw it back in his face like some crabbit bairn. I informed him I could go myself, and that I didn’t need a carer. The most embarrassing thing was that after my curt answer the Madam and he exchanged parental looks of concern before they both nodded, not believing a word I said but deciding they needed to let me make my own pig-headed mistakes.

I left for the bus stop, regretting my words, and despising myself that I was so sensitive. The part of town I alighted at was like another world let alone the other side of the same place. This was lavish suburbia. There were trees lining the road, and every house was detached, sporting long driveways and double garages to fit their Bentleys and Porsches. The windows were large, shining as much daylight as possible into the high-ceilinged rooms with frescoes and carvings, and even a chandelier in one. Aye, I had a nosy into the windows, that’s what they’re for.

I continued to walk along the cleaner than clean pavement, not a piece of litter in sight, reading the numbers of these houses to try and find the one I was looking for. I eventually found it near the end, smaller than the others on the same row, but still beyond your average person’s mortgage amount. The large-slabbed pathway leading up to the door was spotless, the grass at the edges trimmed to ruler perfection. Someone had green fingers as the front garden was properly kept, bushes, shrubbery, and flower beds well-tended to. I eventually arrived at the door and searched for a bell, only to find none. Then I noticed the antique door knocker nailed to the navy-blue paint of the door. I don’t know how that wasn’t the first thing I noticed. It was a large bulbous bee, complete with markings on the wings and body. Its head was the hinge of the knocker, so in some respects it was pretty headless. Hesitantly I reached out, grabbed its arse, and used it as intended, hearing the faded brass as it connected with the wood.

I waited, checked my phone for the time, looked at the empty street with only a few cars passing by, and waited some more. There was no answer, so I used the knocker again, more forcefully this time. Still no one came to the door. After one last quick glance at my surroundings, at the street, at the neighbours’ houses, I crouched down, flicked the letterbox open, and squinted inside. I couldn’t see that much, and I saw even less when I felt the letterbox moving away from me as the door swung open. I barely managed to catch myself before I fell forwards with it and sprawled into this person’s hallway. The strange thing was that there was no one behind the door. It’d swung into an empty corridor.

Realising how bad this was starting to look, and regretting acting like such a brat when Fionn had offered to come along, I checked one more time for witnesses, before I bundled inside the house and shut the door behind me. It was only when I heard the click of the latch that I began to realise I’d just entered someone’s house without their permission. There could be anybody in here, anything could’ve happened to the occupant, and I’d just charged in like an ijit. One of these days I’ll need to start thinking about consequences.

Back against the door, I scanned the hallway, past the pairs of shoes under the coat rail, the colourful welcome rug, and to the doorways ahead. All were closed save for one, and I began to creep towards it. Peering around the door I found a living room, the walls painted with sea green and lined with family photos and the odd painting. Furniture all pointed at the giant tele mounted on the wall. It was the thing lying in the middle of the room, on yet another rug, that concerned me. I could only see their feet at first poking out from behind the sofa, and as I took a few more paces into the room I began to see the rest of their body.

She looked to be in her 50s, greying hair fanned out around her head like a halo. I bolted across the room, landing hard on my knees beside her to feel for a pulse. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that much relief when I felt the steady beat of her heart beneath my fingertips. It was short lived, and replaced by a pit in my stomach as my eyes were drawn to an object that lay close to her hand. Under any other circumstances it’d be a perfectly normal thing to find in someone’s house, it wouldn’t even be unusual to see it fallen to the floor. But there was nothing normal about this vase.

I used to get similar feelings in clubs sometimes. I’d spot a bloke lingering at the bar of the club, like a hawk waiting for a field mouse to drop onto, eyeing up whichever lassie would be the easiest pray. Staring at this vase gave me the same feeling, a nauseating concoction of revulsion and fear ae what was going to happen next. This vase wasn’t your grannie’s crystal one she keeps her petunias in. It was made up of different coloured pieces of glass grotesquely stuck together with no pattern or order. Some were clear, others a sea blue, and some an alarming blood red. It wasn’t that big, not enough to hold an entire bouquet, and it was lying on its side beside the woman’s arm.

I knew I shouldn’t touch it. I always know, but I always seem to do the opposite. I only placed a few fingers on the smooth glass, feeling the grooves of where each coloured uneven tile met another. The only thing I can liken it to is when you’re trying to go to sleep and your mind reminds you of that stupid thing you said or did five years ago. You don’t know where this memory came from, what brought it back, but there you are, reliving the humiliation, squirming under the wish that you’d done or said something different. It didn’t show me a memory though, I think I would’ve preferred that.

There was a dark-haired bairn sitting at a wooden table, bent over a bowl with cereal in it, the milk jug just within reach. He spooned food and milk into his mouth, white liquid dribbling down his chin where he missed. There was something familiar about this bairn, not like I’d seen him before, but like he reminded me of someone. Not long after, a person came in, faceless. I don’t mean in the scary way, I mean they had a face, it’s just that I couldn’t quite see it. To be honest I wasn’t even sure what this person was. They were a genderless figure, with no detail that stood out. They approached the bairn and patted him on the head gently before bending down and wiping the milk residue off the bairn’s chin. I looked on with bemusement.

Everything became clear when a person I recognised strode in. A wee bit older, with the marriage gut poking through his shirt, but a bright smile on his usually grumpy features. Reid, an older version, had come into the room, plate of toast in his hand, and sat down at the table before kissing the faceless figure on the cheek. This was a family breakfast. They all sat around the table eating and talking, and I was the unwelcome fly on the wall. This was Reid’s happy life, the one I’d be keeping him from.

The picture suddenly changed to a familiar sight. I stood amongst the antiques of the shop, beside the record players, rails of dusty clothes, and a sewing machine or two. At the glass counter was another familiar face, but then equally unfamiliar because I’d never seen this person before, not even in the mirror. It was me, a version of me. Older, I don’t know by how much, but I wasn’t going grey yet. There was no one else in the shop, not even Chronos, and the silence was hard to bear. The look I could see in my eyes as I scanned around the shop, the emptiness, the sharp stab of loneliness as I realised that’s how it’d always be, made me turn away. There was Reid, content, happy with his family, settled into his happy life. And this empty shop was all I had, for the rest of my long life.

I felt this burning at the back of my throat, like I’d drank too much Bucky and was now about to expel it. Before I could start retching I was thrown out of these thoughts and back into my current reality, crouched beside an unconscious woman and vicious vase. I recoiled my hand from the coloured glass and felt pain as I did so. On inspecting my hand I found small blisters on my fingertips where I’d made contact with its surface, like I’d taken a tray out of the oven without an oven glove on.

I skipped past sad for a change and went straight to anger. How dare that fucking thing show me such shite. How dare a wee glass vase try to get cheeky with me. I was so bloody sick of not being able to touch anything without them wanting to break me that I stood up, and as hard as I could, kicked the vase into the wall and watched with vicious satisfaction as it shattered into pieces, jangling as they hit the floor.

Just to make my point I marched over to a green shard that hadn’t quite broken so well and drove my foot into it, hoping it wouldn’t poke through my shoes. There’s nothing quite as cathartic as the sound of crunching glass. I began to hear a low mumble and a few groans coming from the woman. By the time I rushed across the room to her she was trying to pick herself up off the floor. I helped her to her feet, but she was in no condition to stand so I ended up helping her sit on the sofa. I took a few steps back, letting her senses catch up, but when ma foot tapped something glass, I froze. I slid my eyes down to the floor and there the damn vase was, as though I’d never kicked it against the wall and watched as it exploded into pieces. I jumped as high as a cat after it’s seen a cucumber and couldn’t get away from the damn thing quickly enough.

The woman’s voice drew me out of my horror as she told me that I’d saved her life, before asking if the Madam had sent me. I inspected this person who my boss had tasked me with checking on and I could see her face clearly, no blurry lines or unfocused spots. She was human, so how did she know about the Madam? Noticing my confused face, not that it’s hard to miss, she chuckled lightly and explained that she was a friend of ma boss’s, although suggested that she was perhaps more like a passing acquaintance for someone like Madam Norna. She went onto inform me that she was a Collector and should’ve known better than to touch the vase.

Obviously, I asked her what a Collector was in this context, and she confirmed my suspicions. There are crazy people who actually collect the items in the antique shop. The cursed rings, enchanted boxes, and hellish vases. It was hard not to look at her like she belonged in an asylum.

I spent some time with this pal of Madam Norna’s, whose name was Flora, just to make sure she was fit enough to be left. Before I went, she told me to take the vase with me, as the Madam requested items like that be kept in the shop and not in a private collection. I told her what had happened, how it was indestructible, but she had no answers. All I could think was that my breaking it, even for a few minutes, must’ve snapped her out of whatever it’d done to her, mental torture or something else. The Madam would have all the answers.

Flora gave me a towel or three to wrap it up in as both of us agreed touching it was out of the question, and after putting it in my bag I returned to the shop where my boss and Fionn were waiting by the counter. After a quick greeting I lifted my bag onto the counter and announced that the Madam’s friend had sent a gift. Carefully unzipping the bag, I took a few steps back once the towels were exposed. I could tell by the way Madam Norna gazed at the vase that she knew exactly what it did, and Fionn, noticing her reaction, and mine, joined me in putting some distance between him and it.

Carefully, as if it was some kind of holy relic, the Madam removed the vase, ensuring to never make contact with the coloured glass. I didn’t need to ask questions aloud anymore for my boss to answer them. She informed me that the vase was enchanted to show people their worst nightmares, reaching into the corners of their minds and taking advantage of their deepest fears and insecurities. For normal humans it rarely let them go, pulling them into a cycle of torment they couldn’t hope to escape. For creatures, or a Madam’s apprentice, it took longer to take hold. That hadn’t stopped it from trying. I informed her about my breaking it, and she said that it couldn’t be broken by conventional means. It may look like glass, but it may as well have been titanium. The only solution was to store it in the shop, confirming my fears that the shop was just a storage space for the world’s most dangerous items.

As soon as the Madam left to go upstairs, with vase in hand, a strange atmosphere settled in the shop, and it was coming from Fionn. There was an unusual shadow of seriousness settled on his face, and this began to unsettle me almost as much as the vase had. Eventually he mustered the courage to speak and announced that he had something to ask me. I really hate it when someone tells you they’re going to say something, especially when they act like its world ending. Just fucking say it and stop trying to give me an aneurysm.

He told me he’d noticed how depressed I’d been since Reid left, and although he knew I’d never admit it, scared. He pointed out that he was in the shop all the time, almost as much as Reid had been, and the truth was that he loved the shop, loved being a part of the world it occupied. There was nowhere else in the world like it, he’d looked. So, why didn’t he become my familiar?

I probably let the silence go on for too long. I’d never seen Fionn look so sheepish. I needed to think. Did I need a familiar? Did I want one? Reid had kind of come out of nowhere. I hadn’t known what that kind of bond would entail. In the end I’d needed him more than he’d ever needed me, and now that he was gone, I was struggling. Fionn was offering. This wasn’t a way out of some problems, or a deal made blindly, we both knew what we were getting into. He was right, Fionn was practically always in the shop, by choice.

I also thought to the day’s events. What if that vase hadn’t let me go? Or I hadn’t fought my way out and been lying unresponsive on the floor like Flora until someone found me? As much as I hated it, I needed a guide. I checked with Fionn that it was what he really wanted. That there were no debt collectors after him this time. After a smile cracked his serious face, he confirmed there wasn’t.

So, I agreed, but on one condition. He told me what he was. He gave me a toothy grin, eyes glinting with a sharp mischievousness.

A wyvern, he said.

Well, fuck.

Wyvern – In real world terms, a Wyvern is a distinct creature from a dragon, in the UK at least. The difference is that Wyverns have less limbs than a dragon. A dragon has four legs, whereas a Wyvern sometimes only has two, but there are Wyverns with no legs at all. The consensus seems to be that Wyverns have 2 legs instead of 4 like a Dragon. Obviously, that’s this world, and the lore of TAS is a wee bit different. I take a lot of creative licence with things, as you probably know.

Script – Scots

You remember that silence I used tae love in the shop, the one I fervently wished would return? Turns oot it’s no so great after all. It’s like when you’re a bairn, afraid ae the dark, so ye get a night light. Mine had crescent moons and stars rotatin on a screen so they’d dance across the ceiling and walls, warped and stretched when they’d have tae navigate over other furniture. Ye remind your Ma and Da every time they tuck ye in tae leave it on, and they do, but when ye wake up in the mornin somehow it’s aff. As ye get older ye realise bein’ scared ae the dark is fae bairns, and you’re no a bairn, you’re gonnae be 8 this year. You’re Da goes tae switch it on, and ye tell him ye dinnae need it, you’re no longer afraid ae the dark and the monsters that lurk there. He obliges. But when that door is shut, and the light pollution ae the town isnae enough tae illuminate all ae the shadows, ye find yourself leanin’ over and flickin’ that switch, sighing wi’ relief when ye see the stars and moons glide across the room.

Tellin’ Reid tae go is the same. I thought I’d be fine, no afraid ae the beasts in the dark. Except the difference is no matter how hard I scramble roond, I’m never gonnae find that switch because the night light is gone. I thought I’d like the silence, but I like it aboot as much as I liked the dark.

Dinnae get me wrong, I like Fionn and Chronos. But sometimes, the days when Fionn isnae in the shop, when Chronos is up the stairs wi’ the Madam, the shop feels uncomfortably big, and I find maself no able tae move roond the antiques wi’ as much ease as I’m used tae. If somethin’ happens tae me, if I touch somethin’ dangerous, then there’s no one tae find me, no one tae help. By the time the Madam comes doon it might be too late.

But I’m no here tae gripe aboot ma woes. No exclusively. This day it was Fionn and maself in the shop. I could only assume Chronos was upstairs ‘cause I didnae see him all day. Fionn and I had been spendin’ most ae our time starin’ at a floral brooch that’d appeared on the counter. Neither ae us had taken it oot or found it anywhere. A customer hadnae donated it or returned it. There it was when I’d arrived. It’d also been there when Fionn had arrived an hour or two earlier. And that’d been our mornin. Discussing whit tae do wi it and darin’ each other tae touch it.

Madam Norna found us both at the counter, a few metres away frae this ‘hing, both keepin’ our eyes on it like an arachnophobe does wi’ the giant spider in the corner ae their bedroom. Seein’ the Madam come doon tae the shop, unprovoked and unsummoned, set dread simmerin’ away in ma gut. Fionn obviously felt the same kind ae surprise as he asked her if anythin’ was wrong. I inspected her, the way she walked towards us, steady, almost normal, the way her lips were closed, definitely normal, and the level look she gee tae Fionn at his question. Whitever it was obviously wasnae urgent.

Carefully she placed a small piece ae white paper on the glass counter, just beside the possibly sinister brooch. The Madam said she was fine, but that a pal ae hers might no be, and she wanted me tae go tae her hoose and check. The address was on the piece ae paper. Careful no tae touch the brooch I picked the paper up and examined the address, feelin’ like I knew it, or knew of it. It’d been in the news, or someone had told me aboot the street. Some celebrity had bought one ae the hooses on this street, best part ae a million quid apparently. They were old hooses, built in the bustle ae the industrial revolution by the people who’d benefitted the most. A few hundred years later and they were still occupied by the rich and morally questionable.

It wasnae that far frae the shop, a ten-minute bus ride at the most. I folded the paper up and slid intae ma pocket. Fionn, in a softer tone ae voice than his usual, offered tae come wi’ me. I stared at him, eyes narrowed and lips beginnin’ tae purse wi’ suspicion. He’d never offered tae come on a trip ootside the shop. Not once. And aye, that could be because Reid always did, but that didnae mean I always had tae have a babysitter. Lookin’ back wi’ hindsight I may have been overly sensitive tae the offer. Fionn was tryin tae be nice, tae keep me company, and I just threw it back in his face like some crabbit bairn. I informed him I could go maself, and that I didnae need a carer. The most embarrassin’ ‘hing was that after ma curt answer the Madam and he exchanged parental looks ae concern before they both nodded, no believin’ a word I said but decidin’ they needed tae let me make ma own pig-headed mistakes.

I left fae the bus stop, regrettin’ ma words and despisin’ maself that I was so sensitive. The part ae town I alighted at was like another world let alone the other side ae the same place. This was lavish suburbia. There were trees lining the road, and every house was detached, sportin’ long driveways and double garages tae fit their Bentleys and Porsches. The windaes were large, shining as much daylight as possible intae the high ceilinged rooms wi frescoes and carvings, and even a chandelier in one. Aye, I had a nosy intae the windaes, that’s whit they’re for.

I continued tae walk along the cleaner than clean pavement, no a piece ae litter in sight, readin’ the numbers ae these hooses tae try and find the one I was lookin’ fae. I eventually found it near the end, smaller than the others on the same row, but still beyond your average person’s mortgage amount. The large slabbed pathway leadin’ up tae the door was spotless, the grass at the edges trimmed tae ruler perfection. Someone had green fingers as the front garden was properly kept, bushes, shrubbery and flower beds well-tended tae. I eventually arrived at the door and searched fae a bell, only tae find none. Then I noticed the antique door knocker nailed tae the navy blue paint ae the door. I dinnae know how that wasnae the first ‘hing I noticed. It was a large bulbous bee, complete wi markings on the wings and body. Its heid was the hinge ae the knocker, so in some respects it was pretty headless. Hesitantly I reached oot, grabbed its arse, and used it as intended, hearin’ the faded brass as it connected wi the wood.

I waited, checked ma phone fae the time, looked at the empty street wi only a few cars passin’ by, and waited some more. There was no answer, so I used the knocker again, more forcefully this time. Still no one came tae the door. After one last quick glance at ma surroundings, at the street, at the neighbours’ hooses, I crouched doon, flicked the letterbox open, and squinted inside. I couldnae see that much, and I saw even less when I felt the letterbox movin’ away frae me as the door swung open. I barely managed tae catch maself before I fell forwards wi it and sprawled intae this person’s hallway. The strange ‘hing was that there was no one behind the door. It’d swung intae an empty corridor.

Realisin’ how bad this was startin’ tae look, and regrettin’ actin’ like such a brat when Fionn had offered tae come along, I checked one more time fae witnesses, before I bundled inside ae the hoose and shut the door closed behind me. It was only when I heard the click ae the latch that I began tae realise I’d just entered someone’s hoose withoot their permission. There could be anybody in here, anythin’ couldae happened tae the occupant, and I’d just charged in like an ijit. One ae these days I’ll need tae start thinking aboot consequences.

Back against the door I scanned the hallway, past the pairs ae shoes under the coat rail, the colourful welcome rug, and tae the doorways ahead. All were closed save fae one, and I began tae creep towards it. Peerin roond the door I found a living room, the walls painted wi’ sea green and lined wi’ family photos and the odd painting. Furniture all pointed at the giant tele mounted on the wall. It was the ‘hing lying’ in the middle ae the room, on yet another rug, that concerned me. I could only see their feet at first pokin’ oot frae behind the sofa, and as I took a few more paces intae the room I began tae see the rest ae their body.

She looked tae be in her 50s, greying hair fanned oot roond her heid like a halo. I bolted across the room, landin’ hard on ma knees beside her tae feel fae a pulse. I dinnae ‘hink I’ve ever felt that much relief when I felt the steady beat ae her heart beneath ma fingertips. It was short lived, and replaced by a pit in ma stomach as ma eyes were drawn tae an object that lay close tae her hand. Under any other circumstances it’d be a perfectly normal ‘hing tae find in someone’s hoose, it wouldnae even be unusual tae see it fallen tae the floor. but there was nothin’ normal aboot this vase.

I used tae get similar feelings in clubs sometimes. I’d spot a bloke lingering at the bar ae the club, like a hawk waitin’ fae a field mouse tae drop ontae, eyein up whichever lassie would be the easiest pray. Starin at this vase gee me the same feelin’, a nauseating concoction ae revulsion, and fear ae whit was gonnae happen next. This vase wasnae your grannie’s crystal one she keeps her petunias in. It was made up ae different coloured pieces ae glass grotesquely stuck together wi’ no pattern or order. Some were clear, others a sea blue, and some an alarming blood red. It wasnae that big, no enough tae hold an entire bouquet, and it was lyin’ on it’s side beside the woman’s arm.

I knew I shouldnae touch it. I always know, but I always seem tae do the opposite. I only placed a few fingers on the smooth glass, feelin’ the grooves ae where each coloured uneven tile met another. The only ‘hing I can liken it tae is when you’re tryin tae go tae sleep and your mind reminds ye ae that stupid thing ye said or did five years ago. Ye dinnae know where this memory came frae, whit brought it back, but there ye are, reliving the humiliation, squirming under the wish that you’d done or said somethin’ different. It didnae show me a memory though, I think I wouldae preferred that.

There was a dark-haired bairn sittin’ at a wooden table, bent over a bowl wi cereal in it, the milk jug just within reach. He spooned food and milk intae his mouth, white liquid dribblin’ doon his chin where he missed. There was somethin’ familiar aboot this bairn, no like I’d seen him before, like he reminded me ae someone. No long after a person came in, faceless. I dinnae mean in the scary way, I mean they had a face, it’s just that I couldnae quite see it. Tae be honest I wasnae even sure what this person was. They were a genderless figure, wi no detail that stood oot. They approached the bairn, and patted him on the head gently before bending doon and wiping the milk residue aff the bairn’s chin. I looked on wi’ bemusement.

