The Orkney Crossing – Part 2: Peat Fire

The storm peaked on the third night.

The pub shook, the windows rattled, and the power flickered and died. The locals lit candles and carried on, as though a gale were a minor inconvenience. By eleven, only Priscilla and Callum were left by the fire, wrapped in blankets, the last of the whisky between them.

"Is it always like this?"

"Winter. Aye."

"I think I'd go mad."

"You'd go quiet," said Callum. "It's different." He poked the fire, and sparks leapt. "It teaches you to listen. To the wind, the sea. The people."

She watched his face in the flickering light, honest and lined, with kind eyes. Her heart was beating fast.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"If I missed the ferry again tomorrow... would that be terrible?"

"It would be the best news I've had all winter."

She smiled, shaky. "May I kiss you, Callum?"

"Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must photograph the whole island at dawn, in the rain."

"That's a lovely punishment."

He leaned in, slowly, and kissed her, his rough hand sliding to her jaw, the taste of whisky and peat smoke on his mouth. She kissed him back, warm and unhurried, her fingers wound in his coat. The fire popped. The storm raged outside, far away.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Priscilla. "Very green."

The ferry ran on the fourth day. She watched it leave from the pub window with her coffee, in Callum's jumper, and did not move.

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