“But where’s Mummy?” Clover says, her voice breaking. “Where’s the Longing, and the bothy?”
“Let’s go and find out.”
III
They drive around the island for hours, searching out places that they both might remember. Clover brightens when they reach Strallaig, recognizing a shop front that she expects to be an ice-cream shop and growing upset when it turns out to be a nail bar. They get out of the car and walk up and down the high street. There’s a small Boots store, a “Starbox”—someone’s attempt to pastiche Starbucks, including the green signage—a deli, and an art gallery. A group of blue-and pink-haired teenagers walk along the street, chatting and laughing.
The back of Luna’s neck prickles. She turns, and a woman is there. She’s an older woman, Chinese, a heavy black raincoat and a pair of wellies. A blunt fringe hangs low over her eyes, and she frowns at Clover before lifting her gaze to Luna. It’s only a half-second glance and yet it seems to pose a question.
Ling. One of Isla’s friends.
But before Luna can approach her, she’s gone.
Lòn Haven is at once familiar and foreign. Luna has moments of recognition, but they are so fleeting that she suspects she’s inventing them. Clover’s mention of their mother, Liv, residing on Lòn Haven has awakened the old hope that somehow her mother is alive. That somewhere, she’s searching for Luna. Waiting for her.
She goes to the police station and asks about the Longing.
“Burned down,” the officer at the desk tells her. “Years ago. The sea claimed what was left.”
Luna’s eyebrows knit together. “Who burned it?”
The officer leans across the desk, clasps her hands. “The owner, I believe.”
“Patrick Roberts,” Luna says, and the officer’s silence confirms it. The man her mother was working for. The mural.
“Do you happen to know why?”
The police officer shrugs. “I was only little at the time. Probably an insurance claim, that’s what folk said.” She catches herself and clears her throat. “Anyway. He died inside it.”
So he’s dead, she thinks. The sense of relief that comes with this knowledge is short-lived. Patrick might have had answers.
She pulls out the photograph of Liv that her uncle gave her, then the Polaroid of Saffy, and asks the police officer if she’s seen either of them.
“I’ll check our database,” she says. “But they don’t look familiar.”
Luna buys Clover an ice cream as they wait. An hour later, she returns, and the police officer shakes her head. “I’ve checked the last ten years. Nobody matches those descriptions, I’m afraid.”
The storm sweeps up again, waves towering against the harbor walls and storm clouds sending rain down like chain mail. The horizon darkens; Luna wonders if Ethan will make it up north as planned. She drives aimlessly, noticing how Clover seems consoled by being back on the island, however different it looks. Luna knows the calm won’t last long. She has to figure out her next steps.
Darkness stretches across the sky, swift as a blind being drawn. Silver tendrils of lightning whip across the ocean, a low groan of thunder. In the distance, rain is racing toward them in sweeping chains. She drives back to Strallaig to find somewhere to stay for the night. A hotel, Lòn House, sits at the far end of the street, close to a car park and a new children’s play park.
The room comes with Netflix and a menu for room service. She texts Ethan to tell him where they’re staying, then orders soup for herself and chicken pie with chips for Clover, who has fallen quiet. The room swells with sadness and disappointment. Tomorrow, they will head back to Inverness, where she’ll contact Eilidh.