Everythin’ became clear when a person I recognised strode in. A wee bit older, wi’ the marriage gut pokin’ through his shirt, but a bright smile on his usually grumpy features. Reid, an older version, had come intae the room, plate ae toast in his hand, and sat doon at the table before kissing the faceless figure on the cheek. This was a family breakfast. They all sat roond the table eatin and talkin’, and I was the unwelcome fly on the wall. This was Reid’s happy life, the one I’d be keepin’ him frae.

The picture suddenly changed tae a familiar sight. I stood amongst the antiques ae the shop, beside the record players, rails ae dusty clothes, and a sewing machine or two. At the glass counter was another familiar face, but then equally unfamiliar because I’d never seen this person before, no even in the mirror. It was me, a version ae me. Older, I dinnae know by how much but I wasnae goin’ grey yet. There was no one else in the shop, no even Chronos, and the silence was hard tae bear. The look I could see in ma eyes as I scanned roond the shop, the emptiness, the sharp stab ae loneliness as I realised that’s how it’d always be, made me turn away. There was Reid, content, happy wi his family, settled intae his happy life. And this empty shop was all I had, fae the rest ae ma long life.

I felt this burnin’ at the back ae ma throat, like I’d drank too much bucky and was noo aboot tae expel it. Before I could start retchin’ I was thrown oot ae these thoughts and back intae ma current reality, crouched beside an unconscious woman and vicious vase. I recoiled ma hand frae the coloured glass and felt pain as I did so. On inspectin’ ma hand I found small blisters on ma fingertips where I’d made contact wi’ its surface, like I’d taken a tray oot ae the oven withoot an oven glove on.

I skipped past sad fae a change and went straight tae anger. How dare that fuckin’ ‘hing show me such shite. How dare a wee glass vase try tae get cheeky wi’ me. I was so bloody sick of no bein’ able tae touch anythin’ withoot them wantin’ tae break me that I stood up, and as hard as I could, kicked the vase intae the wall and watched wi’ vicious satisfaction as it shattered intae pieces, jangling as they hit the floor.

Just tae make ma point I marched over tae a green shard that hadn’t quite broken so well and drove ma foot intae it, hopin’ it wouldnae poke through ma shoes. There’s nothin’ quite as cathartic as the soond ae crunching glass. I began tae hear a low mumble and a few groans comin’ frae the woman. By the time I rushed across the room tae her she was tryin tae pick herself up aff the floor. I helped her tae her feet, but she was in no condition tae stand so I ended up helpin’ her sit on the sofa. I took a few steps back, lettin’ her senses catch up, but when ma foot tapped somethin’ glass I froze. I slid ma eyes doon tae the floor, and there the damn’ vase was, as though I’d never kicked it against the wall and watched as it exploded intae pieces. I jumped as high as a cat after it’s seen a cucumber, and couldnae get away frae the damn ‘hing quickly enough.

The woman’s voice drew me oot ae ma horror as she told me that I’d saved her life, before askin’ if the Madam had sent me. I inspected this person who ma boss had tasked me wi’ checkin’ on and I could see her face clearly, no blurry lines or unfocused spots. She was human, so how did she know aboot the Madam? Noticin’ ma confused face, no that it’s hard tae miss, she chuckled lightly and explained that she was a friend ae ma boss’s, although suggested that she was perhaps more like a passin’ acquaintance fae someone like Madam Norna. She went ontae inform me that she was a collector and shouldae known better than tae touch the vase.

Obviously I asked her whit a collector was in this context, and she confirmed ma suspicions. There are crazy people who actually collect the items in the antique shop. The cursed rings, enchanted boxes, and hellish vases. It was hard no tae look at her like she belonged in an asylum. I spent some time wi’ this pal ae Madam Norna’s, whose name was Flora, just tae make sure she was fit enough tae be left. Before I went she told me tae take the vase wi’ me, as the Madam requested items like that be kept in the shop and no in a private collection. I told her whit had happened, how it was indestructible, but she had no answers. All I could ‘hink was that my breakin’ it, even fae a few minutes, mustae snapped her oot ae whitever it’d done tae her, mental torture or somethin’ else. The Madam would have all ae the answers.

Flora gee me a towel or three tae wrap it up in as both ae us agreed touchin’ it was oot ae the question, and after puttin’ it in ma bag I returned tae the shop where ma boss and Fionn were waitin’ by the counter. After a quick greeting I lifted my bag ontae the counter and announced that the Madam’s friend had sent a gift. Carefully unzipping the bag I took a few steps back once the towels were exposed. I could tell by the way Madam Norna gazed at the vase that she knew exactly whit it did, and Fionn, noticing her reaction, and mine, joined me in putting some distance between him and it.

Carefully, as if it was some kind ae holy relic, the Madam removed the vase, ensuring tae never make contact wi’ the coloured glass. I didnae need tae ask questions aloud anymore fae ma boss tae answer them. She informed me that the vase was enchanted tae show people their worst nightmares, reaching intae the corners ae their minds and takin’ advantage ae their deepest fears and insecurities. Fae normal humans it rarely let them go, pullin’ them intae a cycle ae torment they couldnae hope tae escape. Fae creatures, or a Madam’s apprentice, it took longer tae take hold. That hadnae stopped it frae tryin. I informed her aboot my breakin’ it, and she said that it couldnae be broken by conventional means. It may look like glass, but it may as well ha been titanium. The only solution was tae store it in the shop, confirmin’ ma fears that the shop was just a storage space fae the world’s most dangerous items.

As soon as the Madam left tae go upstairs, with vase in hand, a strange atmosphere settled in the shop, and it was comin’ frae Fionn. There was an unusual shadow ae seriousness settled on his face, and this began tae unsettle me almost as much as the vase had. Eventually he mustered the courage tae speak, and announced that he had somethin’ tae ask me. I really hate it when someone tells ye they’re gonnae say something, especially when they act like its world ending. Just fuckin’ say it and stop tryin’ tae gee me an aneurysm.

He told me he’d noticed how depressed I’d been since Reid left, and although he knew I’d never admit it, scared. He pointed oot that he was in the shop all ae the time, almost as much as Reid had been, and the truth was that he loved the shop, loved bein’ a part ae the world it occupied. There was nowhere else in the world like it, he’d looked. So, why didn’t he become ma familiar?

I probably let the silence go on fae too long. I’d never seen Fionn look so sheepish. I needed tae ‘hink. Did I need a familiar? Did I want one? Reid had kindae come oot ae nowhere, I hadnae known whit that kindae bond would entail. In the end I’d needed him more than he’d ever needed me, and noo that he was gone, I was struggling. Fionn was offerin’. This wasnae a way oot ae some problems, or a deal made blindly, we both knew whit we were getting’ intae. He was right, Fionn was practically always in the shop, by choice.

I also thought tae the day’s events. Whit if that vase hadnae let me go? Or I hadnae fought ma way oot and been lyin’ unresponsive on the floor like Flora until someone found me? As much as I hateed it, I needed a guide. I checked wi Fionn that it was whit he really wanted. That there was no debt collectors after him this time. After a smile cracked his serious face, he confirmed there wasnae.

So I agreed, but on one condition. He told me whit he was. He gee me a toothy grin, eyes glintin’ wi a sharp mischievousness. A wyvern, he said. Well. Fuck.

Scots terms

Bairn – child

Wee’un/Wain – Another word for a child. In Glasgow wee’un (short for wee one) has been further shortened to wain (pronounced like the first name Wayne). This is what adults referred to children as when I was growing up in Glasgow (my family still use it); Bairns is a rest of Scotland thing.

Ma – Mum

Dobber – another word for idiot.

Script

Did I do the right thing? I did…I did. Does doing the right thing always make you feel so shite? Maybe if I talk this out, start at the beginning, I’ll start to feel better. That’s how it’s supposed to work.

I’d forgotten something important. It’s like as soon as I record these diary entries, I just forget the event’s happened. But it’s no really gone, it’s more like it’s buried beneath all of the other shite that clutters my head. Sometimes I only find it when it’s too late, and sometimes all it takes is one throwaway comment in a conversation to remind me it’s there, lingering like frost in winter. And then I must decide; deal with it or try and rebury it.

This couple comes into the shop. Two women, early thirties, and one of them has a bun in the oven. And I mean so much bun that the timer’s about to go. She even has the waddle of a pregnant woman. I was deep in the shop, not touching anything that looked interesting, or that could throw me back a few centuries. The bell went, they came in and made their way over to the desk where Fionn and Reid were, for a change, not biting each other’s heads off. I kept one ear open, fixed on the exchange, whilst I arranged crispy records, some dating all the way back to the 20s by singers I’d never heard of. Chronos was pretending to help by curling up on top of the gramophone that’d appeared one day a few weeks back. I’m too scared to inspect it.

There was polite chitchat coming from the front counter. Unusually Reid’s was the first voice I heard. He never normally speaks to customers unless forced. He was inquiring of the pregnant woman when she was due as his sister was also expecting. Sister? He has a sister? That’s when the lid I’d put on my guilt weeks ago began to loosen, the contents trickling out one drip at a time. The customer answered that she was due next month. Another voice, which I assumed to be the pregnant woman’s partner, asked after Reid’s situation, if he hadn’t found a nice fox to settle down with, no cubs of his own on the way.

There was the abashed silence that usually follows a question like this, and I stopped arranging the records in their cardboard box. Chronos began to stir, eyes slowly opening as he noticed the absence of movement. Reid answered that he didn’t. The pregnant woman scolded her partner, saying that he may not want bairns. Reid was quick to point out, too quick, that it wasn’t anything like that. He just had other things to keep him occupied.

I know those words weren’t meant to injure, and I shouldn’t be taking them any other way, but they made me feel awful. I, the shop, what we did, were those other things, and they were all keeping him away from his life, a distraction, a temporary stop before he moved on. The lid was fully off the jar, and all those feelings I’d had months back flooded in. I was keeping him here, keeping him trapped. I began to feel like I was taking him for granted, assuming he’d always be here to help me with things in the shop. What about his family, the ones I’d never asked about? His friends? His life before he’d blown into the shop asking for help. Even though I’d known I was being self-absorbed, selfish, I’d not done anything about it. I’d ignored it, buried it, but it’d bounced back like an elastic band, except now it felt ten times worse.

Suddenly I heard my name from someone crouching beside me, feel their hand resting on my shoulder. I jumped out of my skin and glared into Fionn’s bemused gaze. He apologised, only half sincere, and explained that they’d been calling for me a few times, but I’d never answered. Abashedly, and feeling a bit off, I mumbled an apology and stood up. Fionn said that the couple were here for a blessing and wanted to see the Madam. I had no idea what a blessing was and was too distracted to ask.

Things were already a bit unusual as soon as we reached the top of the stairs. The Madam was already waiting for us at the top rather than the front room, and this time she didn’t want me to make tea. She motioned for the couple to sit on the sofa, but instead of me sitting on the floor, I was to take the space beside the Madam. I felt, for a moment of panic, that I’d been promoted, and I didn’t like it. The coffee table was empty save for one battered old tan leather pouch. The cord around the top was loosened so that it was open like a flower in bloom. The bag was just big enough to fit one hand in. I’d no idea what was inside as I couldn’t see from where I was sitting. It was weird sitting like a grown up, but my legs weren’t complaining.

It wasn’t long before Madam Norna began to answer the questions I hadn’t said aloud. She directed these instructions to the couple sitting opposite, but I knew they were for me as well. She confirmed that the couple were here for a blessing for their unborn bairn. At the mention of the wee‘un its Ma placed her hands on her stomach in a way only a pregnant woman can. Protective, with a hint of pride. Motioning to the leather pouch sitting open on the table, the Madam explained that inside were many different fates, everything that could be, shall be, and will never be. The blessings bestowed on the bairn would be chosen by its parents, who were the conduits of fate in this instance. They were to choose three wooden tiles from the pouch on the table; one each, and then the last one they’d pick together.

Something about this felt comical, yet no one was laughing. The last time I picked something this way was my flatmates names in last year’s secret Santa. There was a different atmosphere to the room, like walking into a church where people are already praying. There’s a sense of the divine, of something spiritual that you can’t quite explain, even if you’re the world’s biggest atheist. A kind of untouchable peace.

The first to put their hand in was the Ma-to-be. Looking every way but into the pouch, she moved her hand around, a gentle scraping could be heard from inside as the tiles were shimmied around. Finally, she pulled one out and placed it on the table, in full view of the Madam. The tile itself was made of a light-ish wood, like oak or chestnut, finely glossed. It was blank, and I assumed that it was face down. The next was her partner who gingerly reached her hand in, and quicker this time took out a tile, placing the one she’d chosen beside the other, again face down. Then, holding hands, they both reached their free hands in the pouch, which I was surprised was big enough to fit both in, and after some awkward rummaging they pulled the final tile out, and planted it face down on the table.

Everyone turned to the Madam expectantly, waiting for her instructions. She nodded encouragingly, and the pregnant woman flipped the tile she’d picked first so it was face up. The symbol on it was familiar, like I’d seen something similar before, and the longer I stared the quicker I began to realise that it was similar to the Madam’s language, the one that only the Madams can read. I didn’t know what it said, still, and there’d been no mention of me learning.

Madam Norna began to explain that this symbol, or letter, meant that the unborn bairn would have a happy disposition, seeing the sunshine in everything rather than the grey clouds. A blessing that would serve them well in their life. At her flowery words I began to feel like I was visiting a sooth-sayer, or tarot card reader, speaking vague promises and predictions. It was quite unlike the Madam who was usually painfully specific. Next was the partner’s turn, and she flipped her tile over with eagerness. The Madam observed, and explained that the bairn would be stubborn, immoveable on matters where it thinks it knows best, unwilling to compromise, but it would also have the conviction and courage to see through its decisions. No sure that was a blessing, and by their reactions there were mixed feelings too.

The last tile was flipped over by both to reveal the final symbol, and the final blessing. The bairn would be generous to those it loved, patient, understanding, and always willing to help. It would never become their enemy or do something that would genuinely hurt them. There were smiles all around at this reassurance, but I began to wonder, my suspicions awakening. The Madam was the only one who could read the symbols on the tiles. We only had her word what she told them was what the tiles showed. Did she have to tell them the truth? Did the tiles only show good things?

Regardless of my own thoughts the parents of the unborn bairn appeared happy with its fortune, or blessing. They thanked the Madam sincerely, and the payment given in exchange was a wee babies shoe, intended for the bairn. I still don’t understand how that was a payment, it wasn’t even a pair of shoes. They left under a cloud of joy, buoyed by their thoughts of a perfectly stubborn bairn.

After they were gone, I bent down to pick up the pouch, sliding the three tiles over to my side of the table. After an encouraging nod from ma boss, I tipped out the contents and wee wooden tiles, about half the size of a domino, scattered across the table. I glanced across and counted. I estimated about twenty, no more than thirty. I frowned. If these were meant to be blessings, reflect the fate of an unborn bairn, then why were there so few? That means that everyone born only has a finite number of options on how their life will turn out. I phrased my doubts as a question, and the Madam nodded in understanding.

She instructed me to really look at the tiles. Apart from their number, what else did I see, or rather not see. I scrutinised the wee tiles, after a few minutes of confusion I began to pick them up, turn them over in my hand, feel their perfect surface, run my fingers across their smoothed edges. They were all blank. Everyone I picked up, even the three that’d been pulled out by the couple, were all blank. With even more confusion I turned back to the Madam waiting for my explanation.

She said that only when the parents touched the tiles would the symbol of the bairn’s fate appear. I could relax, there’s not a finite number of fates, there’s infinite, and somehow these tiles could see into the future, or read an unborn bairn’s personality. Madam Norna also confirmed that the symbols that appeared on the surface was the Madam’s language, so only the Madams could give the blessing to the expecting parents. I asked if they only told the parents about their bairn’s personality. She said they can show anything if the parents ask, but they didn’t, because deep down no parent wanted to know for certain if their bairn would be shite or good. The joy was in the surprise, the potential. In the end, getting a blessing from the Madam was a tradition, and no one wanted to hear bad things. So, exactly like a tarot reading then.

I nodded, collecting up the tiles and sliding them back into the leather pouch they came from. Whilst I was doing this task my boss unusually broached a subject with me. Usually, it’s always me who starts a conversation. It wasn’t a question, but a statement said with such confidence my head snapped to look at her like a bungee cord. She told me, and I mean told me, that I thought I was holding Reid back. It took me a moment, a moment to check I wasn’t sitting on the customer’s sofa, and to fight away the panic that she could read anyone’s mind, not just a customers, before I nodded gingerly. She reached over and patted me on the hand, as if she understood exactly how I was feeling. In her words, I had to decide if I cared enough about him to let him go.

I queried if it was really that simple. If all I needed to do was decide and that would be it. She confirmed that it was. I was the one wearing the ring, and if I decided I wanted to take it off then it’d come off. I wanted to call bullshit on that. I’d tried to take it off months ago and it hadn’t budged. I looked down to the ring on my small finger, the fox head staring back, eyes shining in the daylight. I hardly noticed it anymore, took for granted that it’d always be there. I hadn’t tried to remove it in months either.

I knew it was time. If I’m being honest, it was probably past time. I’d been selfish for long enough, only thought about myself, my own convenience, my own feelings and circumstances. I’d never asked Reid if he liked being my familiar, if he liked being in the shop all day every day verbally abused by Fionn and, let’s face it, on occasion me. I’d never asked about his family, his friends, or his life outside. I’d never asked him if he was my pal because I was afraid the answer was no.

Steeling myself, squaring my shoulders, and ignoring the wee voice in my head that squealed at me to stop and keep Reid against his will, I marched downstairs and announced to him that we needed to speak in private. Obligingly both Chronos and Fionn made their way up the stairs, leaving the two of us alone amongst the antiques. He had a stony face, as usual, staring at me with curious eyes, his characteristic frown pulling his thick eyebrows together.

There were a hundred things I could’ve said, some bad, some good. Typically, I went for the worst one. I told him flatly that I didn’t need him to be my familiar anymore. That was a bare-faced lie. I liked having him around, knowing he was there. Why did I put it that way? I further went on to explain that if those dobbers in suits hadn’t reappeared by now, then he was probably safe. He didn’t have to stay in the shop and near me.

I found it difficult to look at him when these words were spilling out my mouth like vomit after too many jaeger bombs. I thought I saw relief; I thought I noticed anger. Were his shoulders tenser than they had been? In the silences that followed my words he never said anything, and this only prompted me to speak more. Nonsensical excuses that came from nowhere and were nothing like the truth. In the end, in the silence he left, I grasped a hold of the fox ring on my finger and wishing with a ferocity that I’d reserved for Madam Anora during her invasion of the shop, I willed that ring off my finger.

And it came off. I couldn’t believe it, but it’s not like I could show that. Stiffly, like I was holding a filling that’d just fallen out of my mouth, I awkwardly placed it on the glass counter. A sign that we were no longer apprentice and familiar, no longer connected. Free. We both stared at the ring, neither one of us wanting to see the other’s reaction. Eventually, after torturous silence when no one moved or said anything, and he realised I wasn’t picking the ring back up, he turned his heated gaze on me.

Human eyes were replaced with the yellow-green of a fox, narrowed in my direction, anger burning inside. I inhaled sharply, wanting to take a few steps back but afraid if I moved things would get worse. Then it was smothered. His eyes returned to normal, and he took a frighteningly controlled breath out. His fist lashed out and grabbed the ring from the counter. The last thing he spat at me before he stormed away was, ‘thanks for nothing’.

My body went slack and I propped myself up on the counter, for once despising the silence that lingered in the shop. My ring was gone, my familiar was gone, and I felt like shite. That was a few days ago and it’s not been far from my thoughts. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell him the truth, that I thought I was holding him back, keeping him from better, happier things. His life, his family, his friends. I don’t know why that felt so hard to say. And it’s too late now. Every time I arrive in the shop and he’s not there I have to remind myself of the reason. Every time the bell above the door goes, I assume it’s him. I’m like a bloody dog waiting for its owner. But this’ll pass, right? I did the right thing. Didn’t I?

Script – Scots

Did I do the right ‘hing? I did…I did. Does doing the right thing always make you feel so shite? Maybe if I talk this oot, start frae the beginning, I’ll start tae feel better. That’s how it’s supposed tae work.

I’d forgotten somethin’ important. It’s like as soon as I record these diary entries I just forget the event’s happened. But it’s no really gone, it’s more like it’s buried beneath all ae the other shite that clutters ma heid. Sometimes I only find it when it’s too late, and sometimes all it takes is one throwaway comment in a conversation tae remind me it’s there, lingerin’ like frost in winter. And then I have tae decide; deal wi’ it or try and rebury it.

This couple comes intae the shop. Two women, early thirties, and one ae them has a bun in the oven. And I mean so much bun that the timer’s aboot tae go. She even has the waddle ae a pregnant woman. I was deep in the shop, no touchin’ anythin’ that looked interestin’, or that could throw me back a few centuries. The bell went, they came in and made their way over tae the desk where Fionn and Reid were fae a change no bitin’ each other’s heids aff. I kept one ear open, fixed on the exchange, whilst I arranged crispy records, some datin’ all the way back tae the 20s by singers I’d never heard ae. Chronos was pretendin’ tae help by curlin’ up on top ae the gramophone that’d appeared one day a few weeks back. I’m too scared tae inspect it.

There was polite chitchat comin’ frae the front counter. Unusually Reid’s was the first voice I heard. He never usually speaks tae customers unless forced. He was inquiring ae the pregnant woman when she was due as his sister was also expectin’. Sister? He has a sister? That’s when the lid I’d put on my guilt weeks ago began tae loosen, the contents trickling oot one drip at a time. The customer answered that she was due next month. Another voice, which I assumed tae be the pregnant woman’s partner, asked after Reid’s situation, if he hadnae found a nice fox tae settle doon wi’, no cubs ae his own on the way.

