Mary cannot speak. She swallows, tries to think of something to say. She squeezes his hands.

‘Oh, Richard,’ she says, smile spreading across her whole face. ‘You know, I never did think of you as an older brother.’

He reaches out a hand, strokes her cheek. She closes her eyes for a moment, inhales happily, before opening them again.

‘If you tell me there’s a fly on my cheek this time,’ she says with a wicked grin. ‘I might get rather cross.’

But instead he pulls her towards him, warm lips meeting for the first time as their hearts sing in unison.

John Brown, broad of chin, kind of heart and getting on in years, waves to the two figures in the boat as they push off from the beach below his crofter’s cottage. They have achieved a great deal in a relatively short period of time, he thinks with respect. They have breathed new life into the old croft on the small island, created a home where there had not been one for many years. They keep themselves to themselves, yet they are not unfriendly. The taller one, the one with the hunchback and the pretty dark skin, it’s a shame she must cover her shoulders so with that big shawl wrapped around so tight. She is friendly enough, but her pale stepsister with the wary eyes, she has taken longer to get to know. And yet he is rather fond of them both, he thinks, as he prepares his pipe, their vessel receding on the horizon as it heads off towards the little island, a blizzard of hopeful gulls following like a cloud, mistaking it for a fishing boat.

We all have our secrets, he thinks as he squints at them, laughing and chatting as they cut through the waves. For it is only since the pair of them arrived that he has spotted a strange thing in the skies. His eyes are not good enough these days to be able to say without doubt what exactly it is, but it is the biggest bird he has ever seen, that much is certain. Bigger than the sea eagles, bigger even than the albatrosses he saw when he was out at sea. It is almost, he has thought for a while now, as big as a person . . .

He has his suspicions, ah, that he does, but, he thinks with a smile, he will not tell a soul of them. He taps his pipe out on the low stone wall, looks up and gives them one last, final wave.

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements

The Gifts is, obviously, a work of fiction. I’ve bent and distorted facts, dates, and locations to make this world feel real. Any mistakes and errors in it are mine and mine alone.