“It’s fine. I really do have to get back. I’ll come back tomorrow for the tour.” I smile a charmingly magnanimous good-bye, but Jack’s concern is evident in his eyes as he watches me go. I’m halfway to the exit when the concierge enters. He seems to be scanning the room as if looking for me, but surely I’m imagining it. Then his eyes light upon me and I’m positive that’s exactly what he was doing. He even starts in my direction, but the waitress bustles toward him; he turns to her somewhat reluctantly and patiently listens, though his eyes flick repeatedly toward me until his attention suddenly sharpens at something she says. I pass within a few feet of the pair of them, close enough to read his name badge: Ben Rankin, Hotel Manager. Not the concierge, then—he’s rather more important than that. As I pass, he looks directly into my face with startlingly clear blue eyes, the color of the glorious cloudless sky that awaits me outside. There’s no malice to be found in his gaze, but I can’t decipher any message either. And then the moment has passed and he’s behind me.

Once in the car, I put my hands on the wheel and drop the persona, feeling the anger and upset bubbling inside me. I am not magnanimous. I want to scratch and tear and bite and scream. It is not fine that a strange woman was unspeakably rude both about my mother and directly to me. I’m so livid at the injustice of it, I can almost see the emotions swirling inside me, a scarlet and black tornado. But no, that’s the painting I’m seeing. Even as rational thought regains a foothold and the bitter anger recedes, uneasiness wells up in its place. It’s abundantly clear that I can’t expect to fly under the radar here, but is everyone going to react to me like Morag? I’m abruptly aware that the sense of isolation I feel doesn’t stem purely from the implacable scenery. I know no one here. I have nobody on my side. I might as well be ten years old again, back in the hippie squat.

A car pulls into the car park and jolts me out of my melodramatic wallowing. I start the engine, determined not to think of Morag. Instead I puzzle over the manager: Ben Rankin. The name tumbles over in my head for the short drive back to the Manse, spinning this way and that. If someone told me I ought to recognize the name, I’m sure I could convince myself I’ve heard it before, but I have no certainty. He knows me, though. I’m sure of that. But Morag knew me, too—and look how that ended.