There was the abashed silence that usually follows a question like this, and I stopped arranging the records in their cardboard box. Chronos began tae stir, eyes slowly openin as he noticed the absence ae movement. Reid answered that he didnae. The pregnant woman scolded her partner, sayin’ that he may no want bairns. Reid was quick tae point oot, too quick, that it wasnae anythin’ like that. He just had other ‘hings tae keep him occupied.

I know those words werenae meant tae injure, and I shouldnae be takin’ them any other way, but they made me feel awful. I, the shop, whit we did, were those other ‘hings, and they were all keepin’ him away frae his life, a distraction, a temporary stop before he moved on. The lid was fully aff the jar, and all ae those feelins I’d had months back flooded in. I was keepin’ him here, keepin’ him trapped. I began tae feel like I was takin’ him fae granted, assumin’ he’d always be here tae help me wi’ hings in the shop. Whit aboot his family, the ones I’d never asked aboot? His friends? His life before he’d blown intae the shop askin’ fae help? Even though I’d known I was bein’ self-absorbed, selfish, I’d no done anythin’ aboot it. I’d ignored it, buried it, but it’d bounced back like an elastic band, except noo it felt ten times worse.

Suddenly I heard ma name frae someone crouchin’ beside me, feel their hand restin’ on ma shoulder. I jumped oot ae ma skin and glared intae Fionn’s bemused gaze. He apologised, only half sincere, and explained that they’d been callin’ fae me a few times but I’d never answered. Abashedly, and feelin’ a bit aff, I mumbled an apology and stood up. Fionn said that the couple were here fae a blessing and wanted tae see the Madam. I had no idea whit a blessin’ was, but was too distracted tae ask.

Things were already a bit unusual as soon as we reached the top ae the stairs. The Madam was already waitin’ fae us at the top rather than the front room, and this time she didnae want me tae make tea. She motioned fae the couple tae sit on the sofa, but instead ae me sittin’ on the floor, I was tae take the space beside the Madam. I felt, fae a moment ae panic, that I’d been promoted, and I didnae like it. The coffee table was empty save fae one battered old tan leather pouch. The cord roond the top was loosened so that it was open like a flower in bloom. The bag was just big enough tae fit one hand in. I’d no idea whit was inside as I couldnae see frae where I was sittin. It was weird sittin’ like a grown up, but ma legs werenae complainin’.

It wasnae long before Madam Norna began tae answer the questions I hadnae said aloud. She directed these instructions tae the couple sittin’ opposite, but I knew they were fae me as well. She confirmed that the couple were here fae a blessin’ for their unborn bairn. At the mention ae the wee‘un its Ma placed her hands on her stomach in a way only a pregnant woman can. Protective, wi’ a hint ae pride. Motioning tae the leather pouch sittin’ open on the table, the Madam explained that inside were many different fates, everything that could be, shall be, and will never be. The blessings bestowed on the bairn would be chosen by its parents, who were the conduits ae fate in this instance. They were tae choose three wooden tiles frae the pouch on the table, one each, and then the last one they’d pick together.

Somethin’ aboot this felt comical, yet no one was laughin’. The last time I picked somethin’ this way was ma flatmates names in last year’s secret santa. There was a different atmosphere tae the room, like walkin’ intae a church where people are already prayin’. There’s a sense ae the divine, ae somethin’ spiritual that ye cannae quite explain, even if you’re the world’s biggest atheist. A kind ae untouchable peace.

The first tae put their hand in was the Ma tae be. Lookin’ every way but intae the pouch, she moved her hand roond, a gentle scraping could be heard frae inside as the tiles were shimmied roond. Finally, she pulled one oot and placed it on the table, in full view ae the Madam. The tile itself was made ae a light-ish wood, like oak or chestnut, finely glossed. It was blank, and I assumed that it was face doon. The next was her partner who gingerly reached her hand in, and quicker this time took oot a tile, placing the one she’d chosen beside the other, again face doon. Then, holding hands, they both reached their free hands in the pouch, which I was surprised was big enough tae fit both in, and after some awkward rummaging they pulled the final tile oot, and planted it face doon on the table.

Everyone turned tae the Madam expectantly, waitin’ fae her instructions. She nodded encouragingly, and the pregnant woman flipped the tile she’d picked first so it was face up. The symbol on it was familiar, like I’d seen somethin’ similar before, and the longer I stared the quicker I began tae realise that it was similar tae the Madam’s language, the one that only the Madams can read. I didnae know whit it said, still, and there’d been no mention ae me learnin’.

Madam Norna began tae explain that this symbol, or letter, meant that the unborn bairn would have a happy disposition, seein’ the sunshine in everythin’ rather than the grey clouds. A blessing that would serve them well in their life. At her flowery words I began tae feel like I was visitin’ a sooth-sayer, or tarot card reader, speakin’ vague promises and predictions. It was quite unlike the Madam who was usually painfully specific. Next was the partner’s turn, and she flipped her tile over wi’ eagerness. The Madam observed, and explained that the bairn would be stubborn, immoveable on matters where it ‘hinks it knows best, unwilling to compromise, but it would also have the conviction and courage to see through its decisions. No sure that was a blessing, and by their reactions there were mixed feelings too.

The last tile was flipped over by both tae reveal the final symbol, and the final blessing. The bairn would be generous to those it loved, patient, understanding, and always willing tae help. It would never become their enemy or do something that would genuinely hurt them. There were smiles all around at this reassurance, but I began tae wonder, my suspicions awakening. The Madam was the only one who could read the symbols on the tiles. We only had her word what she told them was whit the tiles showed. Did she have tae tell them the truth? Did the tiles only show good ‘hings?

Regardless ae ma own thoughts the parents ae the unborn bairn appeared happy wi its fortune, or blessin’. They thanked the Madam sincerely, and the payment geein’ in exchange was a wee babies shoe, intended fae the bairn. I still dinnae understand how that was a payment, it wasnae even a pair ae shoes. They left under a cloud ae joy, buoyed by their thoughts ae a perfect, stubborn, bairn.

After they were gone I bent doon tae pick up the pouch, slidin’ the three tiles over tae ma side ae the table. After an encouraging nod frae ma boss, I tipped oot the contents and wee wooden tiles, aboot half the size ae a domino, scattered across the table. I glanced across and counteed. I estimated aboot twenty, no more than thirty. I frowned. If these were meant tae be blessings, reflect the fate ae an unborn bairn, then why were there so few? That means that everyone born only has a finite number ae options on how their life will turn oot. I phrased ma doubts as a question, and the Madam nodded in understandin.

She instructed me tae really look at the tiles. Apart frae their number, whit else did I see, or rather no see. I scrutinised the wee tiles, after a few minutes ae confusion I began tae pick them up, turn them over in ma hand, feel their perfect surface, run ma fingers across their smoothed edgees. They were all blank. Everyone I picked up, even the three that’d been pulled oot by the couple, were all blank. Wi even more confusion I turned back tae the Madam waitin’ fae ma explanation.

She said that only when the parents touched the tiles would the symbol ae the bairn’s fate appear. I could relax, there’s no a finite number ae fates, there’s infinite, and somehow these tiles could see intae the future, or read an unborn bairn’s personality. Madam Norna also confirmed that the symbols that appeared on the surface was the Madam’s language, so only the Madams could gee the blessing tae the expectin parents. I asked if they only told the parents aboot their bairn’s personality. She said they can show anythin’ if the parents ask, but they didnae, because deep doon no parent wanted tae know for certain if their bairn would be shite or good. The joy was in the surprise, the potential. In the end, getting’ a blessin’ frae the Madam was a tradition, and no one wanted tae hear bad ‘hings. So, exactly like a tarot readin’ then.

I nodded, collectin’ up the tiles and slidin’ them back intae the leather pouch they came frae. Whilst I was doin’ this task ma boss unusually broached a subject wi’ me. Usually it’s always me who starts a conversation. It wasnae a question, but a statement said wi’ such confidence ma heid snapped tae look at her like a bungee cord. She told me, and I mean told me, that I thought I was holdin’ Reid back. It took me a moment, a moment tae check I wasnae sittin’ on the customer’s sofa, and tae fight away the panic that she could read anyone’s mind, no just a customers, before I nodded gingerly. She reached over and patted me on the hand, as if she understood exactly how I was feelin’. In her words, I had tae decide if I cared enough aboot him tae let him go.

I queried if it was really that simple. If all I needed tae do was decide and that would be it. She confirmed that it was. I was the one wearin’ the ring, and if I decided I wanted tae take it aff, then it’d come aff. I wanted tae call bullshit on that. I’d tried tae take it aff months ago and it hadnae budged. I looked doon tae the ring on ma small finger, the fox heid starin’ back, eyes shinin’ in the daylight. I hardly noticed it anymore, took fae granted that it’d always be there. I hadnae tried tae remove it in months either.

I knew it was time. If I’m bein’ honest it was probably past time. I’d been selfish fae long enough, only thought aboot maself, ma own convenience, ma own feelings and circumstances. I’d never asked Reid if he liked bein ma familiar, if he liked bein in the shop all day every day verbally abused by Fionn and, let’s face it, on occasion me. I’d never asked aboot his family, his friends, or his life ootside. I’d never asked him if he was ma pal because I was afraid the answer was no.

Steelin’ maself, squarin’ ma shoulders, and ignoring the wee voice in ma heid that squealed at me tae stop and keep Reid against his will, I marched doonstairs and announced tae him that we needed tae speak in private. Obligingly both Chronos and Fionn made their way up the stairs, leavin the two ae us alone amongst the antiques. He had a stony face, as usual, starin’ at me wi’ curious eyes, his characteristic frown pullin’ his thick eyebrows together.

There were a hundred ‘hings I couldae said, some bad, some good. Typically I went fae the worst one. I told him flatly that I didnae need him tae be ma familiar anymore. That was a bare faced lie. I liked havin’ him aroond, knowin he was there. Why did I put it that way? I further went on tae explain that if those dobbers in suits hadnae reappeared by noo, then he was probably safe. He didnae have tae stay in the shop and near me.

I found it difficult tae look at him when these words were spillin’ oot ma mouth like vomit after too many jaeger bombs. I thought I saw relief, I thought I noticed anger. Were his shoulders tenser than they had been? In the silences that followed ma words he never said anythin’, and this only prompted me tae speak more. Nonsensical excuses that came frae nowhere, and were nothin’ like the truth. In the end, in the silence he left, I grasped a hold ae the fox ring on ma finger, and wishin’ wi’ a ferocity that I’d reserved fae Madam Anora durin her invasion ae the shop, I willed that ring aff ma finger.

And it came aff. I couldnae believe it, but it’s no like I could show that. Stiffly, like I was holdin’ a filling that’d just fallen oot ae ma mouth, I awkwardly placed it on the glass counter. A sign that we were no longer apprentice and familiar, no longer connected. Free. We both stared at the ring, neither one ae us wantin’ tae see the other’s reaction. Eventually, after torturous silence when no one moved or said anything, and he realised I wasnae pickin the ring back up, he turned his heated gaze on me.

Human eyes were replaced wi the yellow/green ae a fox, narrowed in ma direction, anger burnin’ inside. I inhaled sharply, wanting tae take a few steps back but afraid if I moved things would get worse. Then it was smothered. His eyes returned tae normal and he took a frighteningly controlled breath oot. His fist lashed oot and grabbed the ring frae the counter violently. The last ‘hing he spat at me before he stormed away was, thanks fae nothin’.

Ma body went slack and I propped maself up on the counter, fae once despising the silence that lingered in the shop. Ma ring was gone, ma familiar was gone, and I felt like shite. That was a few days ago and it’s no been far frae ma thoughts. I dinnae know why I didnae just tell him the truth, that I thought I was holdin’ him back, keepin’ him frae better, happier ‘hings. His life, his family, his friends. I dinnae know why that felt so hard tae say. And it’s too late noo. Every time I arrive in the shop and he’s no there I have tae remind maself ae the reason. Every time the bell above the door goes I assume it’s him. I’m like a bloody dog waitin’ fae its owner. But this’ll pass, right? I did the right ‘hing. Didn’t I?

Scots Terms

Fash – to fret or to worry.

as old as the hills – another way of saying someone’s very old.

Bairn – child

Margaret Aitken – was a real person during the 1597 witch hunts in Scotland. See historical note at the end of the script, or click the dreaded Wikipedia link.

A close – is a type of narrow alleyway in Scottish cities. Edinburgh might be more famous for them as some are incredible narrow.

Da – Dad

Ma – Mum

ijit – yet another word for idiot, although this one is easier to decipher.

Script

There’s a picture in the shop. Picture is probably the wrong word, it’s more like a painting. Done in pencil, or charcoal, it has no colour, but the curve of the blackened lines and the smoothing of the shadow give it an enticing depth. I must’ve walked past this image hundreds of times since I started working in the shop, and never seemed to notice it before that day.

It’s small, barely bigger than an A4 sheet of paper, kept within a simple, dark wooden frame that doesn’t seem as old as the picture itself. There’s no date in the corner, no sneaky artist’s initials hidden within the shaded lines. It’s quite unassuming, quite simple, wouldn’t look out of place in someone’s home studio, something they created in their spare time.

For some reason, that day, this picture captures my attention. It’s set a bit further back from the path through the antiques. Not buried, but not in your face either. It’s leaning against a pile of Good Housekeeping magazines from the 30s, not quite facing where I’m standing, slightly off to the right, towards the door. Carefully I find a place to put my foot, between wicker baskets and chairs, so I can lean over and reach the frame. After nearly losing my balance, I finally manage to grasp the frame and return to the main pathway to inspect it. The shop has a lot of paintings, some in big carved frames picturing places and people from mythology and folklore, others are small, simple, and contain sailing boats bobbing on the soft waters during a sunset. This one is different.

The blackened charcoal lines show a town square, surrounded by buildings. There’re blurry outlines of people walking around. The buildings are three and four storeys high, have thatched rooves, and windows with diamond shaped mullions. On the outside you can see the timber frames, the exposed skeleton, and some are sagging in places, or completely crooked, with it looking like the floor is built on a slope. Some of the buildings appear to be shop fronts, more like market stalls, whilst the top floors have washing hanging out, and even the faint outline of people. Out of all the small details, the one thing that stands out is the object standing in the middle of this courtyard. One wee thing in a sweeping snapshot that simultaneously causes awe and revulsion.

Gallows.

I can’t really explain what happened next. The painting was in the centre of my vision, the thatched rooves, the cloudy smudged sky, the blurs of people, but slowly the edges of the frame seeped out, the image enlarged. I felt like I was being swallowed whole, my body being pulled forwards. The next thing I remember I’m still looking down at my hands, except they’re empty, no wooden frame, no charcoal picture. The ground beneath my feet is also not the wooden floorboards of the shop, but condensed mud, dampened by rain, puddles here and there. I look up, expecting to see the antique chairs and vanity table, even the magazines the picture had been leaning against. Instead, I find old buildings, rooves the colour of the wheat in the fields, the outsides washed white, skeletal wooden frames showing the crooked floors. I begin to realise that I’m in the painting. The world here isn’t as black and white as the drawing, everything’s in colour, even the people. There is one difference between what I was seeing and the picture. The gallows in the middle of the square are gone.

I’m no different to anyone else who has a shallow knowledge of history. You think olden times and you assume dark, drear, filthy conditions where nobody knows how to smile, and everyone lives in fear of God. There are people about, but they’re dressed in colour, in muted pinks, pungent crimsons, and natural blues. Women have their heads covered, and men wear caps. I feel like I’ve been flung into a Shakespearean play, except I don’t know what part I’m supposed to play.

When I look down, I’m still dressed in my usual jeans and t-shirt, but no one’s staring at me. In fact, no one’s even looking in my direction. I’m at a loss on what I should do. I don’t know how I got here, so how the hell was I supposed to get out? Was this even real? Was I just hallucinating? For a start there were noises, a rarity in the shop. People scuffing their leather shoes against the mud or stepping in the puddles left over from the rain. The thud as a horse walked heavily by carrying a man wearing a cloak. The faint creak of the windows as they were opened outwards. The smells on the air weren’t unpleasant. The scent of recent rain lingered, a feeling of damp encircling me.

I realised that there was nothing else to do but explore, see if I couldn’t find a way back from whatever was going on. Before I could take a single step, I heard a voice from behind me. I felt like I recognised this voice, I’d heard it before somewhere. Instinctively I turned around and saw two well-dressed women walking towards me. One was younger than the other, not much older than me, and a wee bit taller. I couldn’t see her hair colour because of the white linen cap that hid it, but her eyes were an eerie shade of blue, so light they almost disappeared into the white. I’d seen those eyes before, seen them in that face, seen them frosty, seen them sparkle with mirth. This young woman was Madam Norna. I’m pretty sure my mouth was open as the two women walked past me.

The older one I didn’t recognise. I could’ve sworn she gave me a glance, but it was so quick I may have just imagined it. I felt like calling out, but what would I say? What would I even call her? Was she even the Madam now? I decided to follow the two, hoping they wouldn’t notice. As we moved away from the square and down one of the streets, it became muddier beneath my feet, my shoes stained with brown that I was hoping was just mud. The more people I passed the more I began to realise that I wasn’t being stared at. This place, this town, was obviously in the past, yet I was dressed in thoroughly modern clothes. No one even looked at me.

To test my theory, I even went up to a smart dressed man and spoke to him, but he walked straight past me like I was invisible. I did try and walk through walls only to be stopped by them. I was literally an invisible person. At least I could speak, although it wasn’t as if anyone could hear me.

I continued to follow Madam Norna and the older woman until they arrived at a shop front. There was a small section that looked as though it could open, not unlike a market stall. There was no name painted above or on a sign, so I had no idea what it was. The door was left open after the two women slipped inside. I don’t know what shops were like back then, but this is far from what I’d ever imagined. And it all looked familiar somehow, felt familiar. The placement of the walls, of the wooden counter, the shelves behind it packed with glass jars and wooden trays labelled with names I couldn’t even read. From the outside I’d have thought it’d be smaller on the inside, but it was cavernous, stretching further back than I’d expected. In one corner there was a loom, a large wooden structure strung up with hundreds of wee threads, a small stool placed before it. Deeper inside was a bench, more white thread, and tiny wee boards filled with pins, the threads winding between them in a lace like pattern. The next bench was more practical, filled with hammers, chisels, and tools I couldn’t name, small pins littered everywhere. It seemed that every surface was used to make a different thing. There were shelves filled with rolls of fabric, reems of lace, and tendrils of ribbons. It felt like I’d be able to find anything if I just looked hard enough.

My concentration was captured by the two women who were tying each other’s aprons and fixing their linen caps. A very young Madam Norna was talking about something, although her voice wasn’t as soft as I was used to. She was telling the older woman that “they” were expected in this town next, and that’d “they’d” arrive soon. No idea who ‘they’ were, but from the concerned look pulling her brows together I didn’t think they were welcome visitors.

The older woman told her not to fash, a word my Grannie used to use when she’d tell someone not to worry, and that everything’d be fine. Young Madam Norna didn’t look convinced. The older woman then called her Isobel, instructing her to make up Master McCready’s prescription. Isobel must be Madam Norna’s real name, so this was before she’d become Madam.

I began to look about the shop, at all the things in it, at the walls, the floor, even towards the doorway at the back, and I began to realise this was the antique shop. Practically the same in everything but contents. When something black and four legged jumped on the countertop, startling Isobel, I felt my mouth hang open again. Young Madam Norna scolded Chronos for giving her a fright. Chronos? No, that couldn’t be the same cat. Maybe all cats in the shop were called that, like Madam Norna? Somehow, I was more inclined to believe that wee shite was as old as the hills. No wonder he’s so good at cards.

When I saw the older woman moving in my direction, I leaped out of the way, and again I could’ve sworn we made eye contact. She made her way over to the loom, sat down in front of it, and began to throw the shuttle back and forth, the wooden parts clacking rhythmically. If Isobel was being called by her name, and this was the antique shop, then this woman must be current-to-the-time Madam, right? I say older woman, but she wasn’t even that old, probably the same age as the Madam looked in my time, early forties at the latest. She had green eyes and lightish blonde hair, at least her eyebrows were, the linen cap covered most of her head.

I wasn’t standing around for long before someone came into the shop. Another woman, a wee bit older, with grey hair peeking out from beneath her head covering. Isobel greeted her by name and the two started the usual chitchat that comes with being a regular customer. Whilst Isobel was busying behind the counter the older woman began to muse that a woman called Margaret Aitken was being wheeled into town by the witch hunters. She continued that people in the town were already reporting neighbours, family, friends, and more importantly enemies to the authorities prior to their arrival. I haven’t heard the name Margaret Aitken since I was a bairn in school. She was the head of the second wave of national witch trials in Scotland. After being accused of being a witch, she then claimed she could identify other witches, and so the witch hunters began to travel around Scotland getting her to throw other people under the bus on the promise that she’d be pardoned by doing so. She wasn’t, and after being exposed as a liar by people in Glasgow, she was killed. She still managed to throw hundreds of innocent people onto the pyre.

Isobel, after handing over a linen pouch to the woman that smelled like dried weeds, asked when this witch hunting party was due. In the next two days, according’ to the woman. Young Madam Norna looked understandably worried, and glanced to her boss for reassurance, which came as confidently as it had the first time. Don’t fash, all will be well.

