The Hatching (The Hatching #1)(47)
She was going to say yes. She had to. He couldn’t think about her saying anything else. He felt sick and knew it wasn’t the waves or the water: they’d never bothered him. It was the gauntlet of facing his grandfather.
They rounded the eastern edge of Càidh Island, and he saw the familiar harbor and the castle standing on the bluffs. Thuy gasped, and he smiled. He’d tried to tell her, but nobody ever believed it until they saw it. It wasn’t a big castle, as castles go, but it was a castle. His grandfather could never quite figure out how many centuries it had been in the family, and there was no real record of why it was there, but it was beautiful. It was home. And as far as castles went, it was actually fairly comfortable. Aonghas’s grandfather had spent quite a bit of money to make it more livable: there was solar power connected to a bank of batteries and a generator for the many times there wasn’t enough sun to keep the batteries charged, and a ten thousand-gallon diesel tank to keep the generator running; three large propane tanks kept the castle heated, since Càidh Island was almost bare of trees; two deep-freeze units were stocked with meat, ice cream, and frozen fruit, and the dry storage room was stocked with flour and grains and other dried goods; the furniture and linens, though a little outdated, had all been expensively furnished by a London decorator when Aonghas was still a little boy; and it had a wine cellar. Oh, the wine cellar. Even if he had been lonely at times as a child, Càidh Island, this barren rock in the waters of the Outer Hebrides, had been a good place to grow up, and it was an even better place to visit as a man.
He looked to the dock, but there was nobody there. Aonghas didn’t mind. His grandfather, a man whom Aonghas had always thought of as having almost supernatural strength, was finally showing his age. Padruig had been forty-two when his daughter and Aonghas’s father died in the crash, and at seventy-four, he wasn’t quite as quick as he’d been. He was still a tough old man. There was no questioning that. Except for four years in the military, Padruig had lived his entire life on the island. He claimed he’d never seen a doctor or a dentist, and as far as Aonghas could tell, that was true enough. He spent most of his time reading or writing—even though he had handed the Harry Thorton novels over to Aonghas, Padruig was still hacking away at his typewriter, supposedly working on an autobiography—and when he wasn’t doing that, he was out on the water fishing or back in the castle fixing things. Still, there was no reason for the old man to come down to the dock if he didn’t need to. Besides, if Aonghas was being honest, it was good to have a little room to breathe. He was really, really nervous about Thuy and his grandfather meeting. Really, really, really nervous.
Aonghas tied the boat to the dock. He helped Thuy out of the boat and then started piling their bags and the groceries on the wooden planks. He heard a soft ding and turned to see Thuy pulling out her cell phone.
“Wow,” she said. “I can’t believe I get reception here.”
He wrapped his hands around her hand and the phone. “You’d better turn it off. I wasn’t kidding when I told you that he’ll go batshit if he sees that. He is not a fan of technology.”
“I thought you said he had the castle wired for electricity and that he likes to listen to BBC Radio nan Gàidheal.”
“He does, but it’s the same radio he’s had since before my ma was born. And the electric is only so that he can power the freezer and fridge and the pumps for the septic system. No, other than the radio, it’s books or walking or staring at the water. I tried talking him into buying a television and DVD player once. This was back when I was ten or eleven, and even then he’d have none of it. Basically, he hates the idea of having to rely on anything he can’t fix himself. Just trust me, honey. Turn off the phone.”
“Well, at least we’ll be able to get the news from the radio. I still can’t believe about China.”
“China?” The sound of Padruig’s voice startled them. The old man was standing on the rock path above them, hands stuffed into the pockets of his shooting jacket. With his flowing beard and the shadow from the clouds and the tree behind him, he looked practically biblical. “China is only the beginning,” he said. “There’s never just one of that sort of thing, is there?”
He walked down the steps until he was on the dock in front of them. He stuck out his hand and nodded. “Aonghas.”
Aonghas shook his grandfather’s hand. The grip was still strong, but it didn’t crush his fingers the way he remembered early handshakes doing. It wasn’t that his grandfather had been trying to punish him, Aonghas knew, but rather that there was only one way he knew how to hold on to things: hard.
“Good to see you, boy.” His grandfather gave him a wink as he said it, and that was when Aonghas realized his grandfather was wearing the hat.
Padruig was a bit of a hermit—he didn’t leave Càidh Island that often, and rarely for more than a few days—but Aonghas’s grandfather was not an ascetic. His books had been bestsellers in the 1960s and 1970s, and they’d enjoyed a resurgence since Aonghas started writing them. His grandfather had plenty of money, and if there was something he cared about, he didn’t mind spending money on it. The wine cellar in the castle was proof enough of that. And the old man’s library had something in the neighborhood of ten thousand books. He’d also spent a fortune to make sure Càidh Island was close to self-sufficient: it was a fortress with the cistern and the diesel stores and the food stocked away in the cellars. While Aonghas always brought fresh produce and perishables, the castle could go for a year, maybe two, between deliveries of water and fuel and dry goods. But really, more than anything, Padruig was a clotheshorse. He’d had his jackets and shirts and trousers made to order in London for as long as Aonghas could remember, and his bootmaker was actually the grandson of the man who’d made boots for Padruig’s father. Aonghas had never been all that particular about clothing himself, and once, when he saw his grandfather’s bill from the tailor, he’d almost fainted. The man was, to borrow an old girlfriend’s expression, always well-turned-out. The problem was that it made it hard to figure out if Padruig was dressed for a special occasion, since he was always dressed impeccably. But the old man had a tell: the houndstooth newsboy hat.