“It is indeed,” Isla said. She turned to the girls. “I’m Isla Kissick, and it’s absolutely thrilling to meet all of you. But I’m afraid I only know your mummy’s name. Why don’t you tell me your names?”
“I’m Luna,” Luna said. “I’m nine.”
“Luna,” Isla said. “What a lovely name.”
“It means ‘moon,’？” Luna said, a little shy.
“Mine’s Clover,” Clover said, elbowing Luna out of the way. “I’m seven and a half and my name means clover, like the plant.”
“Also a lovely name,” Isla said. “And I bet you already know that clovers are meant to bring good luck?”
Clover nodded. “Mm-hmm. But my mummy said you make your own luck.”
“Very wise,” Isla said, glancing at me approvingly. She turned to Saffy, who flushed red.
“And who might this lovely one be?” Isla said.
“Sapphire,” Saffy mumbled to the floor. “I’m fifteen.”
“Well now, that’s lovely,” Isla said. “My daughter, Rowan, is fifteen. I’m sure you’ll meet soon enough. Now, come and sit down. I’ve made you all some supper.”
I nodded at the girls to leave their bin bags in the hall before following Isla to a kitchen at the back, where the smell of freshly baked bread and tomato soup made my mouth water.
I’d supposed that Isla was Mr. Roberts’ partner, but she turned out to be his housekeeper. She was short and lithe with long copper hair neatly pinned up, and her quick, round eyes searched all of us up and down. She had a beautiful Scottish brogue and spoke fast, as though the words were too hot to hold in her mouth for long. She was smartly turned out—a crisp white shirt, gray check trousers, polished ankle boots. The bothy was incongruously old-fashioned. I would learn that Lòn Haven, its inhabitants included, was full of skewed time spheres. The absence of modern retail chains and its breathtakingly rugged landscapes made the place feel like you’d stepped back in time, perhaps to the very beginnings of the earth. The lighthouse itself was built upon an ancient Scottish broch that was built upon a Neolithic fort, which in turn was built upon late Jurassic rock, like an architectural babushka doll.
III
“There you go,” Isla said, placing bowls of steaming hot soup before each of us. I apologized again for the mix-up about our arrival. I’d planned to begin the commission a few weeks from now but decided to head north on the spur of the moment. Or the middle of the night, to be exact. We’d driven the whole way from York to Cromarty, only to find that the ferry was canceled for the day on account of high winds. The girls and I had to endure a very cold and uncomfortable night at a rest stop, sleeping in the car.
“It’s no trouble,” Isla said. “Mr. Roberts is away, of course, but I’m to take care of everything until he returns.”
“Are we sleeping in the car again?” Clover said, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve.
“In the car?” Isla repeated, looking to me for explanation.
“I’m sure there are plenty of beds for all of us,” I said quickly, and this time I was the one to look to Isla for confirmation. I didn’t want to mention that we’d had to sleep rough.
“Of course there are,” she said. “Shall I give you the grand tour?”
The bothy was small but efficiently organized. A door at the rear of the kitchen led to a scullery with a washing machine and loo. Three bedrooms provided ample sleeping space with freshly made-up beds, and there was a bathroom with a shower cubicle.
We followed Isla to the living room at the front of the house, overlooking the garden.