Time wasn’t the same for me as it was to the world around me. One minute it was morning, and the next dusk had begun to settle into the overcast sky. The Madam dismissed Isobel, telling her to go home, and curious, I followed. Back past the courtyard, through the streets, down narrow alleys, until we reached a close with washing hanging over our heads and bairns playing and running about. The damp was worse here, there was a distinct waft of mould with every breath I took, and the air didn’t feel as fresh as it had before. This part of town was by no means slum-like, the ground was relatively clean, the people we passed well turned out. Here it felt like poverty was an ever-constant possibility should one thing go wrong, one bad decision made. These people weren’t poor, but they were probably barely getting by.

Isobel opened a dark wooden door and stepped inside to an even darker hallway, barely lit by the dying light outside. From memory she strode her way over to the stairs and made her way up them. It took my eyes a while to adjust, and I may have tripped over a few stairs on my journey after her. The rooms her family occupied were on the first floor, and although not cramped, it wasn’t exactly spacious either. It wasn’t improved by the sheer number of people inside.

The door opened onto a room, a stone fireplace on the opposite wall that was roaring away, a pot balanced on a tripod over it. There was a large wooden table in the middle, chairs on either side, and one at the very top. A woman sat in one of these chairs, white linen in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. She greeted Isobel as she came in and told her to do something. There were bairns everywhere, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. There were a few on the floor playing with wooden figurines, a few at the table also with needles and threads sewing scrap pieces of fabric, and I could hear voices coming from one ae the doors that led away from this room. I observed as Isobel weaved and wound her way over to the fire, avoiding the bairns, and began to arrange pots, pans, and plates.

Time skipped forwards as I lingered near the doorway, and a man appeared. A wee bit older than the woman, who I assumed to be Isobel and the other bairn’s Da, he sat at the head of the table. The fire crackled in the background, and a few candles were lit on the table, although the room was still dull, illuminated only by flickering amber light. The large family of perhaps eight or nine ate dinner together. Isobel appeared to be one of the oldest, with a lad that looked to be a year or two older sitting further down the table. The patriarch of this family eyed his eldest daughter for a few seconds before he spoke. He announced that he and his wife had begun speaking with the Flemings about their son, who was currently a draper’s apprentice somewhere in the town. The mother chimed in, saying that he was a nice, polite lad and would make a good husband. I couldn’t help but cringe at this conversation. I mean I know arranged marriages were all the rage in the past, but actually seeing how these conversations went was a wee bit painful.

Both parents explained that it was a good match, he was a good lad, and that his father had agreed to let them stay in his house after they married. The dowry was yet to be discussed, but it had been mentioned that Isobel would have to give up her own job once she was married. Isobel looked as happy about that as I was. She let her parents speak, praise the virtues of the Flemings and their son, and about married life. I couldn’t tell if they were trying to convince their daughter or themselves. Isobel remained quiet, much like she did as Madam Norna, and nodded her head in agreement from time to time, but I could sense something else, a knowledge that her parents didn’t have. It was like she knew that she’d never have to marry the Fleming’s son, she knew that all this marriage talk would come to nothing. Did she already know about the fate as a Madam? Did she already know that this life her parents wanted for her would be unlived?

Time began to skip forwards, like someone pressing a button on a remote control. Dinner was cleared away, the fire was doused, the family packed into their beds, some of the younger bairns laying out on the floor beside the last embers of the fire. Then the daylight came in, the overcast sky turned from dark to grey, and one by one the family began to leave their home, including Isobel. I followed her through the streets back to the shop, but it was busier this time.

People had emerged from their shops and homes, stopped on their journeys, to witness as the dark parade arrived with their crosses and sermons and death. As we walked through the main town square there was a queue of people outside of one ae the buildings, men dressed in dark, drab coloured clothes directing them where to go. The customer had been right, people were queueing to report witches. That’s when I began to worry. I know the history, people killed for being witches were innocent, or so I used to think. But what about the Madam? If anything looked like witchcraft, it was the antique shop and the woman who ran it. Was that how this story ended? I knew Isobel survived, but what about the old Madam?

Isobel arrived at the empty shop, the Madam and Chronos going about their business. This old Madam Norna was always in the shop during the day, unlike my Madam. Customers came and went, but most were regular customers, buying lace, fabric, or something in the jars and wooden trays behind the counter. When a younger woman ploughed through the front door, wearing distress like a cloak, I guessed that even in the 16^th century the shop had special customers. Prior to the invention of business cards, this woman took a quick glance at Isobel before searching around and finding the Madam. When she stated frantically that she needed her help I felt that the walls between this time and mine became thinner.

The customer was invited over to one of the many tables that occupied the shop. I half expected Isobel to retreat somewhere and make a pot of tea, until I remembered that tea wouldn’t be introduced to this country for another century at least. The customer sat on one side of the table, whilst the Madam and Isobel sat on the other. With tears in her eyes, some streaming down her cheeks, the young customer explained that her Ma had just been arrested by the witch hunters as someone had accused her of cursing their cattle and crops. The woman insisted that her Ma wasn’t a witch, that she had a temper and that was all. It’s unusual for me to not believe customers, or to believe they have a misunderstanding. I’d seen what curses could do back in my own life, with the customers a few hundred years down the line. Did this woman know for sure that her Ma hadn’t cursed the cattle and crops? I don’t know much about people who can make their curses come true, but I’ll admit it was unlikely this customer’s Ma was one of them.

Predictably the young woman pleaded with Madam Norna to save her Ma, explaining with the dangerous promise that she’d do anything. My curiosity was peaked at this. It’s not like we’re ever going to get a customer like this in the shop. How would Madam Norna help this lassie and her Ma? I scanned around the shop once more, for the hundredth time, and was genuinely disappointed when I couldn’t see the cabinet that was occupying the front room in my version of the shop. Was there a candle, a pendant, an incense stick that could be lit and erase all charges of witchcraft?

My curiosity quickly turned bitter in my mouth when the Madam explained that she couldn’t help. I wasn’t the only one with a disappointed reaction, and immediately the customer protested, then pleased, then begged, then cursed, then left. Isobel hadn’t said a word, so she was already a better apprentice than I am. After she was sure the customer wouldn’t return, she glanced to the Madam, doubt brimming in her eyes. After a moment’s silence she asked why help had been refused, reasoning that if anyone could help then it would be them, it should be them. They’d helped people out of worse situations.

Old Madam Norna stared at her hands for a while with an unreadable expression. It was easy to think she didn’t care and that perhaps altruism wasn’t necessarily a requirement of a Madam. Like all shops, the right to refuse custom also applied here. Perhaps it was too difficult to interfere or would put the shop at risk of exposure. I’d never seen my Madam refuse to help any customer, and surely this wasn’t the time to refuse. Eventually the old Madam Norna turned her body slightly to face her apprentice, inspecting her, eyeing her like the Madam did to me on the occasions I challenged her.

This Madam wasn’t cross with Isobel, wasn’t angry, her face was calm, controlled. She explained that she couldn’t help this time, as this time was different to others. The people found guilty of witchcraft during these trials were fated to die, and the one thing the Madams couldn’t do was interfere with fate. Protect it, observe it, correct it when it strayed, but not change it. A part of me was curious what happened if a Madam did try to interfere. And the smarter part of me knew it wouldn’t end well.

Isobel accepted this answer with the begrudging resignation of someone with few other choices. Even I didn’t know what I’d do were I in her position. Jail break? Dramatic court scene? Nothing realistic. I remembered what the Madam had told me about fate. That there are fixed points in people’s lives that they must go through. If they stray from the path, then they get corrected by the cogs of the universe. I presumed that death was one of these points. And everyone knows how inescapable death is.

The rest of the day, which passes quickly for me, is spent in uncomfortable silence as the turmoil of the town and the witch hunters seeps through the door in bits and pieces, through whispers and rumours. When Isobel leaves to go home, I don’t follow her this time. I’m almost too scared to.

“Which apprentice are you then? Because you aren’t mine.”

A voice echoes around the shop. I turn slowly to face the old Madam and she’s looking directly at me this time. It frightens me more. I quickly became used to being a fly on the wall, an invisible audience, so being addressed directly unsettles me and it takes me longer than it should to form a reply. I nod wordlessly. The old Madam surmises that I’m from far in the future, and I explain that I’m Isobel’s apprentice. The rest of the story tumbles from my mouth as I ask her how I got back to my own time and out of this nightmare land.

The way she smiled at me reminded me of my Madam, the kind of resigned smile after they understand that they’re dealing with a complete ijit. She tells me it’s simple. Someone will probably have noticed I’m gone by now. If I go back to the spot I arrived I’d probably be retrieved. Incredulously I checked what would happen if no one had noticed I was gone. The answer was that if I wished hard enough, I’d go back. I wasn’t supposed to be here, I didn’t fit, and fate didn’t like people playing fast and loose with time. So just like Dorothy, if I wished to return, fate would be more than happy to help.

I thank the old Madam, glance at Chronos suddenly feeling a pang of missing my version and exit the shop. Time has shifted again; the darkening sky has reversed. The constant heavy cloud that’s dominated the sky since my arrival is now breaking into dawn, slashes of orange and red cutting across the clouds. Hastily I make my way back to the town square, which is deserted so early in the morning. The queue of snitches has vanished, and the red light of the dawn touches the whitewashed houses with their strange windows and crooked floors. I cross the courtyard, trying to remember the exact spot I’d appeared at, when I noticed someone standing in the spot I think is the right one. As I get closer, I recognise Isobel with her linen cap pinned neatly to her hair, and her blue eyes darting between what’s in her hands and the scene in front of her. With a pencil, she’s drawing in a wee leather-bound book, hand sliding over the strangely textured paper.

Curiously I sneak around her and peek over her shoulder. On the page is a smaller version ae the picture that got me here in the first place. Like the first sketching of an artist’s masterpiece. The details, the shading, the buildings, even the shadows that they cast were scrawled in this small notebook. I suddenly begin to feel like I’m falling into this sketch. The yellowed edges of the paper swallow my peripheral, the gentle pencil lines envelope the rest of ma vision.

And when I blink again, I’m still looking at the drawing, only this time it’s the original, with charcoal lines, blurred people, and ominous gallows. There’s a hand resting on my shoulder and somehow I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Madam Norna, my Madam. I turn around slowly, painting still in my grasp, and observe her gentle gaze and breath of a smile tugging at her lips.

I checked if what had happened had just actually happened, but when I glanced out of the shop window and noticed it was dark outside when it’d been midday before, I guessed that it had. That’s the last time I’ll give a drawing in the shop more than a cursory glance. The Madam inquired if I’d seen everything I’d wanted to. I answered that I’d seen more. I glanced down at the painting, and after shuddering visibly, put it back where I’d found it.

As we both wound our way down the pathway to the front counter, I asked the Madam if she missed her life, the one I’d seen, with the big family, small town, and well-meaning if not misled parents. She contemplated a while before answering. Yes and no, she explained. She missed her friends, even her family sometimes, but not the wasted life many other women from her time were forced to have. She’d become more than just a draper’s wife, more than just a daughter, wife, and mother.

The last question I asked was how the Madams had escaped the witch trials. She threw me a sly look, as if the answer was obvious. Why would real witches let themselves be caught?

Historical note – Margaret Aitken was a real woman in the second witch trials in Scotland, which were in 1597, and was only the second of five. Everything I said about her in the story is true, she was accused of being a witch, and in the hopes of reprieve she said she could identify other witches. So she was paraded around Scotland identifying people that were witches. Which was obviously nobody, but the church still took her at her word and people died. It wasn’t until they got to Glasgow that things began to go pear-shaped for Margaret Aitken. The people of Glasgow, savvy as we are, either began to be suspicious or were just cynical from the beginning about her abilities and decided to test her. What would happen was that people would be brought in front of Margaret and she would identify which ones were witches. What the people of Glasgow did was put the same people in front of her twice, dressed differently, and predictably one time they’d be a witch, and the next they wouldn’t be. Once this was revealed this witch trial died down, and unfortunately poor Margaret was killed anyway.

As everyone who’s been listening to my podcasts for a while knows that I’m obsessed with witches, not so much the witch trials, but I do find them fascinating. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity as a Scottish person doing a supernatural podcast to include them in my historical episode of the season. If you are interested in learning more about the history of witchcraft in Scotland then I recommend the Witch Hunt podcast by BBC radio Scotland, which I listened to in preparation for this episode. It was incredibly informative.

Script – Scots (ish)

There’s a picture in the shop. Picture is probably the wrong word, it’s more like a painting. Done in pencil, or charcoal, it has no colour, but the curve of the blackened lines and the smoothing of the shadow give it an enticing depth. I mustae walked past this image hundreds ae times since I started working in the shop, and never seemed tae notice it before that day.

It’s small, barely bigger than an A4 sheet ae paper, kept within a simple, dark wooden frame that doesnae seem as old as the picture itself. There’s no date in the corner, no sneaky artist’s initials hidden within the shaded lines. It’s quite unassuming, quite simple, wouldnae look oot ae place in someone’s home studio, somethin’ they created in their spare time.

For some reason, that day, this picture captures ma attention. It’s set a bit further back frae the path through the antiques. No quite buried, but no in your face either. It’s leaning against a pile ae Good Housekeeping magazines frae the 30s, no quite facing where I’m standing, slightly aff tae the right, towards the door. Carefully I find a place tae put ma foot, between wicker baskets and chairs, so I can lean over and reach the frame. After nearly losin’ ma balance, I finally manage to grasp the frame and return tae the main pathway tae inspect it. The shop has a lot ae paintings, some in big carved frames picturing places and people frae mythology and folklore, others are small, simple, and contain sailing boats bobbing on the soft waters during a sunset. This one is different.

The blackened charcoal lines show a town square, surrounded on all sides by buildings. There’s blurry outlines ae people walkin’ around. The buildings are three and four storeys high, have thatched rooves, and windows wi diamond shaped mullions. On the ootside ye can see the timber frames, the exposed skeleton, and some are sagging in places, or completely crooked, wi it lookin’ like the floor is built on a slope. Some ae the buildings appear tae be shop fronts, more like market stalls, whilst the top floors have washing hangin’ oot, and even the faint ootline ae people. Oot ae all the small details, the one ‘hing that stands oot is the object standin’ in the middle ae this courtyard. One wee ‘hing in a sweepin’ snapshot that simultaneously causes awe and revulsion. It looked like gallows.

I cannae really explain whit happened next. The paintin’ was in the centre ae ma vision, the thatched rooves, the cloudy smudged sky, the blurs ae people, but slowly the edges ae the frame seeped oot, the image enlarged. I felt like I was being swallowed whole, ma body being pulled forwards. The next thing I remember I’m still looking doon at ma hands, except they’re empty, no wooden frame, no charcoal picture. The ground beneath ma feet is also no the wooden boards ae the shop, but condensed mud, dampened by rain, puddles here and there. I look up, expecting tae see the antique chairs and vanity table, even the magazines the picture had been leaning against. Instead I find old buildings, rooves the colour ae the wheat in the fields, the ootsides washed white, skeletal wooden frames showing the crooked floors. I begin tae realise that I’m in the painting. The world here isn’t as black and white as the drawing, everything’s in colour, even the people. There is one difference between whit I was seein’ and the picture. The gallows in the middle ae the square are gone.

I’m no different to anyone else who has a shallow knowledge ae history. Ye think olden times and ye assume dark, drear, filthy conditions where naebody knows how tae smile, and everyone lives in fear ae God. There are people aboot, but they’re dressed in colour, in muted pinks, pungent crimsons, and natural blues. Women have their heads covered, and men wear caps. I feel like I’ve been flung intae a Shakespearean play, except I dinnae know whit part I’m supposed tae play.

When I look doon I’m still dressed in ma usual jeans and t-shirt, but no one’s starin’ at me. In fact, no one’s even lookin’ in ma direction. I’m at a loss on whit I should do. I dinnae know how I got here, so how the hell was I supposed tae get oot. Was this even real? Was I just hallucinating? Fae a start there were noises, a rarity in the shop. People scuffin their leather shoes against the mud, or steppin’ in the puddles left over frae the rain. The thud as a horse walked heavily by carrying a man wearin’ a cloak. The faint creak ae the windaes as they were opened outwards. The smells on the air werenae unpleasant. The scent ae recent rain lingered, a feelin’ ae damp encircling me.

I realised that there was nothin’ else tae do but explore, see if I couldnae find a way back frae whitever was goin’ on. Before I could take a single step I heard a voice frae behind me. I felt like I recognised this voice, I’d heard it before somewhere. Instinctively I turned aroond and saw two well-dressed women walking towards me. One was younger than the other, no much older than me, a wee bit taller. I couldnae see her hair colour because ae the white linen cap that hid it, but her eyes were an eerie shade ae blue, so light they almost disappeared intae the white. I’d seen those eyes before, seen them in that face, seen them frosty, seen them sparkle wi mirth. This young woman was Madam Norna. I’m pretty sure ma mouth was open as the two women walked past me.

The older one I didnae recognise. I couldae sworn she gee me a glance, but it was so quick I may have just imagined it. I felt like callin’ oot, but whit would I say? Whit would I even call her? Was she even the Madam noo? I decided tae follow the two, hopin’ they wouldnae notice. As we moved away frae the square and doon one ae the streets, it became muddier beneath ma feet, ma shoes stained wi brown that I was hopin’ was just mud. The more people I passed the more I began tae realise that I wasnae bein stared at. This place, this town, was obviously in the past, yet I was dressed in thoroughly modern clothes. No one even looked at me.

Tae test ma theory I even went up tae a smart dressed man and spoke tae him, but he walked straight past me like I was invisible. I did try and walk through walls only tae be stopped by them. I was literally an invisible person. At least I could speak, although it wasnae as if anyone could hear me.

I continued tae follow Madam Norna and the older woman until they arrived at a shop front. There was a small section that looked as though it could open, not unlike a market stall. There was no name painted above or on a sign, so I had no idea whit it was. The door was left open after the two women slipped inside. I dinnae know whit shops were like back then, but this is far frae whit I’d ever imagined. And it all looked familiar somehow, felt familiar. The placement ae the walls, ae the wooden counter, the shelves behind it packed wi glass jars and wooden trays labelled wi names I couldnae even read. Frae the ootside I’d have thought it’d be smaller on the inside, but it was cavernous, stretching further back than I’d expected. In one corner there was a loom, a large wooden structure strung up wi hundreds ae wee threads, a small stool placed before it. Deeper inside was a bench, more white thread, and tiny wee boards filled wi pins, the threads winding’ between them in a lace like pattern. The next bench was more practical, filled wi hammers, chisels, and tools I couldnae name, small pins littered everywhere. It seemed that every surface was used tae make a different ‘hing. There were shelves filled wi rolls ae fabric, reems ae lace, and tendrils ae ribbons. It felt like I’d be able tae find anything if I just looked hard enough.

Ma concentration was captured by the two women who were tyin’ each other’s aprons and fixin’ their linen caps. A very young Madam Norna was talkin’ aboot something, although her voice wasnae as soft as I was used tae. She was tellin’ the older woman that “they” were expected in this toon next, and that’d “they’d” arrive soon. No idea who they were, but from the concerned look pullin her brows together I didnae ‘hink they were welcome visitors.

The older woman told her no tae fash, a word ma Grannie used tae use when she’d tell someone no tae worry, and that everythin’d be fine. Young Madam Norna didnae look convinced. The older woman then called her Isobel, instructin’ her tae make up Master McCready’s prescription. Isobel, that was Madam Norna’s real name, this was before she’d become Madam.

I began tae look aboot the shop, at all ae the ‘hings in it, at the walls, the floor, even towards the doorway at the back, and I began tae realise this was the antique shop. Practically the same in everythin’ but contents. When somethin’ black and four legged jumped on the counter top, startlin’ Isobel, I felt ma mouth hang open again. Young Madam Norna scolded Chronos fae geein’ her a fright. Chronos? No, that couldnae be the same cat. Maybe all cats in the shop were called that, like Madam Norna? Somehow I was more inclined tae believe that wee shite was as old as the hills. No wonder he’s so good at cards.

When I saw the older woman moving in my direction I leaped oot ae the way, and again I couldae sworn we made eye contact. She made her way over tae the loom, sat doon in front ae it, and began tae throw the shuttle back and forth, the wooden parts clacking rhythmically. If Isobel was bein’ called by her name, and this was the antique shop, then this woman must be current to the time Madam, right? I say older woman, but she wasnae even that old, probably the same age as the Madam looked, early forties at the latest. She had green eyes, like me, and lightish blonde hair, at least her eyebrows were, the linen cap covered most ae her heid.

I wasnae standin’ roond fae long before someone else came intae the shop. Another woman, a wee bit older, wi’ grey hair peekin’ oot frae beneath her head covering. Isobel greeted her by name and the two starteed the usual chitchat that comes wi bein’ a regular customer. Whilst Isobel was busyin’ behind the counter the older woman began tae muse that a woman called Margaret Aitken was bein’ wheeled intae toon by the witch hunters. She continued that people in the toon were already reportin’ neighbours, family, friends, and more importantly enemies tae the authorities prior tae their arrival. I havenae heard the name Margaret Aitken since I was a bairn in school. She was the heid ae the second wave ae national witch trials in Scotland. After bein accused ae bein’ a witch, she then claimed she could identify other witches, and so the witch hunters began tae travel aroond Scotland getting’ her tae throw other people under the bus on the promise that she’d be pardoned fae doin’ so. She wasnae, and after bein’ exposed as a liar by people in Glasgow, she was killed. She still managed tae throw hundreds ae innocent people ontae the pyre.

