Page 59 of On Circus Lane

“Where did the strangely bit come from?” he asks indignantly.

I laugh. “That’s like a five-star review from me. I don’t trustanyone.”

He looks disproportionately pleased by that statement, and I smile at him.

“Okay,” he says, thinking hard. “Come with me.”

“Is it back to the flat for a shag?”

“I have something even better than that.” He shakes his head. “What am Isaying? It’s not even close to being better. But this will still be fun. Follow me.”

I traipse after him, wishing his parka was shorter so I could look at his arse. I may have been denied Scotland’s beautiful sights, but I reckon Tom’s bum knocks all those out of the park anyway.

He stops at the top of the lane outside a crooked old building with chimneys, funny angles, and a pointed roof that looks like a witch’s hat.

“Queen Mary’s Bath House,” he announces like a tour-guide leader, which I suppose he is. “The rumour is that Mary Queen of Scots used to bathe here. They say she bathed in white wine.”

I blink. “Really? Sounds like something my mum would have done, although she’d have drunk the contents of the bath afterwards.” He gapes at me, and I realise what I just said. “Hmm,” I say, peering up at the building’s narrow window intently. “Mary lived here during a very turbulent time in her life,” I say thoughtfully. “Although her whole life could be classed as turbulent.” Also like my mum, although I refrain from mentioning it this time.

I look up at the wild hills and the grey sky rising behind the building. I glance back at Tom and am surprised to findhe’s standing by the side of the road leading to the palace. He’s scraping at the grit on the pavement with his boot.

“What are you doing?” I ask, after meandering over to him. “Are you digging a hole so we can get into the castle?”

He grins at me. “Come and look at this.”

I oblige him and look down. A glint of gold on the cobbles catches my eye, and I peer closer, taking care my glasses don’t fall. The gold appears to be in the shape of an “S” and it’s embedded in the stone.

He darts to the road’s centre and points down. “Here, too.”

I join him and see another shiny brass S embedded in the cobbles where they meet the main road. “What on earth?”

“And there’s another one here,” he calls, moving to the other side of the road. “Look.”

I gaze at the third S and then at the other two across the street. “It’s like they form a line,” I say.

“I bet you can guess what they were for.”

I blink. “You bet Ican? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

“Not with you.”

My chest warms at the admiration in his voice, and then I gaze at the S’s again. “What does the S stand for?” I muse. I look at the old buildings around me, and the answer comes in a flash. “Sanctuary,” I say.

He laughs in delight. “Iknewyou’d get it. Yeah, they’re the boundary of what was called Abbey Sanctuary. If you were in debt, you could gain refuge here from your creditors and be fed and housed.”

“Wow.” I stare at him. “How did you know they were here?”

He sighs in a sorrowful fashion. “Ah, Bee, I read my tourist guides. You should try it sometime.” I shove him while he laughs and then stand watching him. He shifts a little uneasily. “What?”

I shrug. “Just waiting for the next item on the Tom Wright Tour of Edinburgh.”

He brightens. “Yeah? Was that interesting?”

“It really was,” I say softly, but it’s probably not for the reason he’s thinking. I love history, but it’s knocked into a firm second place when I put it against the sight of Tom with his warm grey eyes and wind-ruffled hair standing against this backdrop.

I follow him back to the bus. The heat is startling after the cold outside, but he doesn’t even try to persuade me to sit in the crowded downstairs where many tourists are seeking shelter against the snow. He makes for the top, where he settles with no sign of discomfort on the outer seats. Needless to say, we’re alone.

“Ooh, they have headphones,” I say, reaching for the plastic packets. “That means they have a tour guide.”

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