The Garden and the Ghosts of the Past
Before she reached the outer steps, Isla heard someone behind her again. This time, when she turned, the shadow resolved into a person.
Alastair.
He approached casually, hands tucked into the folds of his tunic. “Apologies if I startled you,” he said, smiling warmly.
Isla exhaled slowly, her heart still racing. “I didn’t hear you approach.”
“It’s a talent,” he said lightly, his grin widening.
She glanced back toward the tree line but saw nothing now. No more shadows. No more watchers. And yet, some instinct still thrummed at the edge of her thoughts—like a memory pressing against her spine.
Alastair’s gaze dropped to the books in her arms. “Some light morning reading?”
She offered a faint smile. “Just brushing up on beginner’s magic.”
He laughed, the sound easy and unburdened. “I dabble. If you ever want a lesson or two, I’d be happy to offer my vast and probably questionable wisdom.”
“Noted,” she replied with a wry smile. “Though I think I’ll start with the basics.”
They walked together through the quiet garden paths, the dew-darkened stone glistening beneath their feet. The stone beneath her sandals was cool with dew, worn smooth by centuries of feet that had passed this way. Wild thyme spilled over the edges of the path, releasing a faint, peppery scent as they walked. Somewhere deeper in the garden, water trickled—soft and persistent, like an ancient voice whispering secrets through the ivy. A light breeze stirred through the heather, and conversation flowed with unexpected ease—like water finding its way between stones.
He was nothing like Lachlan—his humor, his carefree tone, his way of putting her at ease.
“So,” Isla said, tilting her head, “you’re Lachlan’s twin?”
“Indeed. Shocking, I know. Most people think he’s the brooding one, and I’m the charming disappointment.”
She laughed. “I can’t imagine anyone calling you a disappointment.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said with mock solemnity, then winked.
As they walked, Alastair paused to whistle toward a finch calling from a mossy branch overhead. The bird tilted its head, then answered. He grinned.
“You speak bird?” Isla teased.
“Only socially.”
She shook her head, amused in spite of herself. Lachlan would’ve dismissed the bird entirely—or worse, interpreted its cry as an omen. Alastair simply enjoyed the moment.
They shared similar eyes and jawlines, but their energy was completely different. Like two halves of a story written in opposite tones.
To an outsider, their conversation might have seemed flirtatious—but to Isla, it felt like breathing. Like companionship. The kind that made you forget the weight of the world for a moment.
Still, her thoughts lingered on Lachlan. And the book pressed tightly against her side.
Curiosity eventually won out. “What was he like, when you were children?” she asked.
Alastair looked thoughtful. “We were inseparable once. Always in trouble, always trying to outdo each other. Lachlan had this quiet courage even then. If someone picked on me, he didn’t say a word—he just made sure it never happened again.”
She smiled softly. “Sounds like him.”
“We used to sneak out into the woods to chase fireflies. One summer, we built this ridiculous raft from pine branches and old rope, swearing we’d sail it down to the Spirit Isles.”
“Did it work?”
He chuckled. “For about five minutes. Lachlan jumped off halfway through, said he saw something in the trees and just... followed it. Never explained. I kept rowing, thinking he’d come back. But he didn’t.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “That was the last time I felt like we were going the same direction.”
“And then?” Isla asked. “What changed?”
He hesitated. “When we got older, things shifted. Lachlan started having dreams—visions, he said. About the land. About people who hadn’t been born yet. He’d wake up shaking. Our elders knew what it meant, but I didn’t. Not at the time.”
“And you?”
“No dreams. No magic. Just a brother who suddenly had a destiny that didn’t include me.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Wait... please,” Isla said softly. “I want to learn more about Lachlan and this Druid business. Unfortunately, my father never pushed magic or the unknown on me.”
Magic had always been something other people whispered about. In her world, it was tucked between the lines of storybooks or buried beneath her father’s silences. It wasn’t discouraged—just… ignored. And maybe that was worse. Maybe that was why she now clung to every new piece of this strange truth like driftwood in a storm.
She sat back down on the foundation stones. Alastair turned, hesitant for a moment, then walked back and sat beside her.
He paused. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I feel as though there is more to this awakening than you’re telling me. And... I doubt Lachlan will tell me.”
The last part came out quietly, like a truth she hadn’t meant to say aloud. She knew they had a connection—but was it enough for him to trust her? Did he even trust the version of her from the book? How much of what she had read was fact, and how much was fiction?
The more she learned about this place, the more the lines began to blur.
She had no tether here. Not really. Lachlan was mystery, the book was a map half-burned, and Alastair… he was warmth, but not clarity. The more she asked, the more the story shifted beneath her feet—like sand wet with tidewater. Was this fate pulling her toward something, or fiction bleeding into fact? She didn’t know. But she was done being passive.
The light shifted, briefly, as if the sun blinked. Isla glanced up, but no clouds veiled the sky. Still, her skin prickled. Like something unseen had paused to watch. Alastair hadn’t noticed—but she wasn’t sure if that comforted her or not.
Alastair glanced sideways at her. “What is it you want to know?”
“How did Lachlan know he was a Druid?”
His shoulders rose in a small shrug. “He started seeing things. Having dreams he couldn’t explain. Sometimes he’d wake up speaking a language none of us knew. The elders said it was the call of the old blood. I just thought... I thought I’d lost my brother.”
“You were close.”
“We were everything. But after his awakening, he stopped confiding in me. The bond changed. Like he was carrying something too big for me to understand.”
Isla looked down at the ground, her mind spinning with everything she’d just heard.
“You still care about him.”
“Of course,” Alastair said simply. “He’s my brother. Even when we’re strangers.”
A breeze stirred the trees, carrying the scent of morning dew and heather. Isla pulled the book closer.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For not walking away.”