Isobel, after handin’ over a linen pouch tae the woman that smelled like dried weeds, asked when this witch huntin’ party was due. In the next two days, according’ tae the woman. Young Madam Norna looked understandably worried, and glanced tae her boss fae reassurance, which came as confidently as it had the first time. Dinnae fash, all will be well.

Time wasnae the same fae me as it was tae the world roond me. One minute it was mornin, and the next dusk had begun tae settle intae the overcast sky. The Madam dismissed Isobel, tellin’ her tae go home, and curious, I followed. Back past the courtyard, through the streets, doon narrow alleys, until we reached a close wi washin’ hangin’ over our heids and bairns playin’ and runnin’ aboot. The damp was worse here, there was a distinct waft ae mould wi’ every breath I took, and the air didnae feel as fresh as it had before. This part ae town was by no means slum like, the ground was relatively clean, the people we passed well turned out. Here it felt like poverty was an ever constant possibility should one ‘hing go wrong, one bad decision made. These people werenae poor, but they were probably barely gettin’ by.

Isobel opened a dark wooden door and stepped inside tae an even darker hallway, barely lit by the dying light ootside. Frae memory she strode her way over tae the stairs and made her way up them. It took ma eyes a while tae adjust, and I may have tripped over a few stairs on ma journey after her. The rooms her family occupied were on the first floor, and although not cramped, it wasnae exactly spacious either. It wasnae improved by the sheer number ae people inside.

The door opened ontae a room, a stone fireplace on the opposite wall that was roarin’ away, a pot balanced on a tripod over it. There was a large wooden table in the middle, chairs on either side, and one at the very top. A woman sat in one ae these chairs, white linen in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. She greeted Isobel as she came in and told her tae do something. There were bairns everywhere, and I dinnae mean that metaphorically. There were a few on the floor playin’ wi wooden figurines, a few at the table also wi needles and threads sewing scrap pieces ae fabric, and I could hear voices comin’ frae one ae the doors that led away frae this room. I observed as Isobel weaved and wound her way over tae the fire, avoiding’ the bairns, and began tae arrange pots, pans and plates.

Time skipped forwards as I lingered near the doorway, and a man appeared. A wee bit older than the woman, who I assumed tae be Isobel and the other bairn’s Ma, he sat at the heid ae the table. The fire crackled in the background, and a few candles were lit on the table, although the room was still dull, illuminated only by flickering amber light. The large family ae perhaps eight or nine ate dinner together. Isobel appeared tae be one ae the oldest, wi a lad that looked tae be a year or two older sittin’ further doon the table. The patriarch ae this family eyed his eldest daughter fae a few seconds before he spoke. He announced that he and his wife had begun speaking wi’ the Flemings aboot their son, who was currently a draper’s apprentice somewhere in the toon. The mother chimed in, sayin’ that he was a nice, polite lad and would make a good husband. I couldnae help but cringe at this conversation. I mean I know arranged marriages were all the rage in the past, but actually seein’ how these conversations went was a wee bit painful.

Both parents explained that it was a good match, he was a good lad, and that his father had agreed tae let them stay in his hoose after they married. The dowry was yet tae be discussed, but it had been mentioned that Isobel would have tae gee’ up her own job once she was married. Isobel looked as happy aboot that as I was. She let her parents speak, praise the virtues ae the Flemings and their son, and aboot married life. I couldnae tell if they were tryin’ tae convince their daughter or themselves. Isobel remained quiet, much like she did as Madam Norna, and nodded her heid in agreement frae time tae time, but I could sense somethin’ else, a knowledge that her parents didnae have. It was like she knew that she’d never have tae marry the Fleming’s son, she knew that all ae this marriage talk would come tae nothin’. Did she already know aboot the fate as a Madam? Did she already know that this life her parents wanted fae her would be unlived?

Time began tae skip forwards, like someone pressin’ a button on a remote control. Dinner was cleared away, the fire was doused, the family packed intae their beds, some ae the younger bairns layin’ oot on the floor beside the last embers ae the fire. Then the daylight came in, the overcast sky turned frae dark tae grey, and one by one the family began tae leave their home, including Isobel. I followed her through the streets back tae the shop, but it was busier this time.

People had emerged frae their shops and homes, stopped on their journeys, tae witness as the dark parade arrived wi their crosses and sermons and death. As we walked through the main town square there was a queue ae people ootside ae one ae the buildings, men dressed in dark, drab coloured clothes directin’ them where tae go. The customer had been right, people were queueing tae report witches. That’s when I began tae worry. I know the history, people killed fae bein’ witches were innocent, or so I used tae ‘hink. But what aboot the Madam? If anythin’ looked like witchcraft, it was the antique shop and the woman who ran it. Was that how this story ended? I knew Isobel survived, but whit aboot the old Madam?

Isobel arrived at the empty shop, the Madam and Chronos goin’ aboot their business. This old Madam Norna was always in the shop durin’ the day, unlike my Madam. Customers came and went, but most were regular customers, buyin lace, fabric, or somethin’ in the jars and wooden trays behind the counter. When a younger woman ploughed through the front door, wearin’ distress like a cloak, I guessed that even in the 16^th century the shop had special customers. Prior tae the invention ae business cards, this woman took a quick glance at Isobel before searchin’ roond and findin’ the Madam. When she stated frantically that she needed her help I felt that the walls between this time and mine became thinner.

The customer was invited over tae one ae the many tables that occupied the shop. I half expected Isobel tae retreat somewhere and make a pot ae tae, until I remembered that tea wouldnae be introduced tae this country fae another century at least. The customer sat on one side ae the table, whilst the Madam and Isobel sat on the other. Wi tears in her eyes, some streamin’ doon her cheeks, the young customer explained that her Ma had just been arrested by the witch hunters as someone had accused her ae cursin’ their cattle and crops. The woman insisted that her Ma wasnae a witch, that she had a temper and that was all. It’s unusual fae me tae no believe customers, or tae believe they have a misunderstanding. I’d seen whit curses could do back in ma own life, wi’ the customers a few hundred years doon the line. Did this woman know fae sure that her Ma hadnae cursed the cattle and crops? I dinnae know much aboot people who have the ability tae make their curses come true, but I’ll admit it was unlikely this customer’s Ma was one ae them.

Predictably the young woman pleaded wi Madam Norna tae save her Ma, explainin wi’ the dangerous promise that she’d do anythin’. My curiosity was peaked at this. It’s no like we’re ever gonnae get a customer like this in the shop. How would Madam Norna help this lassie and her Ma’? I scanned roond the shop once more, fae the hundredth time, and was genuinely disappointed when I couldnae see the cabinet that was occupying the front room in my version ae the shop. Was there a candle, a pendant, an incense stick that could be lit and erase all charges ae witchcraft?

My curiosity quickly turned bitter in ma mouth when the Madam explained that she couldnae help. I wasnae the only one wi’ a disappointed reaction, and immediately the customer protested, then pleased, then begged, then cursed, then left. Isobel hadnae said a word, so she was already a better apprentice than I am. After she was sure the customer wouldnae return, she glanced tae the Madam, doubt brimming in her eyes. After a moment’s silence she asked why help had been refused, reasoning that if anyone could help then it would be them, it should be them. They’d helped people oot ae worse situations.

Old Madam Norna stared at her hands fae a while wi an unreadable expression. It was easy tae think she didnae care, that perhaps altruism wasnae necessarily a requirement ae a Madam. Like all shops, the right tae refuse custom also applied here. Perhaps it was too difficult tae interfere, would put the shop at risk ae exposure. I’d never seen ma Madam refuse tae help any customer, and surely this wasnae the time tae refuse. Eventually the old Madam Norna turned her body slightly tae face her apprentice, inspectin’ her, eyein’ her like the Madam did tae me on the occasions I challenged her.

This Madam wasnae cross wi Isobel, wasnae angry, her face was calm, controlled. She explained that she couldnae help this time, as this time was different tae others. The people found guilty ae witchcraft durin’ these trials were fated tae die, and the one ‘hing the Madams couldnae do was interfere wi fate. Protect it, observe it, correct it when it strayed, but no change it. A part ae me was curious whit happened if a Madam did try tae interfere. And the smarter part ae me knew it wouldnae end well.

Isobel accepted this answer wi’ the begrudging resignation ae someone wi’ few other choices. Even I didnae know whit I’d do were I in her position. Jail break? Dramatic court scene? Nothin’ realistic. I remembered whit the Madam had told me aboot fate. That there are fixed points in people’s lives that they must go through. If they stray frae the path, then they get corrected by the cogs ae the universe. I presumed that death was one ae these points. And everyone knows how inescapable death is.

The rest ae the day, which passes quickly fae me, is spent in uncomfortable silence as the turmoil ae the town and the witch hunters seeps through the door in bits and pieces, through whispers and rumours. When Isobel leaves tae go home, I dinnae follow her this time. I’m almost too scared tae.

Which apprentice are you then? Because ye arenae mine.

A voice echoes roond the shop. I turn slowly tae face the old Madam and she’s looking directly at me this time. It frightens me more. I quickly became used tae bein a fly on the wall, an invisible audience, so bein’ addressed directly unsettles me and it takes me longer than it should tae form a reply. I nod wordlessly. The old Madam surmises that I’m frae far in the future, and I explain that I’m Isobel’s apprentice. The rest ae the story tumbles frae ma mouth as I ask her how I got back tae ma own time and oot ae this nightmare land.

The way she smiled at me reminded me ae my Madam, the kind ae resigned smile after they understand that they’re dealin’ wi a complete ijit. She tells me it’s simple. Someone will probably have noticed I’m gone by noo. If I go back tae the spot I arrived I’d probably be retrieved. Incredulously I checked whit would happen if no one had noticed I was gone. The answer was that if I wished hard enough, I’d go back. I wasnae supposed tae be here, I didnae fit, and fate didnae like people playin’ fast and loose wi time. So just like Dorothy, if I wished tae return, fate’d be more than happy tae help.

I thank the old Madam, glance at Chronos suddenly feelin’ a pang ae missin’ my version, and exit the shop. Time has shifted again, the darkening sky has reversed. The constant heavy cloud that’s dominated the sky since my arrival is noo breakin’ intae dawn, slashes ae orange and red cuttin’ across the clouds. Hastily I make my way back tae the town square, which is deserted so early in the mornin’. The queue ae snitches has vanished, and the red light ae the dawn touches the white washed houses wi’ their strange windaes and crooked floors. I cross the courtyard, tryin’ tae remember the exact spot I’d appeared at, when I noticed someone standin’ in the spot I think is the right one. As I get closer I recognise Isobel wi her linen cap pinned neatly tae her hair, and her blue eyes dartin’ between whit’s in her hands and the scene in front ae her. Wi a pencil, she’s drawin’ in a wee leather bound book, hand slidin’ over the strangely textured paper.

Curiously I sneak roond her and take a peek over her shoulder. On the page is a smaller version ae the picture that got me here in the first place. Like the first sketching ae an artist’s masterpiece. The details, the shading, the buildings, even the shadows that they cast were scrawled in this small notebook. I suddenly begin tae feel like I’m falling intae this sketch. The yellowed edges ae the paper swallow my peripheral, the gentle pencil lines envelope the rest ae ma vision.

And when I blink again I’m still looking at the drawing, only this time it’s the original, wi charcoal lines, blurred people, and ominous gallows. There’s a hand resting on my shoulder and somehow I dinnae need tae turn roond tae know it’s Madam Norna, my Madam. I turn roond slowly, painting still in my grasp, and observe her gentle gaze and breath ae a smile tugging at her lips.

I checked if whit had happened had just actually happened, but when I glanced oot ae the shop windae and noticed it was dark ootside when it’d been midday before, I guessed that it had. That’s the last time I’ll gee a drawin’ in the shop more than a cursory glance. The Madam inquired if I’d seen everythin’ I’d wanted tae. I answered that I’d seen more. I glanced doon at the painting, and after shuddering visibly, put it back where I’d found it.

As we both wound our way doon the pathway tae the front counter I asked the Madam if she missed her life, the one I’d seen, wi the big family, small town, and well-meaning if not misled parents. She contemplated a while before answerin. Yes and no, she explained. She missed her friends, even her family sometimes, but not the wasted life many other women frae her time were forced tae have. She’d become more than just a draper’s wife, more than just a daughter, wife, and mother.

The last question I asked was how the Madams had escaped the witch trials. She threw me a sly look, as if the answer was obvious. Why would real witches let themselves be caught?

Scottish terms

Ants in your pants – someone who can’t sit still, keeps getting up and down, can’t stay in one place for long. There’s a few of these, but this is the one used when I was growing up.

Greggs – One of the most common chains of bakeries in the UK.

To bang heads together – Usually said to two people who have done something stupid as a pair. I’ll admit I don’t know a lot about this saying, or even why its said. i.e. I’ll bang your two heads together.

Peelie-wally – Pale or ill-looking.

Ha-penny – literally half a penny in old pounds sterling. In use until 1971 when the current decimal pounds sterling (and pence) came in. A shilling is perhaps the more well-known denomination of this old system.

Farthing – another denomination of the old pounds sterling. It was worth a quarter of an old penny.

Script – TW: Stalking

I don’t think I’ll ever win at cards against Chronos, the cat’s an absolute shark. There’s not been anymore outings since the last time, so it’s been a bit cabin fever-esque with all of us stuck in the shop. I don’t think I have to spell it out, but Reid and Fionn’s relationship shows no sign of improving.

Thankfully a customer came in to fight off the boredom for another day. The lassie that came in was more timid than usual, and that’s saying something. She opened the door about halfway, thought better of it, thought better of it again, and then finally pushed the door far enough that the bell went. Even before the door shut behind her, she looked as though she’d made a mistake. Eventually she dragged her eyes from the floor to stare at each of us in turn, the familiar awkward silence stagnant in the air. Fionn was the first to speak, and asked if there was anything we could help her with. As soon as she reached into her handbag I started to move away from the counter and in her direction. By the time she procured the card I’d already told her to follow me up the stairs. Shuffling past Reid and Fionn, giving them a wider berth than I thought was necessary, we ascended the stairs into the front room.

As I was pouring the tea, I kept taking glances at this customer. Now, usually they’re nervous, they look around them in awe, fear, regret, they drink their tea and spill their secrets and problems. This customer was different, and an absolute fidget. My Grannie would’ve said she had ants in her pants. It was so noticeable I was beginning to think that was why she’d come to the shop. The Madam must’ve noticed it too, and after everyone had their tea, the same old question was said. What could we help with? I’ve started thinking about these words a lot. If Madam Norna can essentially hear people’s thoughts when they’re sitting on the sofa, then she must already know what their problem is before they answer. How fed up she must be of asking that every time a customer comes in.

Anyway, this lassie answered that she thought someone was following her. I gave her a peculiar look, my face contorting with the usual confusion. Another customer who appeared to fall in the `should be telling the authorities` category. But I’m not a complete amateur, there’s always something else to these stories.

My boss asked the lassie what had made her think she was being followed. According to her, she saw a particular woman everywhere she went; on the same train during her commute, in the same places she ate lunch, the same shop where she bought groceries, the same gym. Even at weekends, outside of her normal routine, there this woman was. I felt my hairs raise. It’s one of my nightmares, being stalked by someone. You just hear all these horror stories. No wonder the lassie was fidgeting, she was afraid, and I didn’t blame her. It still raised the issue of why she wasn’t reporting all of this to the police. What did she think the Madam could do? Was there a special amulet or candle that repelled stalkers? I expected either one of these things to be the next words out of my boss’s mouth, and was surprised when instead she asked how long it’d been going on for.

With fearful tears welling up in her eyes, the lassie confessed that it’d been 2 months, and that she didn’t know what to do as she was too scared to confront this woman. I waited for the madam to say something. For the first time in a while, I was unsure if I was going to have to head to the cabinet. I couldn’t see how something like the things in there could help, but what do I know?

Madam Norna eventually broke the unsettled silence by saying that before she could help she’d need more information about this woman, and that if it was okay with the lassie, she’d send a few of us to follow her and try to find out more about this stalker. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the lassie. That stalker could be a bloody psycho, and I was just supposed to follow her? I was beginning to wish more and more that this lassie had just gone to the police. The Madam’s final question was to ask if this stalker had followed the lassie to the shop. The answer was a solemn nod.

With instructions to return to the shop in 2 days, the lassie was told to wait downstairs and someone would follow her out. She nodded, but seemed reluctant to leave, as if the front room was the only safe place from this stalker, which I suppose it was. I felt her trepidation, I didn’t want to leave either. Stalking a stalker hadn’t been on my list ae things to do that day.

I reluctantly glanced to my boss, waiting for instructions. Unsurprisingly, she asked Reid and I to follow this lassie, and try to get a look at her stalker. In the hopes I’d get myself off the hook, I asked why we couldn’t just refer it to the police, since it’s meant to be their job. All the Madam said in reply was “all in good time”.

I groaned internally and attempted to plaster something close to agreement on my face, even though I’d rather go to the dentist than do this. I trudged down the stairs with heavy step, informed Reid, who took the news just as well as I had, and waited a few minutes after the lassie left before the both of us followed.

The street wasn’t particularly busy, not that it mattered that much. The brief description the lassie had given us before she’d left was so generic she could’ve been speaking about 90% of the female population. Dark hair and wearing a caramel-coloured jacket. We could just see the lassie up ahead, walking down the street, passed people on phones, in the midst of conversations, or having a quick lunch, but no one that we could see matched that description in front or behind us. Cars went by, lights changed from green to red, the clouds lingered heavily in the sky promising rain later, the air smelled like car fumes, and the occasional waft of baked bread from the millions of Greggs we passed.

It felt like we’d been walking for ages with no one jumping out at us as being around for too long. I just happened to glance across the street, over the rooves of the parked cars, and noticed a caramel-coloured jacket, a woman with dark hair, and when I began to feel my eyes squinting, like I couldn’t quite see her properly, I began to think we’d finally spotted the culprit. I nudged Reid and motioned across the street to the woman. He glanced across, then back at me, back across, and then scoffed derisively. He told me that just because the woman was “one of us” didn’t mean she was the stalker. I assumed he meant she was, like Reid, a fox. He corrected me, saying that the term “us” was what all species that weren’t completely human used to refer to themselves. Well, there’s nothing like a bit of unity. He expanded by saying that it could just be a coincidence that the woman was like Reid. I’m starting to think there’s no such thing as coincidences anymore. Rather than say this I went for the more brutal path, pointing out that I didn’t believe that all of the people like Reid were arseholes like him, and some of them might actually be nice people; I just didn’t think the woman in the caramel coat fell into that category.

He glared his hardest, eyes narrowed, vein in his temple protruding, and then corrected me. He told me that the woman I’d pointed out was actually one of the nice ones. She was a Watcher and were probably the nicest creatures in the world. I’m pretty sure I’ve got my confused face down to a fine art now, and I let the silence linger between us. I don’t understand how he can still assume I know anything about these things.

His glare lessened, replaced by the not nearly as satisfying cocky curve of his lip. I swear he does it on purpose. Reid explained that these Watchers can sense people who’ve done wrong and are cursed to follow them around until it’s been put right. Rather than creatures, like Reid and Fionn, these watchers descend from humans who were cursed. They lived in the murky area between creature and human. My pace began to slow as I digested all of this information. If these people were cursed to follow people around until something had been put right, then how were we supposed to help? More importantly what had the customer done wrong?

My only thoughts turned to the Madam, maybe if we brought this stalker back to the shop she could be helped. I mean my boss had said that all curses could be broken somehow. That was a fine theory, only how did we get a complete stranger to follow us back, especially to someone with a reputation like Madam Norna. Reid and I exchanged an uncharacteristic glance of agreement as we both crossed the road and approached the woman in the caramel coat. Each taking a side, we closed in on the stalker, who looked between us with a fear that was probably deserved. I told her we were from Madam Norna’s shop, and that she needed to go back with us.

Almost instantly her pace quickened, about to bolt away, but Reid caught her arm, his reflexes a lot quicker than mine, and pulled her back. When I looked at him his eyes were a peculiar shade of yellow-green, and rather than round pupils, they had elongated into slits, similar in nature to a feline, or fox. Thankfully his eerie gaze wasn’t fixed on me but the woman, and after she saw the transformation all signs of her sprinting off disappeared.

When we arrived back at the shop Fionn looked between us with what is becoming his typical reaction to our hare-brained schemes. Like he can’t quite decide whether banging our heads together will do more harm than good. The stalker was quick to make as much distance between herself and us as possible, and in an attempt to make it better Reid assures her that we wouldn’t kill her. I was close enough to pinch his arm as hard as I could, which got me a high-pitched growl in return.

Fionn stepped in, as he always does, and asked the woman her name. After a moment’s hesitant pause, she answered that it was Robin. The first person to use this name was Madam Norna as she appeared from up the stairs, telling Robin that she should be more careful as the person she was currently following had visited the shop earlier that morning.

I expected there to be more, but unsurprisingly there wasn’t. Robin, after gaping at the Madam in fearful awe for a few more seconds stuttered out an apology, promising that she’d do better. That’s where I got lost. Do better…following the lassie? Was that really a solution to this problem? I said as much out loud, wondering if there was maybe a way to stop altogether rather than just no get caught doing it.

From her reaction you’d have thought I’d suggested playing chicken on the train tracks. Outraged, she said of course she wasn’t going to stop, the lassie had killed someone and had to pay for that crime. It was too late by the time I opened my mouth to stop it, and I ended up asking why that was her responsibility. Reid, under his breath, asked me if I already forgot what a Watcher was. Admitting, heatedly, that I hadn’t, I pointed out that no one who’s gotten away with murder is suddenly going to admit to it. So, if the customer kept silent then Robin would keep following her, and how would that help anyone?

