A storm was coming in. A stiff wind smote the rocky island with backhanded fury, ripping what leaves were left from the branches of oak and rowan and hurling them across the square. Overhead, dark mauve-veined clouds rolled ominously westward. If one turned around and looked out the east windows, one would see huge waves shattering themselves on the jagged rocks surrounding the island.If one were to look out the east windows. Which Carr would not. Had not, in fact, in years if at all avoidable. Not that his present view pleased him any too much.Like a cheap whore too long in the trade, Wanton’s Blush was showing her coarse antecedents. All the accoutrements Carr had so painstakingly plied upon her homely surface could no longer hide what she was: a Scottish drab.The redbrick he’d ordered to cover her façade had crumbled in places, the gaping pox marks exposing the gray hand-hewn rock beneath. The courtyard he’d had paved with shimmering pink granite had heaved, pushed from below by tough Scottish turf that sprouted like hairs on a hag’s chin.The corrosion had seeped inside, too.
