The Empty House
Aberdeen's winter clung to the streets like a miser to his coin. Grey slush filled the wynds, black smoke drifted from crooked chimneys, and the gulls that circled above the harbour shrieked like starving children.
The Sinclair carriage rattled through it all, lacquered wood gleaming despite the grime. Townsfolk glanced up as it passed, whispering behind hands. Lady Margaret Sinclair was still spoken of in drawing rooms and taverns alike—not for her wit or beauty, though both were known, but for the scandal that had tainted her name.
When she swept down from the carriage, silk skirts lifted just enough to keep from the filth, her face was carved from fury. Behind her, Robert Sinclair followed more slowly, leaning on his cane. He was not yet old, but he carried his years as a man carries debt—heavy, dragging.
They stopped before the townhouse on Castlegate that had once been James Gunn's. Its windows were shuttered, its door barred, the brass knocker tarnished to a dull brown. Once it had been a house of light and feasts, with ships' captains and merchants coming and going. Now it stood like a mausoleum.
Margaret mounted the steps, hammering on the door. "Open, in God's name!"
At length, a maid opened, pale-faced, apron soiled. She curtsied low. "My lady—"
"Where is my husband?" Margaret demanded, pushing inside without waiting for answer. The hall smelled faintly of dust and disuse.
The maid wrung her hands. "Gone, my lady. More than a year now. He sold his yards, his ships… left without word."
Margaret froze. The words struck harder than any blow. "Left?"
The girl nodded miserably. "Aye. And… the lawyer brought papers. Divorce papers."
Margaret staggered as if struck, gripping the banister. "Divorce? On what grounds?"
The maid whispered, "That you and your father… sought his life."
Robert stepped forward, face mottled red. "Lies. Damned lies. He paints us villains to hide his cowardice."
Margaret's eyes burned. "He cannot cast me aside. I am Lady Flint."
"No," Robert said grimly. "Not anymore."
Margaret's Rage
That night, Isobel's chambers shook with her fury. Servants scuttled in silence as she tore gowns from wardrobes, flung silks and velvets onto the floor. Strings of pearls snapped, scattering across the rugs like white tears.
"He dared!" she screamed. "He dares call me a would-be murderer, a schemer! He dares brand me false and cast me aside?" She kicked a chest of gowns, sending it crashing against the wall. "I was his wife! His lady! Without me, he was nothing but a Highland brute in a borrowed coat!"
Her maid whispered timidly, "But, my lady, they say he was feared in the wars… that he—"
"Silence!" Isobel whirled, her hair falling wild around her shoulders. "He was nothing to me but a purse and a name. And he thought himself better than me, brooding in silence, refusing me the company and finery I deserved. Now he hides, and dares call it honour?"
She collapsed onto her bed, shaking with rage, tears streaking her face. "He will pay. I'll have him ruined, dragged before the courts, or dead at my feet. No man leaves Isobel Sinclair and breathes free."
Robert's Calculations
Robert Sinclair was calmer, but no less dangerous. He sat in his study, maps of Scotland spread across the desk, pins marking trade routes and holdings. His fortune had grown fat from shipbuilding and whaling, but reputation mattered as much as coin.
If word spread that Flint had abandoned them, that he had branded the Sinclairs traitors, their influence in Aberdeen would wither. Merchants were like gulls—they flocked to strength and pecked at weakness.
Robert traced the northern coast with a bony finger. "Caithness," he muttered. "Old Gunn ground. The fool has run to nowhere. Hiding among kelp-burners and salt-makers."
He summoned his steward. "Send word to Wick and Thurso. Pay innkeepers, ferrymen, tavern gossips. Have them watch for a tall man, gaunt, scarred, carrying pistols. A ghost, they say—let's see if ghosts drink ale and buy salt fish like other men."
The steward bowed and left. Robert leaned back, steepling his fingers. "If Flint lives, we will gut him. If he dies, we will claim what's his. Either way, Sinclair coin does not lose."
The Lawyer's Letter
In Mr. Douglas's office, the confrontation played out with more venom. Isobel railed, Robert threatened, but Douglas was unflappable.
He produced the letter from Inverness—unsealed, unclaimed. "Mentions Caithness. The cliffs. Perhaps Bruan. It is the only trail I have."
Isobel seized it, scanning the lines. Her lips curved in a smile sharp as glass. "Caithness, then. He skulks like a rat among ruins. But rats can be smoked out."
Douglas's eyes flickered with unease. "My lady, forgive me—but I would tread carefully. They say Flint is not merely man, but shadow. That he may have killed scores at Culloden, though no Flints were there, that he cannot be slain."
Isobel laughed, brittle and bright. "Then let shadow meet fire."
The Road North
Their retinue set out in early spring, ten hired men in Sinclair livery, pistols loaded, sabres sharp. The road wound through glens where snow still clung to the braes, through villages half-starved from winter.
At each inn they spread coin, asking the same question: had any seen a tall man, scarred, coughing blood, carrying pistols?
In Pitlochry, an innkeeper swore he had heard of such a man in Inverness, trading coin for whisky.
In Tain, a fisherman muttered of a giant who bought nets but spoke little.
In Dingwall, a shepherd whispered of a ghost on the hills, watching from the heather.
Each rumour tightened Isobel's smile. Each whisper made Robert more certain.
By the time they reached Inverness, Flint was linked with the name Gunn, the Gunn's legend had grown. Men spoke of him in half-voice, calling him An Taibhse Dubh—the Black Phantom returned. Some swore he could not die, that he walked the moors unseen.
Robert only sneered. "Every ghost leaves a shadow. And shadows are mine to buy."
The Hired Blades
At Inverness, Robert gathered more strength. He hired three hard men:
Donald MacRae, a deserter from the Black Watch with a scar across his throat.
Callum Bain, a thief and knife-man with dead eyes.
Alistair Kerr, a marksman who boasted he could put a musket ball through a hare's eye at two hundred paces.
Isobel watched them with distaste, but Robert approved. "Not gentlemen," he said, "but killers. And killers are what we need."
They rode north with the Sinclairs, grim shadows against the heather.
Rumours in Caithness
By the time they reached Wick, the whole coast buzzed with talk. Strangers with gold in their purses, asking after Gunn. Some called him saviour—protecting Craik pans from Keith raiders. Others called him menace—slaying with claymore and pistols.
At the Craik camp, a travelling merchant brought word. "Folk from Aberdeen, asking after a tall man with a cough. They say his wife seeks him. And his father-in-law, with coin enough to buy a regiment."
Agnes felt the blood drain from her face. That night, by the fire, she told Flint.
He sat silent a long time, staring into the flames. Then he said, "So she hunts me still. I should have known."
"What will you do?" Agnes asked.
"Not run," he said, jaw set. "Not again. If she comes to Caithness, she'll find me waiting."
Agnes took his hand, fierce and steady. "Then she'll find us both."
The Omen
That night, the sea roared louder than before, waves hammering the cliffs with fury. Flint and Agnes stood together at the edge, cloaks whipping in the gale.
"Shadows are coming," Agnes whispered.
Flint's eyes were dark, unyielding. "Aye. And shadows bring steel."
He pressed his forehead to hers. "But I am no ghost now. I am Gunn. And I am yours."
Her arms tightened around him. "Then let them come."
Below, the surf hissed against the rocks, like the whisper of blades yet to be drawn.