There was a heavy silence after my question, and I felt bad about saying anything. It’s not like robin could help it if, like Reid had said, she was someone who’d essentially been cursed. No to mention was what she saying about the lassie true? Was she a murderer? Was that why she hadn’t gone to the police about her stalker?

Eventually Madam Norna broke the silence by saying that the lassie who’d come to the shop for help was the cause of her own problem, but that didn’t mean we weren’t going to do something about it. My frustration with the problem was lack of understanding. We only had Robin’s word for it that the customer was a murderer. Yet, her curse dictated that she had to follow those who’d done wrong until they put it right. I couldn’t really appreciate how curses worked, especially ones which controlled your movements and actions. I mean did Robin have a job if she had to relentlessly follow anyone who’d done wrong? How did she have a life outside of that? Did she even have one?

The easiest thing would be breaking the curse, but from what Reid had told me about said curse, if it hadn’t been broken after generations, it was unlikely it would suddenly be broken now. The second thing after that would be getting the lassie to confess. Madam Norna was good at that, I’d seen her do it before. Giving similar instructions to Robin as she had to the customer, she was to return to the shop in 2 days if she wanted help.

Jump to 2 days later, and all four of us are waiting in the shop for the lassie to come in. When she did in a similarly meek and anxious fashion as the first time, I couldn’t help but feel it was an act. This lassie had apparently murdered someone, yet she was going around acting like a ghost was going to jump out at her. Is that what guilt does, do you think? Eat away at your confidence until you feel as though someone’s going to expose your dirty wee secret if you stand too close to them? That the smell of murder is real?

It was difficult to marry the version I saw and the version I’d been told was true. I’ll admit, I was reluctant to have her behind me walking up the stairs. Madam Norna, ever the professional, sat opposite the customer with an expressionless face. It was a struggle to keep mine neutral.

The lassie, with an expected amount of hope, asked if the Madam could help. The answer was a gentle shake of the head. Instantly the lassie moved forwards in her seat, protesting that a friend of hers said that my boss could help. I may have flinched at this outburst…I may have not.

Then Madam Norna asked the question I’d been thinking since the first time the lassie had told us about her problem. Why had she visited the shop instead of the police? What frustration had been settling on her face crumpled, as her eyes darted away. Her answer was that the police would’ve taken ages to get rid of the stalker, if they could’ve at all, and she wanted them gone now.

That was a fair point. What with the limited power of the law on things like this, and the need for proof of harassment, it’d be difficult. But still, if it was bothering her as much as she’d claimed during her first visit, then wouldn’t she be desperate for some official intervention by that point? What exactly did she think the madam could do? Snap her fingers and disappear the stalker?

My boss nodded pensively, slowly, taking her time and letting the atmosphere settle into dreaded anticipation. Eventually she confessed that there was one simple way to solve the problem. The lassie practically jumped out of her seat she was so excited. And then the twist of the knife came when Madam Norna answered that her stalker would disappear if she admitted that she’d pushed her friend down the stairs.

I feel like I need a sound board for these moments just to make them better. It’s not the first time the Madam has come out with these revelations, but it continues to be the highlight of my time in the shop. My boss has a talent for changing the atmosphere in the room, and after her announcement I could feel the chill nip at my fingertips. I’ve never seen anyone’s face go peelie-wally so fast before, not even during a night out after tequila shots.

The lassie could barely speak, a quiet croak at the back of her throat as she tried to form or think of a reply. Madam Norna filled the silence by explaining that if she admitted to her crime then her problem would literally disappear.

The lassie jumped to her feet so quickly it gave me a heart attack, and I edged closer to the Madam. Her face had transformed from ghost white to red with frustration, or embarrassment, or guilt it was hard to tell. I noticed her entire body was shaking, tremors racking up and down her arms and rattling her shoulders.

Through tightly gritted teeth she bit out that she wouldn’t admit to something she didn’t do. I didn’t believe her at this point. I don’t think either of us did, and I began to realise how horrible it must be to be in a place where everyone knows your deepest, darkest secret without you having to open your mouth. She must’ve been as scared of us as I was of her. It’s made me think since, as these cases usually do. How many people do I walk past, in the street, in the club, the bars, the supermarket, who have a dark secret? Who’ve murdered someone, who’ve hurt someone, who’ve done some truly terrible things. How many of these people live normal lives? How many become the victims of something else, like stalking? I know two wrongs don’t make a right. I found it hard to have sympathy for this lassie, but yet again, there’s no innocents in this story.

The lassie’s face began to crack, the blush dying away, as her inner turmoil came to a head. The shaking ceased, and the first words out of her mouth were a “she deserved it” that sent chills up my spine. The lassie claimed that we didn’t understand. Her best friend had stolen her fiancé. What kind of friend would do that? So, she’d pushed her down the stairs. Whether it’d been in the heat of the moment or something planned was never mentioned. Not that it really mattered. I was practically gripping onto the Madam’s leg as this lassie, this murderer, towered over the both of us as she stood, calm as the sea and just as changeable.

I searched her face, the pursed lips, the furrowed brow, even the shadow of tears in the bottom of her eyes, for remorse or guilt. I became more afraid when I didn’t find either. I’ve felt scared of a customer before, nearly been attacked by a water spirit, but this lassie wasn’t a creature. What’d she’d done was to another human. Could the Madam stop her with the same ease as she had the Fideal (Fee-tch-al)?

I barely heard the footsteps on the stairs, and then out the corner of my eye I noticed Fionn lingering in the doorway, shoulders tense, and a stony expression cast on his face. With just the right amount of curtness, Madam Norna instructed him to escort the lassie out of the shop. Huffing that there was no need, she stormed past Fionn, and Reid who was coming up the stairs to see what was going on, and a few seconds later we all heard the violent chime of the bell and slam as the door closed behind her.

With a throat as dry as sandpaper I asked if we shouldn’t call the police now. Reid was the one to answer me, pointing out that it wasn’t like we had any evidence. I hated that he was right. Shaken, I returned to the shop and pretended to busy myself with one thing or the other, unable to get that lassie out of my head.

Murder, death, the police, they all used to be abstract things. They existed in a different part of the world, one that never intersected with mine. Yet now there’d been a few customers who had done bad things, taken someone else’s life. And then they just got on with theirs. Like nothing had happened. I used to think humans were hard wired to feel guilt at hurting someone else, intentional or not. Obviously there’re outliers, occasional psychopaths or sociopaths that do terrible things. But they were few and far between. Now it feels like that wall had thinned. The people I brush shoulders with, that I pass on the street every day, could be murderers. And the scarier thing was that some of them didn’t even care. How could something so small cause you to take another’s life? People get cheated on all the time, I mean it happened to Michelle just last year, and she didn’t turn all homicidal. A part of me wished it was something to do with the shop. A possession by a dark entity, a spirit, a cured object that’d found its way into her possessions, or a curse. I think I’d be able to sleep better if that was the case.

A few hours after the lassie left, Robin came back. Madam Norna was honest, as always, and admitted she thought the lassie would be unlikely to confess to her crimes. Instead, she gave Robin a coin, not dissimilar to one of the ones in the box downstairs full of old ha’pennies, and farthings. The Madam said that when Robin found herself following someone after knowing they’d done wrong, and she didn’t want to, then she could rub the coin between her hands and she’d be free. The curse couldn’t be broken by the Madam, but it could be postponed in certain cases. I expected Robin to be jumping with joy, she’d been given a way out after all of this following people around in the hopes they’d confess their sins. But all she did was nod in understanding, with a look on her face that said she had very little intention of using it.

** If you’ve ever been the victim of stalking, or harassment of this kind, please go the police or the relevant authorities for your country (UK info is at the bottom of this page).

Script – Scots (TW: Stalking, see footnote at the bottom of the page for relevant Scotland/UK information)

I dinnae ‘hink I’ll ever win at cards against Chronos, the cat’s an absolute shark. There’s no been anymore outings since the last time, so it’s been a bit cabin fever esque wi all ae us stuck in the shop. I dinnae ‘hink I have tae spell it oot, but Reid and Fionn’s relationship shows nae sign of improving.

Thankfully a customer came in tae fight aff the boredom fae another day. The lassie that came in was more timid than usual, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. She opened the door aboot halfway, thought better of it, thought better of it again, and then finally pushed the door far enough that the bell went. Even before the door shut behind her she looked as though she’d made a mistake. Eventually she dragged her eyes frae the floor tae stare at each ae us in turn, the familiar awkward silence stagnant in the air. Fionn was the first tae speak, and asked if there was anythin’ we could help her wi’. As soon as she reached intae her handbag I started tae move away frae the counter and in her direction. By the time she procured the card I’d already told her tae follow me up the stairs. Shuffling past Reid and Fionn, geein’ them a wider berth than I thought was necessary, we ascended the stairs intae the front room.

As I was pourin’ the tea I kept takin’ glances at this customer. Noo, usually they’re nervous, they look aroond them in awe, fear, regret, they drink their tea and spill their secrets and problems. This customer was different, and an absolute fidget. Ma Grannie wouldae said she had ants in her pants. It was so noticeable I was beginnin’ tae ‘hink that was why she’d come tae the shop. The Madam mustae noticed it too, and after everyone had their tea the same old question was said. Whit could we help wi? I’ve starteed ‘hinkin aboot these words a lot. If Madam Norna can essentially hear people’s thoughts when they’re sittin’ on the sofa, then she must already know whit their problem is before they answer. How fed up she must be of askin’ that every time a customer comes in.

Anyway, this lassie answered that she thought someone was following her. I gee her a peculiar look, ma face contortin’ wi the usual confusion. Another customer who appeared tae fall in the should be tellin’ the authorities category. But I’m no a complete amateur, there’s always somethin’ else tae these stories.

Ma boss asked the lassie whit had made her ‘hink she was bein’ followed. Accordin’ tae her, she saw a particular woman everywhere she went; on the same train durin’ her commute, in the same places she ate lunch, the same shop where she bought groceries, the same gym. Even at weekends, ootside ae her normal routine, there this woman was. I felt ma hairs raise. It’s one ae ma nightmares, bein stalked by someone. Ye just hear all ae these horror stories. No wonder the lassie was fidgetin’, she was afraid, and I didnae blame her. It still raised the issue ae why she wasnae reportin’ all ae this tae the police. Whit did she ‘hink the Madam could do? Was there a special amulet or candle that repelled stalkers? I expected either one of these ‘hings tae be the next words oot ae ma boss’s mouth, and was surprised when instead she asked how long it’d been going on fae.

Wi’ fearful tears wellin’ up in her eyes, the lassie confessed that it’d been 2 months, and that she didnae know whit tae do as she was too scared tae confront this woman. I waited fae the madam tae say somethin’. Fae the first time in a while I was unsure if I was gonnae have tae head tae the cabinet. I couldnae see how something like the things in there could help, but whit do I know?

Madam Norna eventually broke the unsettled silence by sayin’ that before she could help she’d need more information aboot this woman, and that if it was okay wi’ the lassie, she’d send a few ae us tae follow her and try tae find oot more aboot this stalker. I dinnae know who was more surprised, me or the lassie. That stalker could be a bloody psycho, and I was just supposed tae follow her? I was beginnin’ tae wish more and more that this lassie had just gone tae the police. The Madam’s final question was tae ask if this stalker had followed the lassie tae the shop. The answer was a solemn nod.

Wi’ instructions tae return tae the shop in 2 days, the lassie was told tae wait doonstairs and someone would follow her oot. She nodded, but seemed reluctant tae leave, as if the front room was the only safe place frae this stalker, which I suppose it was. I felt her trepidation, I didnae want tae leave either. Stalking a stalker hadnae been on ma list ae ‘hings tae do that day.

I reluctantly glanced tae ma boss, waitin’ fae instructions. Unsurprisingly she asked Reid and I tae follow this lassie, and try tae get a look at her stalker. In the hopes I’d get ma self aff the hook, I asked why we couldnae just refer it tae the police, since it’s meant tae be their job. All the Madam said in reply was “all in good time”.

I groaned internally, and attempted tae plaster something close tae agreement on ma face, even though I’d rather go tae the dentist than do this. I trudged doon the stairs wi’ heavy step, informed Reid, who took the news just as well as I had, and waited a few minutes after the lassie left before the both ae us followed.

The street wasnae particularly busy, no that it mattered that much. The brief description the lassie had geein’ us before she’d left was so generic she couldae been speakin aboot 90% ae the female population. Dark hair and wearin’ a caramel-coloured jacket. We could just see the lassie up ahead, walkin doon the street, passed people on phones, in the midst ae conversations, or havin’ a quick lunch, but no one that we could see matched that description in front or behind us. Cars went by, lights changed frae green tae red, the clouds lingered heavily in the sky promisin’ rain later, the air smelled like car fumes, and the occasional waft ae baked bread frae the millions ae Greggs we passed.

It felt like we’d been walkin’ fae agees wi no one jumpin’ oot at us as bein aroond fae too long. I just happened tae glance across the street, over the rooves ae the parked cars, and noticed a caramel coloured jacket, a woman wi dark hair, and when I began tae feel ma eyes squintin’, like I couldnae quite see her properly, I began tae ‘hink we’d finally spotted the culprit. I nudged Reid and motioned across the street tae the woman. He glanced across, then back at me, back across, and then scoffed derisively. He told me that just because the woman was “one of us” didnae mean she was the stalker. I assumed he meant she was, like Reid, a fox. He corrected me, sayin’ that the term “us” was whit all species that werenae completely human used tae refer tae themselves. Well, there’s nothin’ like a bit ae unity. He expanded by sayin’ that it could just be a coincidence that the woman was like Reid. I’m startin’ tae ‘hink there’s no such ‘hing as coincidences anymore. Rather than say this I went fae the more brutal path, pointin’ oot that I didnae believe that all ae the people like Reid were arseholes like him, and some ae them might actually be nice people, I just didnae ‘hink the woman in the caramel coat fell intae that category.

He glared his hardest, eyes narrowed, vein in his temple protrudin slightly, and then corrected me. He told me that the woman I’d pointed oot was actually one ae the nice ones. She was a watcher, and were probably the nicest creatures in the world. I’m pretty sure I’ve got ma confused face doon tae a fine art noo, and I let the silence linger between us. I dinnae understand how he can still assume I know anythin’ aboot these ‘hings.

His glare lessened, replaced by the not nearly as satisfying cocky curve ae his lip. I swear he does it on purpose. Reid explained that these watchers can sense people who’ve done wrong and are cursed tae follow them roond until it’s been put right. Rather than creatures, like Reid and Fionn, these watchers descend frae humans who were cursed. They lived in the murky area between creature and human. My pace began tae slow as I digested all ae this information. If these people were cursed tae follow people roond until something had been put right, then how were we supposed tae help? More importantly whit had the customer done wrong?

My only thoughts turned tae the Madam, maybe if we brought this stalker back tae the shop she could be helped. I mean ma boss had said that all curses could be broken somehow. That was a fine theory, only how did we get a complete stranger tae follow us back, especially tae someone wi’ a reputation like Madam Norna. Reid and I exchanged an uncharacteristic glance ae agreement as we both crossed the road and approached the woman in the caramel coat. Each taking a side, we closed in on the stalker, who looked between us wi’ a fear that was probably deserved. I told her we were frae Madam Norna’s shop, and that she needed tae go back wi us.

Almost instantly her pace quickened, aboot tae bolt away, but Reid caught her arm, his reflexes a lot quicker than mine, and pulled her back. When I looked at him his eyes were a peculiar shade ae yellow-green, and rather than round pupils, they had elongated into slits, similar in nature tae a feline, or fox. Thankfully his eerie gaze wasnae fixed on me but the woman, and after she saw the transformation all signs ae her sprintin’ aff disappeared.

When we arrived back at the shop Fionn looked between us wi’ what is becomin’ his typical reaction tae our hare-brained schemes. Like he cannae quite decide whether bangin’ our heids together will do more harm than good. The stalker was quick tae make as much distance between herself and us as possible, and in an attempt tae make it better Reid assures her that we wouldnae kill her. I was close enough tae pinch his arm as hard as I could, which got me a high-pitched growl in return.

Fionn stepped in, as he always does, and asked the woman her name. After a moment’s hesitant pause, she answered that it was Robin. The first person tae use this name was Madam Norna as she appeared frae up the stairs, tellin Robin that she should be more careful as the person she was currently following had visited the shop earlier that morning.

I expected there tae be more, but unsurprisingly there wasnae. Robin, after gaping at the Madam in fearful awe fae a few more seconds stuttered oot an apology, promisin’ that she’d do better. That’s where I got lost. Do better…followin’ the lassie? Was that really a solution tae this problem? I said as much oot loud, wonderin’ if there was maybe a way tae stop altogether rather than just no get caught doin’ it.

Frae her reaction you’d have thought I’d suggested playin’ chicken on the train tracks. Outraged, she said of course she wasnae gonnae stop, the lassie had killed someone and had tae pay fae that crime. It was too late by the time I opened ma mouth tae stop it, and I ended up askin’ why that was her responsibility. Reid, under his breath, asked me if I already forgot whit a watcher was. Admitting, heatedly, that I hadnae, I pointed oot that no one who’s gotten away wi’ murder is suddenly gonnae admit tae it. So if the customer kept silent, then Robin would keep followin’ her, and how would that help anyone?

There was a heavy silence after ma question, and I felt bad aboot sayin’ anythin’. It’s no like robin could help it if, like Reid had said, she was someone who’d essentially been cursed. No tae mention was whit she sayin’ aboot the lassie true? Was she a murderer? Was that why she hadnae gone tae the police aboot her stalker?

Eventually Madam Norna broke the silence by sayin’ that the lassie who’d come tae the shop fae help was the cause ae her own problem, but that didnae mean we werenae gonnae do somethin’ aboot it. Ma frustration wi’ the problem was lack ae understandin’. We only had Robin’s word fae it that the customer was a murderer. Yet, her curse dictated that she had tae follow those who’d done wrong until they put it right. I couldnae really appreciate how curses worked, especially ones which controlled your movements and actions. I mean did Robin have a job if she had tae relentlessly follow anyone who’d done wrong? How did she have a life outside ae that? Did she even have one?

The easiest ‘hing would be breakin’ the curse, but frae whit Reid’d told me aboot said curse, if it hadnae been broken after generations, it was unlikely it would suddenly be broken noo. The second ‘hing after that would be gettin’ the lassie tae confess. Madam Norna was good at that, I’d seen her dae it before. Geein’ similar instructions tae Robin as she had tae the customer, she was tae return tae the shop in 2 days if she wanted help.

Jump tae 2 days later, and all four ae us are waitin’ in the shop fae the lassie tae come in. When she did in a similarly meek and anxious fashion as the first time I couldnae help but feel it was an act. This lassie had apparently murdered someone, yet she was goin aroond actin’ like a ghost was gonnae jump oot at her. Is that what guilt does, do you ‘hink? Eat away at your confidence until ye feel as though someone’s gonnae expose your dirty wee secret if ye stand too close tae them? That the smell ae murder is actually a ‘hing?

It was difficult tae marry the version I saw and the version I’d been told was true. I’ll admit, I was reluctant tae have her behind me walkin’ up the stairs. Madam Norna, ever the professional, sat opposite the customer wi’ an expressionless face. It was a struggle tae keep mine neutral.

The lassie, wi’ an expected amount ae hope, asked if the Madam could help. The answer was a gentle shake of the heid. Instantly the lassie moved forwards in her seat, protesting that a friend ae hers said that ma boss could help. I may have flinched at this outburst, I may have not.

Then Madam Norna asked the question I’d been ‘hinkin since the first time the lassie had told us aboot her problem. Why had she visited the shop instead ae the police? What frustration had been settling on her face crumpled, as her eyes darted away. Her answer was that the police wouldae taken agees tae get rid ae the stalker, if they couldae at all, and she wanted them gone noo.

That was a fair point. What wi’ the limited power ae the law on ‘hings like this, and the need fae proof ae harassment, it’d be difficult. But still, if it was botherin’ her as much as she’d claimed durin’ her first visit, then wouldnae she be desperate fae some official intervention by that point? Whit exactly did she hink the madam could do? Snap her fingers and disappear the stalker?

Ma boss nodded pensively, slowly, takin’ her time and lettin’ the atmosphere settle intae dreaded anticipation. Eventually she confessed that there was one simple way tae solve the problem. The lassie practically jumped oot ae her seat she was so excited. And then the twist ae the knife came when Madam Norna answered that her stalker would disappear if she admitted that she’d pushed her friend doon the stairs.

I feel like I need a sound board fae these moments just tae make them better. It’s no the first time the Madam has come oot wi these revelations, but it continues tae be the highlight ae ma time in the shop. Ma boss has a talent fae changin’ the atmosphere in the room, and after her announcement I could feel the chill nip at ma fingertips. I’ve never seen anyone’s face go peelie wally so fast before, no even durin’ a night oot after tequila shots.

The lassie could barely speak, a quiet croak at the back ae her throat as she tried tae form or think ae a reply. Madam Norna filled the silence by explainin that if she admitted tae her crime then her problem would literally disappear.

The lassie jumped tae her feet so quickly it gee me a heart attack, and I edged closer tae the madam. Her face had transformed frae ghost white tae red wi frustration, or embarrassment, or guilt it was hard tae tell. I noticed her entire body was shakin’, tremors rackin’ up and doon her arms and rattlin’ her shoulders.

