Hollow Union
The townhouse in Aberdeen soon changed.
Where Flint had once lived among plain stone, maps, and books, now came silks, French mirrors, carved chairs with gilded edges. Margaret brought them all, her father urging her on, the bills sent quietly to Flint's desk.
Within months, the halls echoed with music, laughter, and the clink of crystal. Margaret entertained constantly — card parties, suppers, dances. Gentlemen with powdered wigs and ladies with feathered fans filled the rooms, their voices high and sharp, their laughter bright.
Flint moved among them like a shadow. He stood at the edge of parlours, glass in hand, answering little, watching much. Some tried to draw him into talk of trade, of politics, of the Prince in exile. He replied with a word, a nod, and silence. Soon they drifted back to Margaret, whose wit and charm filled every space he left empty.
When the guests departed, the bills remained. Wine, gowns, musicians, imported delicacies — all paid for from his accounts. Flint never spoke of it, but his jaw tightened each time he signed his name.
Margaret, for her part, seemed not to notice. She lived as though wealth were air, to be breathed and spent without thought. She laughed at the smallness of his meals, mocked his plain coats.
"You could dress in velvet, James," she said once, holding a bolt of silk against his chest. "Why must you always wear black, like some dour kirk elder?"
"I have no need of velvet," he replied.
She laughed, tossing the silk aside. "You are impossible."
Her father was worse. Robert Sinclair came often, fat on his daughter's fortune, drinking Flint's whisky, boasting of "our" ships, "our" yards. He spoke loudly of investments, yet his debts grew deeper, covered by Flint's silent coin.
One evening Flint confronted him, voice low and cold. "Your debts are not mine."
Sinclair smiled, oily. "But you are family now, Flint. And family shares fortune as well as name."
Flint's eyes narrowed. "Do not mistake me for a fool."
Sinclair only laughed and poured himself another dram.
Flint retreated further into his work. The shipyards became his refuge, the wharves his solace. He walked the planks at dawn and dusk, checked seams, spoke with captains, studied ledgers. There, among timber and tar, he felt himself again — not a husband trapped in silk rooms, but a man forged of labour and steel.
Yet even there, whispers followed. Men spoke of the lavish parties in Aberdeen, of Margaret's beauty, of Sinclair's debts. Some pitied Flint, others mocked him quietly.
"The dour Highlander," they called him. "Rich as a king, yet ruled by wife and father-in-law both."
Flint heard, though he showed no sign. But each word was a spark on dry tinder.
At night, alone in his chamber, he sat by the hearth and stared into the flames. Margaret rarely joined him, preferring to stay in her father's company or among her guests. When she did, it was with a sigh, as though his silence bored her beyond endurance.
"Why must you always brood?" she asked once.
"I do not brood," he replied.
"Then what do you do?"
"I remember."
She rolled her eyes. "The past is gone, James. You should live."
But she did not know what the past held. She had never seen blood on heather, never heard the scream of cannon, never felt hunger in the marrow. She lived in silk. He lived in ghosts.
Their bed grew cold between them.
One winter night in 1763, Flint sat alone at hs desk, ledger open, candle guttering. Outside, snow fell thick on the cobbles. Inside, laughter rang from the parlour, Margaret and Sinclair entertaining guests again.
Flint pressed a hand to his temple. The numbers blurred, debts mounting where there should have been profit. Not his debts, but Sinclair's — hidden, tangled, woven into the accounts.
The fire cracked. Somewhere in the house, Margaret laughed, high and bright.
Flint closed the ledger, his hand trembling slightly. For the first time in years, he felt not anger, not weariness, but loneliness so deep it hollowed him.
He had built ships, wealth, a fortress of survival. Yet within its walls he was alone, and surrounded by enemies who called themselves family.
And still, he endured.
Seeds of Betrayal (1764)
The night was heavy with fog when Flint returned to his townhouse. The lamps burned low, their smoke coiling in the mist. The windows glowed with warmth, laughter spilling faintly into the street. Margaret entertained again — another supper, another crowd, another drain on his coffers.
He entered quietly, cloak damp from the fog, boots silent on the stair. From the parlour below came voices — Margaret's, high and mocking, and Sinclair's, low and oily.
"… dour as a kirk elder," Margaret was saying. "He broods by the fire while the world dances. I swear, Father, he has the soul of a stone."
Sinclair chuckled. "A stone with a golden heart. His wealth is all that matters, child. And soon enough, it will be ours entire."
Flint froze on the stair. His hand gripped the banister until his knuckles whitened.
Margaret's voice lowered, but the words carried still. "He will not live long. He coughs already, sometimes with blood. If the sickness does not take him, there are… other ways."
Sinclair's laugh was sharp as a knife. "Aye. Other ways."
Flint's jaw tightened. He turned and climbed silently to his chamber. There, in the dim light, he sat in silence, cloak still about his shoulders, hand resting on the hilt of his dirk.
He had faced bayonets, cannon, the slaughter of Culloden — but never betrayal so close to his hearth.
Days later, walking home from the yards, he felt the shadows.
Two men behind, keeping distance. Another ahead, loitering near the wynd. Their hands hung low, too near their belts. Their eyes slid toward him, then away.
Flint's stride did not falter. He turned into a narrow lane, the fog thick, the cobbles slick with rain. The walls closed tight, stone and shadow. His boots rang steady, though his heart beat harder.
The footsteps followed.
Then came the rush.
One lunged from behind, arm hooking for his throat. Flint twisted, elbow slamming into the man's ribs. He drew his dirk in the same motion, the blade flashing pale in the fog.
Another came from the front, knife glinting. Flint swung his targe — yes, he carried it still, strapped beneath his cloak when he walked the streets at night — and the knife scraped sparks against it. Flint shoved forward, smashing the iron boss into the thug's jaw. Teeth broke, blood spraying.
The third struck from the side with a cudgel. Flint staggered, pain bursting across his shoulder. He snarled, low and savage, and drove his dirk upward. The blade punched into flesh beneath ribs. The man gasped, eyes wide, blood bubbling at his lips. Flint tore the blade free and let him fall.
The others hesitated — just a breath, but long enough. Flint moved like a wolf among sheep.
The claymore he left at home, but the dirk was enough. He slashed, quick and brutal, cutting one across the arm, the other across the face. One screamed, dropping his knife. The other fled into the fog, clutching his wound.
The last thug, bleeding from the mouth, tried to rise. Flint kicked him hard, boot cracking ribs, then pressed the dirk to his throat.
"Who sent you?" Flint growled.
The man coughed blood. "A purse… a lady's hand…" His eyes widened in terror. "No more, please!"
Flint's jaw clenched. He pressed harder. "Name."
The man choked. "Sinclair… his coin, her will."
Flint's eyes burned like coals. He withdrew the blade and left the man gasping in the fog.
He staggered back to the townhouse, bloodied cloak hiding his wounds. In his chamber he sank into a chair, chest heaving, dirk still red. He pressed a hand to his mouth — and coughed.
Bright blood spattered his palm.
For a long time he sat staring at it, the fire crackling low. His shoulder throbbed from the cudgel, his ribs ached, but it was the blood in his palm that chilled him.
The Cailleach's words whispered: He will think himself a ghost. Iron will mark him. Ash will follow him.
Perhaps it was no hired blade that would end him. Perhaps it was already inside him, eating him from within.
He closed his fist around the blood and whispered into the empty room:
"I am not dead yet."
The fire answered with a hiss, sparks rising into the dark.