“Is there nothing—?”
“There is nothing you can say. Nothing you can do. No story will get you out of this.”
There are moments when you know you are about to do something incredibly reckless and breathtakingly dangerous. And you don’t care. It’s not leaping before you look. It’s looking, seeing the pit of boiling lava, and jumping anyway, because an enraged elephant is charging straight at you, and there’s a very slight chance you might land on that tiny island amid the lava.
“What about the truth? No story. The truth.”
She sighs. “Please take the two pounds and do not insult me with more lies. I am more worldly than you seem to believe.”
“Which is why I’m going to tell you the truth, and if you don’t believe it, which I’m sure you won’t, then I ask only one thing. Keep your money. I’ll go quietly. Whatever I say, though, promise you won’t have me sent off to Bedlam?”
Her lips twitch, just a little. “Bethlem Hospital is in London, Catriona.”
“Whatever the Edinburgh equivalent is. What I’m about to tell youis going to have you seriously questioning my sanity, and I need you to promise you won’t have me committed to an asylum. Just tell me you don’t believe me, and let me leave.”
She rolls her eyes and assures me that Scottish asylums are nothing like English ones, because they areScottishand thus very much advanced. Finally, though, I get her to agree. No matter what I say, she will not summon the guys in the white coats.
“We should stop walking,” I say. “So I can explain properly.”
I look around. We’re on an Old Town street, bustling with carts and carriages and people.
Isla sighs again. “Would you like something to eat, Catriona?”
“Is there a patio?”
“A…?”
“Outdoor seating?”
She continues to stare at me.
I watch as a passing cart sprays filthy water onto a shopfront. Down a side lane, a guy is openly pissing on the wall.
“Er, right,” I say. “A quiet tearoom, perhaps?”
She waves for me to walk, and I break into a trot, keeping pace with her long strides.