Through tightly gritted teeth she bit oot that she wouldnae admit tae somethin’ she didnae do. I didnae believe her at this point. I dinnae ‘hink either ae us did, and I began tae realise how horrible it must be tae be in a place where everyone knows your deepest, darkest secret without you havin’ tae open your mouth. She mustae been as scared ae us as I was ae her. It’s made me ‘hink since, as these cases usually do. How many people do I walk past, in the street, in the club, the bars, the supermarket, who have a dark secret? Who’ve murdered someone, who’ve hurt someone, who’ve done some truly terrible ‘hings. How many ae these people live normal lives? How many become the victims ae somethin’ else, like stalking? I know two wrongs dinnae make a right. I found it hard tae have sympathy fae this lassie, but yet again, there’s no innocents in this story.

The lassie’s face began tae crack, the blush dyin’ away, as her inner turmoil came tae a head. The shakin’ ceased, and the first words oot ae her mouth were a “she deserved it” that sent chills up ma spine. The lassie claimed that we didnae understand. Her best friend had stolen her fiancé. What kind ae friend would do that? So she’d pushed her doon the stairs. Whether it’d been in the heat ae the moment or somethin’ planned was never mentioned. No that it really mattered. I was practically grippin’ ontae the Madam’s leg as this lassie, this murderer, towered over the both ae us as she stood, calm as the sea and just as changeable.

I searched her face, the pursed lips, the furrowed brow, even the shadow ae tears in the bottom ae her eyes, fae remorse or guilt. I became more afraid when I didnae find either. I’ve felt scared ae a customer before, nearly been attacked by a water spirit, but this lassie wasnae a creature. What’d she’d done was tae another human. Could the Madam stop her wi the same ease as she had the Fideal?

I barely heard the footsteps on the stairs, and then oot the corner ae ma eye I noticed Fionn lingering in the doorway, shoulders tense, and a stony expression cast on his face. Wi’ just the right amount ae curtness, Madam Norna instructed him tae escort the lassie oot ae the shop. Huffin’ that there was no need, she stormed past Fionn, and Reid who was comin’ up the stairs tae see whit was goin on, and a few seconds later we all heard the violent chime ae the bell and slam as the door closed behind her.

Wi a throat as dry as sandpaper I asked if we shouldnae call the police noo. Reid was the one tae answer me, pointin’ oot that it wasnae like we had any evidence. I hated that he was right. Shaken, I returned tae the shop and pretended tae busy maself wi’ one ‘hing or the other, no able tae get that lassie oot ae ma heid.

Murder, death, the police, they all used tae be abstract ‘hings. They existed in a different part ae the world, one that never intersected wi mine. Yet noo there’d been a few customers who had done bad ‘hings, taken someone else’s life. And then they just got on wi’ theirs. Like nothin’ had happened. I used tae ‘hink humans were hard wired tae feel guilt at hurtin’ someone else, intentional or no. Obviously there’re outliers, occasional psychopaths or sociopaths that did terrible ‘hings. But they were few and far between. Noo it feels like that wall had thinned. The people I brush shoulders wi, that I pass on the street every day, could be murderers. And the scarier ‘hing was that some ae them didnae even care. How could something’ so small cause you to take another’s life? People get cheated on all the time, I mean it happened tae Michelle just last year, and she didnae turn all homicidal. A part ae me wished it was somethin’ tae do wi the shop. A possession by a dark entity, a spirit, a cured object that’d found its way intae her possessions, or a curse. I ‘hink I’d be able tae sleep better if that was the case.

A few hours after the lassie left, Robin came back. Madam Norna was honest, as always, and admitted she thought the lassie would be unlikely tae confess tae her crimes. Instead, she gee Robin a coin, no dissimilar tae one ae the ones in the box doonstairs full ae old hapennies, and farthings. The Madam said that when Robin found herself followin’ someone after knowin’ they’d done wrong, and she didnae want tae, then she could rub the coin between her hands, and she’d be free. The curse couldnae be broken by the Madam, but it could be postponed in certain cases. I expecteed Robin tae be jumpin’ wi joy, she’d been geein’ a way oot after all ae this followin’ people roond in the hopes they’d confess their sins. But all she did was nod in understandin’, wi a look on her face that said she’d very little intention ae usin’ it.

**If you’ve ever been the victim of stalking, or harassment of this kind, please contact Police Scotland or the UK national stalking helpline.

Scots Terms

Flat – type of home. Known commonly in North America as an appartment.

Dobber – Yet another word for idiot.

Chippy – slang for a Fish and Chip shop where you can get the iconic Fish and chips, a staple part of the UK diet.

Tenements – a type of building incredibly common in cities like Glasgow and Edinburgh. Usually three or four storeys tall, each floor is split into separate flats. I think they were originally built to replace the slums in cities. Depending on the area, renting or buying one of these can be incredibly expensive.

The Metro – a free tabloid newspaper you can/could get on public transport (on buses or at train stations). Unsure if you still get real copies, but it has an app.

Roaster – another word for idiot. This one is more similar to somebody who’s good-for-nothing.

Tattie – Scottish word for potato.

To open your mouth and let your belly rumble – to talk crap or speak without thinking, there’s a a few sayings for this in the UK. From a cursory search it appears this one might be native to Glasgow.

Script

Christ, have I got a weird one for you today, and that’s saying something. It’s a normal day in the shop, Reid and I are trying to clean up, organise things that just don’t want to have an order; Fionn and Chronos are having a tense game of cards as neither want to lose; and the Madam’s upstairs doing no one knows what. Suddenly, the bell goes, and I don’t mean its usual chime. This time it’s more of a clang, a harsh sound that makes your teeth rattle. I’m amazed the poor bell didn’t fall off it was rung so violently.

It gave me the shock of my life, and remembering the last time we had such a violent entry into the shop when Madam Anora visited, I dove behind an antique chest. When I peeked over the top to look at the door, I saw that it wasn’t everyone’s favourite anti-Madam, but a normal – at least normal looking – man. With a wee bit of embarrassment, compounded by Reid’s snort of derisive laughter, I emerged from my hiding place hoping no one else had noticed.

This man, or lad, was at the very least human, as there were no blurry lines around him. What was disconcerting was the way he was bent over, hands on his knees, panting as if he’d just crossed the finishing line of the Edinburgh marathon. He certainly looked as if he had, with red face, sweat glistening on his forehead, and chest heaving up and down as he tried to catch his breath. It didn’t take him long, and the first words out of his mouth was that someone needed to help him as he thought he was going crazy.

I honestly would’ve said he’d come in as some kind of prank if he didn’t look so frantic. His man bun was dishevelled, the laces on his shoes had come undone during his sprint, and his beard looked worse for wear. I was lost for words, as was Reid, so it took the only proper adult in the room, Fionn, to approach the man and ask what he meant.

The unhelpful answer, said in a cracking voice, was that we wouldn’t believe him if he told us, and that he’d been told there was a red-haired woman here who’d be able to help him. He didn’t procure a business card, a recurring theme these days, but we all knew he wouldn’t be in the shop if he wasn’t supposed to be. Reluctantly, I told him to follow me up the stairs, and after making some tea all three of us sat in the front room.

This lad had calmed down a wee bit, although still had the characteristic nervousness of customers who aren’t sure they’ve made the right decision. He shifted in the sofa, picking his nails, eyeing them as if he wanted to bite them but knew he shouldn’t. He never made eye contact with the Madam, and when she asked what she could help with, he didn’t answer. Silence filled the room, creating an unusual yet awkward atmosphere. This was a first. Usually customers don’t need asking twice, but this one did.

My boss reasoned that in order to help him she needed to know what the problem was. Eventually he snapped out of his shyness and apologised, explaining that Madam Norna looked a lot like a character out of a popular fantasy series; Dark Town…Dark Underground…Dark City… something like that. I’d never heard of it, not that I’m a fan of fantasy, even less so now my life’s turned into one. He continued that he read a lot of fantasy, not really bothering’ with anything else, and that was where the problem started. He’d been reading the latest instalment of another fantasy series he liked, I want to say Tainted Dove or Tainted Blood, and strange things had started happening. He explained that it was like he was living in this book. He got to work one day only to see a winged beast circling overhead that looked an awful lot like one of the creatures from this book. When he arrived home the night before there’d been a masked man, dressed all in grey, waiting to fight with him, just like some assassin or warrior in said book. The encounter had left his flat in a mess before he’d managed to escape.

I’ve not wanted to laugh at a customer in a while, but he broke that trend. This customer definitely appeared to fit in the box of `should be at a doctor rather than the shop`. Then again, I’ve not been right once about customer’s like that. I suppose some people would say his problem wasn’t really a problem. I bet there’d be tons of people who’d love to be in his position, living out these fantasy stories.

With a completely straight face, Madam Norna asked him when it’d started. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to act like her regarding customer’s problems, some of them are just so funny. Stranger still was that the customer coloured a wee bit, a pink flush on his cheeks as though he were embarrassed. Abashedly, looking every which way but at us, he confessed that it was the night after he’d become a member of a new online forum for fantasy lovers. Only this forum was rumoured to be able to bring the stories to life. He claimed he hadn’t believed it at first and only wanted to be a member, but his flushed cheeks said otherwise.

It was kind of sounding to me like he brought whatever he was seeing, hallucinations or something with more substance, on himself. Madam Norna checked what this forum was called. Allthefantasy.net, and according to the lad it was hosted in the city somewhere. I don’t even want to know how he knew that.

My boss asked if he still logged onto the site, and without a blush in sight he exclaimed that of course he did, it was quickly becoming one of the most popular fantasy forums. He can’t possibly be stupid enough not to see the connection. Becomes a member of a forum where people claim books come to life. Book he’s reading starts coming to life and it scares him, yet he continues to log on to said site. What a fucking dobber.

Even I could tell him what the solution to his problem was, and it didn’t include me getting up and fetching something from the cabinet. As expected, the Madam informed him if he wanted these apparitions to go away, he should never log onto the site again.

The lad began to gape like a fish, opening and closing his mouth as if to speak, voice a protest, plead for there to be another way. Evidently, he realised the futility, and eventually kept his mouth shut, a pitiful look of sharp disappointment weighing down his features. He eventually agreed with a shallow nod, and left soon afterwards. I’m not sure if he’d listen to the Madam’s advice, if he’d be able to help himself.

Turns out I’d been wrong about not having to go into the cabinet this time as after he’d gone, I was commanded to go and fetch a dark wine coloured velvet pouch. There wasn’t much in it from what I could feel, a few loose things if I were to guess, some heavier than others. It made a light scratching sound as I dropped it into my boss’s hand. Curiously, I observed as she rummaged around in this pouch and procured a wee square tile, made of speckled grey marble. The corners were smooth, the surface had a glossy shine to it, and if I squinted enough, I could barely see small markings etched onto the surface, similar in style to the pendant that’d been given to Reid’s pal a few weeks ago.

After she handed this strange tile to me, I was told to open the wee drawer in the coffee table where I’d find a map. Opening this crispy, discoloured thing out on the table I realised it was a very old map of the city, not dissimilar to one you’d get at a tourist’s information. I tried my best to smooth out the wrinkles and grooves in the paper, but it was a losing battle. I was further instructed to place the marble tile in the centre of the map, and close my eyes.

Somewhat reluctantly I did so and heard the soft voice of ma boss giving me further directions. I was to think about this website the customer had told us about, just imagine it, remember what he’d told us, my thoughts at the time. I tried, and it wasn’t hard, thinking back to the customer, his dishevelled appearance when he’d come in, probably after running a marathon. I hated running, couldn’t understand why people would want to do it for 27 miles. At least you got fed at the end though, or so I was told. I think the only way I’d run any distance would be for food.

I heard Madam Norna’s voice, noted the unusual hint of laughter, and heard as she said that wasn’t quite what we were looking for. I peeled my eyes opened and looked at the map on the table in front of me. The wee marble tile was no longer in the middle but had slid across to the other side of the city, near the university’s campus. I looked closer, at the street names and alleyways. I could’ve sworn that was where the chippy was.

I gave my boss a blank stare. Concentration wasn’t really my thing. She smiled at me, like a parent does a bairn who’s eaten a penny. Gently she took up the marble tile, held it in her hands for a few seconds, and then replaced it in the centre of the map. She closed her eyes, breathing rhythmically, like someone who’s about to meditate. Jittery at first, then becoming more certain of itself, the marble tile began to slide over the grooves and creases of the map, over the streets, alleys, and lanes, until it finally stopped in a part of town I wasn’t that familiar with. Not far outside of the main centre, this area was known as a music hub, with a few decent live venues for up-and-coming talent. A few of my pals went there a lot, but I’d never been myself.

My boss opened her eyes, took a quick glance at the map, and stated that the person who ran the forum lived there, and that I was to go with Reid and try to stop them. Luckily, I was already wearing my confused face. I felt like asking her how the hell we were supposed to do that. Was this problem really causing that much harm? Technically the creature and grey clothed person waiting for the lad in his flat hadn’t actually hurt him. Then again, perhaps it was only a matter of time. If the Madam said it had to stop, I hazarded I guess that it was. I could only nod solemnly as I folded the map back up and returned it to the drawer. As my boss was about to drop the tile back into the pouch I asked her what the symbols were on the surface, and if they were the same as the ones on the pendant she’d given to Reid’s pal.

“It is an old language, only spoken by the Madams. It may look foreign to you now, but in time you will also be able to read it.”

How old were we talking here? I mean I thought it looked similar to whatever the ancient people of Scotland had used, but it’s not like I was fluent in that either. How did I become fluent, was there a textbook somewhere in the shop I hadn’t stumbled on yet? Hopefully it’d be easier than French.

I went down to the shop to collect my coat and Reid, having a good old laugh with Fionn about the customer’s wee problem, and afterwards we headed to get a bus out to this part of town. We eventually found the place where the tile had landed. It was a row of old tenements, made of brown stone, with large windows and even higher ceilings. In the bad old days one of these tenements would’ve housed the city’s poor, nowadays they charge an arm and a leg for one flat. It left the problem of which flat. The marble tile may have been good, but it didn’t tell us what button on the door buzzer to press.

Reid and I looked at the buttons, and then to each other hoping one of us would have a clever idea. When he checked that pressing all of the buzzers was out of the question, I knew there was no hope. How were we supposed to find the right flat? Could the same thing that Madam Norna did in the shop work here? Did I have to have a marble tile? There was always a chance that I randomly picked the right button to press. I may be the Madam’s apprentice, but even I don’t think I’m that lucky.

Deciding I was going to give it a go, I held my hand out, hovering over the scratched and tarnished buttons, neighbouring blank or faded labels of who lived in which flat. I made sure my palm was roughly in the middle ae the buttons, and closed my eyes, thinking hard on what I’d seen Madam Norna do. I began to breathe, in, out, in, out. The noise of the cars driving by in the remnants of the morning rain faded, the distant noise of the main road, of people walking by, talking, shouting at each other, was filtered out. I could hear the one bird sing as it hid in the bushes, sense the electronic buzzing comin from the buttons my hand was hovering over. For a moment I thought I could even hear the sound of Reid breathing, his heart thumping impatiently in his chest. I concentrated further, back to the shop, the minute the bell had gone, the man who’d nearly knocked it off. His man bun, his trimmed beard, his embarrassment at admitting he was a member of this forum, and the things that’d been coming to life when they should’ve stayed on the page.

A sharp electronic sound sliced through my concentration and pulled me out of my meditative silence. Suddenly everything was loud, a cacophony of chaos. Cars beeping, people running through puddles, slamming doors shut, it all rushed into my ears like water down a plug. I moved my hand away from the buzzers and noticed one was lit up, as if someone had pressed it. Only, that wasn’t possible. I hadn’t touched it.

A woman’s voice started to come through, inquiring who was on the other end. I was too busy staring at ma hand in amazement to notice Reid’s panicked glance at me. Neither of us had thought about whit we’d say. Thankfully, I pulled something out my arse, as always.

I told the lassie that we were reporters from the Metro and we wanted to do an interview with the creator of one of the internet’s most up-and-coming fantasy forums. To try and explain how we’d found out where she lived, I said that the website domain was registered at that address. The lassie on the other end of the buzzer was incredulous and didn’t believe us, accusing us of lying.

I was about to open my mouth, reassure her, but the roaster beat me to it. He said we weren’t lying but if she didn’t want to do an interview that was fine, there were plenty of other forum admins that would. I frantically mouthed to him, asking what he was doing. But all he did was shake his head, telling me to wait.

Almost immediately an objection came from the other end, begging us to wait, and that she wanted to do the interview. A further buzzing followed by a mechanical click indicated that she’d opened the door to the building for us.

I threw an impressed glance at Reid but maintain that his wee gambit could’ve gone either way. The lassie’s flat was on the top floor, and after trekking up four flights of dingy stone stairs, with crackling paint on the walls, we were greeted by the lassie outside of her door. She was the same height as Reid, making me feel unusually small, with dirty blonde hair raked up in a dishevelled bun, she completed the look with a cosy looking jumper and pyjama bottoms I’m pretty sure I own. She introduced herself as Rowan, beaming at us eagerly.

After exchanging some greetings, and a false name or two, we were invited into her flat. I used to think the shop was bad, but this girl’s flat was something else. Compared to her, the shop is the most ordered place in the city. There were mounds of clothes piled in corners, socks and underwear hanging from what I assumed to be radiators but were so cloaked in clothes I wasn’t sure. Random shoes lay discarded on the floor, occasionally beside an odd sock. Every surface space was covered, from the wee table she had in the room to the sofa and armchair. The living room, besides the piles of clothes, looked like a second-hand computer dealership. Computer screens, laptops, hard drives, and cables all battled for space in various states of disrepair.

Rowan weaved and wound her way over to a sofa and offered us a seat. Reid and I both glanced quickly at each other with the same confusion. Where? Eventually I found a small bit of the sofa that wasn’t covered, and Reid perched on the arm behind me uncomfortably. Then the awkward silence settled in. Neither the roaster nor I knew how to conduct an interview. I carelessly fumbled for my phone and opened the note app, pretending that the questions were there, when all I was looking at was my weekly shopping list.

I started with a question I thought sounded appropriate, and inquired when she started the website. Her face lit up and as she went into her detailed answer I was only half listening. In the vain hope I’d see something out of the ordinary I took a quick glance around at the hoard. It wasn’t hard to imagine the shop looking like this one day, when the things from now would be antiques. Excluding the odd piles of clothes and discarded trainers that is. Rowan was happily telling us that she’d started the website almost half a year ago, but it’d only really started gaining popularity in the previous 2 months. When she took a breath Reid was quick to cut her off, bluntly admitting that we didn’t actually care, and then demanding to know why she was making books come to life. I gaped at him, not quite believing he’d just come out and said it. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds that seemed to stretch on before Rowan voiced her own disbelief. Her eyes were watery as she stared between both of us with confusion.

I took a deep breath, deciding it was better to steer into the skid, and told her we knew what she was doing, we just didn’t know how she was doing it. Confusion quickly turned to animosity. Her shoulders went tense, eyes narrowed with suspicion, and from the way her body turned I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d bolted there and then. Instead, with an icy tone, she asked us who we were.

Realising that the situation could quickly spiral out of control I chose to take the gentler path. I mean if she was capable of making fantasy things come to life, what else was she capable of? If she conjured things, then maybe she could un-conjure us? I explained that we didn’t mean her harm, but she needed to stop what she was doing as it was scaring people.

Her fear was wiped away, replaced by prickly indignation. She claimed she was doing the members of the forum a favour. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream to experience their favourite books like they were living in them? Through books you could experience new people, new creatures, and fantastical places. So why, if she had the power to make them real, would she leave them on a page?

Reid, with all the finesse of a tattie, called her delusional, and stated that she wasn’t doing anyone a favour except feeding her own ego by playing at God. The anger returned in an instant, the tension rose in the room, and I couldn’t understand why Reid didn’t share my trepidation about pissing this lassie off. Obviously, she denied being delusional, and at playing God. She explained that from the posts she read on the forum, by the members that had joined, that the books were their lives, a home away from home, a safe haven, an escape. They’d all said how they’d love to be this character or that, be as strong, as intelligent, as cunning, as attractive. All wanted to experience the worlds in these books for themselves, and she was making that happen.

Before Reid opened his mouth and let his belly rumble, I was quick to jump in, pointing out that although said on a forum, not everyone wanted to live in the books they loved. She couldn’t go on messing with people’s reality just because she thought she was helping. Everyone read for different reasons, and let’s face it, some of the things in books are better left on the page and in the readers imagination. She needed to stop trying to help these people, because if it carried on it may turn out to be the opposite of helping.

I could tell she took my words seriously. Her bottom lip began to quiver, her eyes almost unable to hold back the tears that were welling up. `What good was she?` She cried after a moment. I already felt out of my depth, but dealing with an existential crisis was so far beyond me I couldn’t even think about what to say. What would the Madam do? If this customer was in the shop, sitting on the sofa, sipping tea, what would my boss say? Honestly, I don’t think she’d say anything. She’s not exactly one for giving life advice. But I wasn’t her. Just because this lassie couldn’t terrorise the members of her forum didn’t mean she was useless. She’d given them a space where they could create a community of like-minded people, where they could discuss theories and characters and events. Where they could essentially live in the world these books created. I told her this, or something close, not that I think it did much good.

After a while of talking Reid and I decided to leave. A thought occurred to me when I got up to wade back through the obstacle course to the door. This lassie, whatever she was, had the power to create things from nothing. That was on an almost God-like scale. I know if I had power like that I’d find it hard to stop, especially if I thought it was doing at least some good. No doubt there were people in this forum of hers who’d had a grand old time because of what she’d done. The other argument was if the website was only popular because of her power, if she stopped using it would the website also grind to a halt? And if that happened how easy would it be for her to slip back into old habits?

