The Hatching (The Hatching #1)(48)

The hat had been a wedding present to Padruig from Aonghas’s grandmother. He’d never met the woman, but when she died it had broken his grandfather’s heart. Even though Aonghas was only seven when his parents died in the crash, he still remembered the way his mother described his grandmother’s death: “For Da, it was like all the color drained out of the world.”

Aonghas had seen his grandfather wear the hat on only a few occasions: his parents’ funeral; Aonghas’s graduation from college; each of the three times Padruig had won a Gold Dagger Award from the Crime Writers’ Association, which, after Lionel Davidson’s death in 2009, left him as the only living author with that hat trick; and the day, when Aonghas was fifteen, when they’d both been invited to Balmoral Castle to go hunting with the queen, who was a huge fan of the Harry Thorton series.

So it was the hat that made Aonghas relax. The ring had been his mother’s, and he’d had to ask his grandfather for it, so both of them knew what was coming this weekend, but seeing that houndstooth newsboy hat on his grandfather’s head made Aonghas realize that if he was nervous about introducing Thuy to his grandfather, and if he was nervous about asking Thuy to marry him—and the Lord knew he was nervous—well, his grandfather was also nervous about meeting his girlfriend.

If anything, however, it almost went too well: Aonghas was left to carry the bags and boxes by himself while his grandfather took Thuy on the five-minute tour that Càidh Island warranted and required, and then showed her around the castle itself. And then, Aonghas was left by himself in the living room to listen to the BBC Radio nan Gàidheal and look out over the water while Thuy showed his grandfather how to make curry.

The news was still dominated by China and the nuclear explosion, but Aonghas found himself tired of it. There was nothing new to report, and it seemed as though nobody really knew anything. By the time dinner was on the table, he was relieved when his grandfather turned off the radio.

“It’s a shame, that sort of thing,” his grandfather said. “I’d like to think we’re at the edge of the world out here, but there are some things that are too big to hide from.”

Thuy poured some more wine and leaned against Aonghas. She smelled of garlic and lemongrass, and he kissed her on the top of the head. Her parents had raised her strictly Scottish, except for cooking, and for that he was thankful. He’d never realized how much he loved Vietnamese food until they started dating. Of course, that was because he’d never had Vietnamese food until they started dating.

“I don’t know, Padruig,” Thuy said. “It seems like you could hide from anything here. You could whittle away a year without too much trouble.”

His grandfather smiled and reached across the table to pat Thuy’s hand. “A year’s not so long, and not everything can be hidden from, dear. Do you know what Oppenheimer said after the first successful nuclear explosion?” Thuy shook her head. “He said, ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’?”

Aonghas laughed. “You know that’s not true. He said that later, but he didn’t say it at the time. It was only years and years and years later that he said that.”

His grandfather lifted both hands and then pounded them on the table with enough force that the silverware chattered and the wine sloshed in their glasses. Thuy jumped back, but Aonghas didn’t move. He could see the smile on his grandfather’s face. He was used to the old man’s theatrics.

“But it makes for the better story,” his grandfather roared. “The story. The story!” He picked up his knife and pointed it at Aonghas. “Never forget the story.” With that, Padruig put the knife back down and looked at Thuy. “And he doesn’t, you know. He doesn’t forget the story. As much as it pains me to say it, I think the boy is doing a better job with the books than I ever did. Though,” he said, dropping to a stage whisper, “he’s not yet won a Dagger Award.”

Outside, the light looked weaker. Clouds papered the sky, and the water had started to whip up a bit. Nothing to be worried about yet, but it hinted at a coming storm.

Since his grandfather and girlfriend had done all the cooking, Aonghas found himself exiled to the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes while his grandfather and Thuy relaxed in the living room, the radio on in the background. Aonghas was humming to himself, pleased at how well things were going, occasionally stopping to sneak the ring out of his pocket and take a look at it, when he realized Thuy was calling his name.

The urgency in her voice scared him. She said his name again, and instead of grabbing the towel, he just wiped his hands on his jeans. He hurried into the living room and came to a stop. They were just sitting there. Nothing was wrong. There had been a part of him that was sure he was going to come in and find the old man facedown on the floor, dead before he could see his grandson engaged and married, before he had a chance to see a great-granddaughter or great-grandson, the Càidh line carried on.

But both his grandfather and Thuy were up and alert. In fact, they were smiling.

Thuy stood up and walked over to him. “Is it true?” she said.

“What?”

Thuy looked at Padruig, so Aonghas looked at his grandfather as well. “Is what true?” he asked.

Padruig offered up something between a grimace and a smile. “I’m sorry, boy. It just slipped out.”