I turned to Rowan, streaks down her cheeks from where the tears had slid, red nose from all the rubbing. As firmly as I could I explained that if she continued to make books come to life, the next person who visited her may not be so understanding. The Madam had all the appearances of sympathy, of understanding, but I’d seen the cold streak, the icy matter-of-fact way she dealt with errant people. There were so many things in the shop, all at her disposal, I could only imagine what she’d do to stop Rowan from causing more havoc.

All the lassie did was nod weakly, and that was all the assurance I was going to get that she’d stop. But as I said, is power like that really so easy to give up?

On the way back to the shop I queried Reid if he knew what the lassie was, and how she was bringing books to life. He answered that she was probably a Conjurer. Noticing the blank look I gave him he informed me that there are people with the power to conjure things, whether they be from the real world or the fictional one. According to him they were quite rare. Thank Christ for that. On the other hand, how cool did that sound? Why was that lassie wasting time in scaring the shite out of people when she could be using it for her own benefit? Why not conjure money instead of a winged beast? Or a seven-bedroom house instead of a grey-robed assassin? And the more pressing question. Why couldn’t I do what she did? I’d swap pressing a buzzer with my mind with conjuring whatever I wanted any day. But I suppose life isn’t fair. She may have those powers, but it’s not like she can use them as she pleases. And it leaves the question of if there are Conjurers, then what else is there?

Script – Scots (ish. More like Scots lite. My international listeners wouldn’t have understood a word I’d said if I’d fully committed to Scots).

Christ, have I got a weird one fae you the day, and that’s sayin’ something. It’s a normal day in the shop, Reid and I are tryin tae clean up, organise ‘hings that just dinnae want tae have an order, Fionn and Chronos are havin’ a tense game ae cards as neither want tae lose, the Madam’s upstairs doin’ no one knows whit. Suddenly, the bell goes, and I dinnae mean its usual chime. This time it’s more ae a clang, a harsh sound that makes your teeth rattle. I’m amazed the poor bell didnae fall aff it was rung so violently.

It gee me the shock ae ma life, and rememberin’ the last time we had such a violent entry intae the shop when Madam Anora visited, I dove behind an antique chest. When I peeked over the top tae look at the door I saw that it wasnae everyone’s favourite anti-Madam, but a normal, at least normal lookin’, man. Wi’ a wee bit ae embarrassment, compounded by Reid’s snort ae derisive laughter, I emerged frae ma hidin’ place hopin no one else had noticed.

This man, or lad, was at the very least human, as there were no blurry lines roond him. Whit was disconcertin’ was the way he was bent over, hands on his knees, pantin’ as if he’d just crossed the finishin line ae the Edinburgh marathon. He certainly looked as if he had, wi red face, sweat glistenin on his forehead, and chest heavin’ up and doon as he tried tae catch his breath. It didnae take him long, and the first words oot ae his mouth was that someone needed tae help him as he thought he was goin crazy.

I honestly would ae said he’d come in as some kind ae prank if he didnae look so frantic. His man bun was dishevelled, the laces on his shoes had come undone durin’ his sprint, and his beard looked worse fae wear. I was lost fae words, as was Reid, so it took the only proper adult in the room, Fionn, to approach the man and ask whit he meant.

The unhelpful answer, said in a cracking voice, was that we wouldnae believe him if he told us, and that he’d been told there was a red-haired woman here who’d be able tae help him. He didnae procure a business card, a recurring theme these days, but we all knew he wouldnae be in the shop if he wasnae supposed tae be. Reluctantly, I told him tae follow me up the stairs, and after makin’ some tea all three ae us sat in the front room.

This lad had calmed doon a wee bit, although still had the characteristic nervousness ae customers who arenae sure they’ve made the right decision. He shifted in the sofa, pickin his nails, eyein them as if he wanted tae bite them but knew he shouldnae. He never made eye contact wi’ the Madam, and when she asked whit she could help wi, he didnae answer. Silence filled the room, creating an unusual yet awkward atmosphere. This was a first. Usually customers dinnae need askin’ twice, but this one did.

Ma boss reasoned that in order tae help him she needed tae know whit the problem was. Eventually he snapped oot ae his shyness and apologised, explainin that Madam Norna looked a lot like a character oot ae a popular fantasy series – Dark Town…Dark Underground…Dark City…somethin’ like that. I’d never heard ae it, not that I’m a fan ae fantasy, even less so noo ma life’s turned intae one. He continued that he read a lot ae fantasy, no really botherin’ wi anything else, and that was where the problem starteed. He’d been readin’ the latest instalment of another fantasy series he liked, I want tae say tainted dove, tainted blood, and strange ‘hings had starteed happenin. He explained that it was like he was livin’ in this book. He got tae work one day only tae see a winged beast circlin’ overhead that looked an awful lot like one ae the creatures frae this book. When he arrived home the night before there’d been a masked man, dressed all in grey, waitin’ tae fight wi’ him, just like some assassin or warrior in said book. The encounter had left his flat in a mess before he’d managed tae escape.

I’ve no wanted tae laugh at a customer in a while, but he broke that trend. This customer definitely appeared tae fit in the box ae should be at a doctor rather than the shop. Then again, I’ve no been right once aboot customer’s like that. I suppose some people would say his problem wasnae really a problem. I bet there’d be tons ae people who’d love tae be in his position, livin’ oot these fantasy stories.

Wi a completely straight face, Madam Norna asked him when it’d starteed. I dinnae ‘hink I’ll ever be able tae act like her regardin’ customer’s problems, some ae them are just so funny. Stranger still was that the customer coloured a wee bit, a pink flush on his cheeks as though he were embarrassed. Abashedly, lookin’ every which way but at us, he confessed that it was the night after he’d become a member of a new online forum fae fantasy lovers. Only this forum was rumoured tae be able tae bring the stories tae life. He claimed he hadnae believed it at first and only wanted tae be a member, but his flushed cheeks said otherwise.

It was kindae soundin’ tae me like he brought whitever he was seein’, hallucinations or something wi more substance, on himself. Madam Norna checked whit this forum was called. All the fantasy dot net, and accordin’ tae the lad it was hosted in the city somewhere. I dinnae even want tae know how he knew that.

Ma boss asked if he still logged ontae the site, and without a blush in sight he exclaimed that of course he did, it was quickly becoming one of the most popular fantasy forums. He cannae possibly be stupid enough no tae see the connection. Becomes a member ae a forum where people claim books come tae life. Book he’s readin’ starts comin tae life and it scares him, yet he continues tae log on tae said site. What a fuckin’ dobber.

Even I could tell him whit the solution tae his problem was, and it didnae include me getting’ up and fetchin’ something frae the cabinet. As expected, the Madam informed him if he wanted these apparitions tae go away he should never log onto the site again.

The lad began tae gape like a fish, openin and closin’ his mouth as if tae speak, voice a protest, plead for there tae be another way. Evidently, he realised the futility, and eventually kept his mouth shut, a pitiful look ae sharp disappointment weighin doon his features. He eventually agreed wi a shallow nod, and left soon afterwards. I’m no sure if he’d listen tae the Madam’s advice, if he’d be able tae help himself.

Turns oot I’d been wrong aboot not having tae go intae the cabinet this time as after he had gone I was commandeed tae go and fetch a dark wine coloured velvet pouch. There wasnae much in it fae what I could feel, a few loose ‘hings if I were tae guess, some heavier than others. It made a light scratchin’ sound as I dropped it intae ma boss’s hand. Curiously, I observed as she rummaged roond in this pouch and procured a wee square tile, made ae speckled grey marble. The corners were smooth, the surface had a glossy shine tae it, and if I squinted enough I could barely see small markins etched onto the surface, similar in style tae the pendant that’d been geein’ tae Reid’s pal a few weeks ago.

After she handed this strange tile tae me, I was told tae open the wee drawer in the coffee table where I’d find a map. Openin this crispy, discoloured ‘hing oot on the table I realised it was a very old map of the city, no dissimilar tae one you’d get at a tourist’s information. I tried ma best tae smooth oot the wrinkles and grooves in the paper but it was a losin’ battle. I was further instructed tae place the marble tile in the centre ae the map, and close ma eyes.

Somewhat reluctantly I did so, and heard the soft voice ae ma boss geein’ me further directions. I was tae think aboot this website the customer had told us aboot, just imagine it, remember whit he’d told us, my thoughts at the time. I tried, and it wasnae hard, thinkin’ back tae the customer, his dishevelled appearance when he’d come in, probably after runnin’ a marathon. I hateed runnin’, couldnae understand why people would want tae do it fae 27 miles. At least ye got fed at the end though, or so I was told. I ‘hink the only way I’d run any distance would be fae food.

I heard Madam Norna’s voice, noted the unusual hint ae laughter, and heard as she said that wasnae quite whit we were lookin’ fae. I peeled ma eyes opened and looked at the map on the table in front ae me. The wee marble tile was no longer in the middle, but had slid across tae the other side ae the city, near the university’s campus. I looked closer, at the street names, and alleyways. I couldae sworn that was where the chippy was.

I gee ma boss a blank stare. Concentration wasnae really ma ‘hing. She smiled at me, like a parent does a bairn who’s eaten a penny. Gently she took up the marble tile, held it in her hands fae a few seconds, and then replaced it in the centre ae the map. She closed her eyes, breathin’ rhythmically, like someone who’s aboot tae meditate. Jittery at first, then becoming more certain ae itself, the marble tile began tae slide over the grooves and creases ae the map, over the streets, alleys, and lanes, until it finally stopped in a part ae town I wasnae that familiar wi’. No far ootside ae the main centre, this area was known as a music hub, wi a few decent live venues fae up-and-comin’ talent. A few ae ma pals went there a lot, but I’d never been maself.

Ma boss opened her eyes, took a quick glance at the map, and stated that the person who ran the forum lived there, and that I was tae go wi’ Reid and try tae stop them. Luckily I was already wearin’ ma confused face. I felt like askin’ her how the hell we were supposed tae do that. Was this problem really causin’ that much harm? Technically the creature and grey clothed person waitin’ fae the lad in his flat hadnae actually hurt him. Then again, perhaps it was only a matter ae time. If the Madam said it had tae stop, I hazarded I guess that it was. I could only nod solemnly as I folded the map back up and returned it tae the drawer. As ma boss was aboot tae drop the tile back intae the pouch I asked her whit the symbols were on the surface, and if they were the same as the ones on the pendant she’d geein’ tae Reid’s pal.

It is an old language, only spoken by the Madams. It may look foreign to you now, but in time you will also be able to read it.

How old were we talkin here? I mean I thought it looked similar tae whitever the ancient people ae Scotland had used, but it’s no like I was fluent in that either. How did I become fluent, was there a textbook somewhere in the shop I hadnae stumbled on yet? Hopefully it’d be easier than French.

I went doon tae the shop tae collect ma coat and Reid, havin’ a good old laugh wi’ Fionn aboot the customer’s wee problem, and afterwards we headed tae get a bus oot tae this part ae town. We eventually found the place where the tile had landed. It was a row ae old tenements, made ae brown stone, wi large windaes and even higher ceilings. In the bad old days one ae these tenements wouldae housed the city’s poor, nowadays they charge an arm and a leg fae one flat. It left the problem of which flat. The marble tile may have been good, but it didnae tell us whit button on the door buzzer tae press.

Reid and I looked at the buttons, and then tae each other hopin one ae us would have a clever idea. When he checked that pressin all ae the buzzers was oot ae the question, I knew there was nay hope. How were we supposed tae find the right flat? Could the same ‘hing that Madam Norna did in the shop work here? Did I have tae have a marble tile? There was always a chance that I randomly picked the right button tae press. I may be the Madam’s apprentice, but even I dinnae ‘hink I’m that lucky.

Decidin’ I was gonnae gee’ it a go, I held ma hand oot, hovering over the scratched and tarnished buttons, neighbouring blank or faded labels of who lived in which flat. I made sure ma palm was roughly in the middle ae the buttons, and closed ma eyes, thinkin’ hard on whit I’d seen Madam Norna do. I began tae breathe, in, oot, in, oot. The noise ae the cars drivin’ by in the remnants ae the morning rain faded, the distant noise ae the main road, ae people walkin’ by, talkin’, shoutin’ at each other, was filtered oot. I could hear the one bird sing as it hid in the bushes, sense the electronic buzzin’ comin frae the buttons ma hand was hoverin’ over. Fae a moment I thought I could even hear the sound ae Reid breathin, his heart thumpin’ impatiently in his chest. I concentrated further, back tae the shop, the minute the bell had gone, the man who’d nearly knocked it aff. His man bun, his trimmed beard, his embarrassment at admittin’ he was a member ae this forum, and the ‘hings that’d been comin’ tae life when they shouldae stayed on the page.

A sharp electronic sound sliced through ma concentration and pulled me oot ae ma meditative silence. Suddenly everythin’ was loud, a cacophony ae chaos. Cars beepin, people runnin’ through puddles, slamming doors shut, it all rushed intae ma ears like water doon a plug. I moved ma hand away frae the buzzers and noticed one was lit up, as if someone had pressed it. Only, that wasnae possible, I hadnae touched it.

A woman’s voice starteed tae come through, inquiring who was on the other end. I was too busy starin’ at ma hand in amazement tae notice Reid’s panicked glance at me. Neither ae us had thought aboot whit we’d say. Thankfully, I pulled somethin’ oot ma arse, as always.

I told the lassie that we were reporters frae the Metro and we wanted tae do an interview wi’ the creator ae one ae the internet’s most up-and-comin’ fantasy forums. Tae try and explain how we’d found out where she lived, I said that the website domain was registered at that address. The lassie on the other end ae the buzzer was incredulous and didnae believe us, accusin’ us ae lyin.

I was aboot tae open ma mouth, reassure her, but the roaster beat me tae it. He said we werenae lyin’ but if she didnae want tae do an interview that was fine, there were plenty ae other forum admins that would. I frantically mouthed tae him, askin’ whit he was doin. But all he did was shake his heid, tellin’ me tae wait.

Almost immediately an objection came frae the other end, beggin’ us tae wait, and that she wanted tae do the interview. A further buzzing followed by a mechanical click indicated that she’d opened the door tae the buildin’ fae us.

I threw an impressed glance at Reid, but maintain that his wee gambit couldae gone either way. The lassie’s flat was on the top floor, and after trekkin’ up four flights ae dingy stone stairs, wi cracklin’ paint on the walls, we were greeted by the lassie ootside ae her door. She was the same height as Reid, makin’ me feel unusually small, wi dirty blonde hair raked up in a dishevelled bun, and completed the look wi a cosy lookin jumper and pyjama bottoms I’m pretty sure I own. She introduced herself as Rowan, beamin’ at us eagerly.

After exchanging some greetins, and a false name or two, we were invited intae her flat. I used tae ‘hink the shop was bad, but this girl’s flat was somethin’ else. Compared tae her, the shop is the most ordered place in the city. There were mounds ae clothes piled in corners, socks and underwear hangin’ frae whit I assumed tae be radiators but were so cloaked in clothes I wasnae sure. Random shoes just lay discarded on the floor, occasionally beside an odd sock. Every surface space was covered, frae the wee table she had in the room, tae the sofa and armchair. The livin’ room, besides the piles ae clothes, looked like a second-hand computer dealership. Computer screens, laptops, hard drives, and cables all battled fae space in various states ae disrepair.

Rowan weaved and wound her way over tae a sofa and offered us a seat. Reid and I both glanced quickly at each other wi’ the same confusion. Where? Eventually I found a small bit ae the sofa that wasnae covered, and Reid perched on the arm behind me uncomfortably. Then the awkward silence settled in. Neither the roaster or I knew how tae conduct an interview. I carelessly fumbled fae ma phone and opened the note app, pretendin’ that the questions were there, when all I was lookin’ at was ma weekly shoppin list.

I started wi a question I thought sounded appropriate, and inquired when she starteed the website. Her face lit up and as she went intae her detailed answer I was only half listening. In the vain hope I’d see something oot ae the ordinary I took a quick glance aroond at the hoard. It wasnae hard tae imagine the shop lookin’ like this one day, when the ‘hings frae noo would be antiques. Excluding the odd piles ae clothes and discarded trainers that is. Rowan was happily tellin us that she’d started the website almost half a year ago, but it’d only really started gaining popularity in the previous 2 months. When she took a breath Reid was quick tae cut her aff, bluntly admittin’ that we didnae actually care, and then demandin’ tae know why she was makin’ books come tae life. I gaped at him, no quite believin’ he’d just come oot and said it. There was an awkward silence fae a few seconds that seemed tae stretch on, before Rowan voiced her own disbelief. Her eyes were watery as she stared between the both ae us wi’ confusion.

I took a deep breath, decidin’ it was better tae steer intae the skid, and told her we knew whit she was doin, we just didnae know how she was doin it. Confusion quickly turned tae animosity. Her shoulders went tense, eyes narrowed wi’ suspicion, and frae the way her body turned I wouldnae have been surprised if she’d bolted there and then. Instead, wi an icy tone, she asked us who we were.

Realising that the situation could quickly spiral oot ae control I chose tae take the gentler path. I mean if she was capable ae makin’ fantasy ‘hings come tae life, whit else was she capable of? If she conjured hings, then maybe she could un-conjure us? I explained that we didnae mean her harm, but she needed tae stop whit she was doin as it was scarin’ people.

Her fear was wiped away, replaced by prickly indignation. She claimed she was doin’ the members ae the forum a favour. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream tae experience their favourite books like they were livin’ in them? Through books you could experience new people, new creatures, and fantastical places. So why, if she had the power tae make them real, would she leave them on a page?

Reid, wi all the finesse ae a tattie, called her delusional, and stated that she wasnae doin anyone a favour except feedin her own ego by playin’ at God. The anger returned in an instant, the tension rose in the room, and I couldnae understand why Reid didnae share ma trepidation aboot pissin’ this lassie aff. Obviously she denied being delusional, and at playin God. She explained that from the posts she read on the forum, by the members that had joined, that the books were their lives, a home away from home, a safe haven, an escape. They’d all said how they’d love to be this character or that, be as strong, as intelligent, as cunning, as attractive. All wanted tae experience the worlds in these books fae themselves, and she was makin’ that happen.

Before Reid opened his mouth and let his belly rumble I was quick tae jump in, pointin’ oot that although said on a forum, no’ everyone wanted tae live in the books they loved. She couldnae go on messin’ wi people’s reality just because she thought she was helpin’. Everyone read fae different reasons, and let’s face it, some ae the ‘hings in books are better left on the page and in the readers imagination. She needed tae stop tryin tae help these people, because if it carried on it may turn oot tae be the opposite ae helpin’.

I could tell she took ma words seriously. Her bottom lip began tae quiver, her eyes almost unable tae hold back the tears that were wellin’ up. What good was she? She cried after a moment. I already felt oot ae ma depth, but dealin’ wi an existential crisis was so far beyond me I couldnae even ‘hink aboot whit tae say. Whit would the Madam do? If this customer was in the shop, sittin on the sofa, sippin’ tea, whit would ma boss say? Honestly, I dinnae ‘hink she’d say anything. She’s no exactly one fae geein’ life advice. But I wasnae her. Just because this lassie couldnae terrorise the members ae her forum didnae mean she was useless. She’d geein’ them a space where they could create a community of like-minded people, where they could discuss theories and characters and events. Where they could essentially live in the world these books created. I told her this, or somethin’ close, no that I ‘hink it did much good.

After a while ae talkin’ Reid and I decided tae leave. A thought occurred tae me when I got up tae wade back through the obstacle course tae the door. This lassie, whitever she was, had the power tae create ‘hings frae nothin’. That was on an almost God-like scale. I know if I had power like that I’d find it hard tae stop, especially if I thought it was doin’ at least some good. No doubt there were people in this forum ae hers who’d had a grand old time because of whit she’d done. The other argument was if the website was only popular because ae her power, if she stopped usin’ it would the website also grind tae a halt? And if that happened how easy would it be fae her tae slip back intae old habits?

I turned tae Rowan, streaks doon her cheeks frae where the tears had slid, red nose frae all the rubbin. As firmly as I could I explained that if she continued tae make books come tae life, the next person who visited her may no be so understandin’. The Madam had all the appearances ae sympathy, ae understandin’, but I’d seen the cold streak, the icy matter-ae-fact way she dealt wi’ errant people. There were so many ‘hings in the shop, all at her disposal, I could only imagine whit she’d do tae stop Rowan frae causin’ more havoc.

All the lassie did was nod weakly, and that was all the assurance I was gonnae get that she’d stop. But as I said, is power like that really so easy tae give up?

On the way back tae the shop I queried Reid if he knew whit the lassie was, and how she was bringin’ books tae life. He answered that she was probably a conjurer. Noticin’ the blank look I gee him he informed me that there are people wi the power tae conjure ‘hings, whether they be frae the real world or the fictional one. Accordin’ tae him they were quite rare. Thank Christ fae that. On the other hand how cool did that sound? Why was that lassie wastin’ time in scarin’ the shite oot ae people when she could be usin’ it fae her own benefit? Why not conjure money instead ae a winged beast? Or a seven-bedroom hoose instead ae a grey robed assassin? And the more pressin’ question. Why couldn’t I do whit she did? I’d swap pressin’ a buzzer wi ma mind wi conjurin’ whitever I wanteed any day. But I suppose life isnae fair. She may have those powers, but it’s no like she can use them as she pleases. And it leaves the question of if there are conjurers, then whit else is there?