The Magic Ring of Brodgar - стр. 2
The castle was perched on a hill, offering breathtaking views of cliffs and mountains stretching into the North Sea. The magnificent green landscape extended for miles around. The estate was meticulously maintained, Megan noted immediately. Near the massive entrance door stood the manager, observing Megan intently.
“Good evening, Gregor!” she greeted, eyeing the tall, lean middle-aged man in a formal grey suit. He was exactly as her grandfather had described in his stories. Gregor's face seemed impassive and even stern, perhaps due to his thinness and lack of smile.
“Good evening, Miss. Welcome.”
Malcolm had greatly valued the estate manager for his impeccable manners, respectfulness, discretion, and cool, calculated intellect. He was one of those individuals who spoke little but listened much. When the distillery faced a downturn, it was Gregor who secured lucrative contracts with partners. Now, he was in charge of communication with the main whiskey buyers, working in tandem with Megan's cousin Warren, whom Malcolm had recently involved in the business affairs.
Gregor took two suitcases from Mr. Douglas and led the way inside.
As Megan entered the mansion through the grand doors, she paused, taking in the interior with interest, which blended modernity with history. The original stone walls were adorned with numerous hunting trophies.
“Deer hunting has long been considered a noble pursuit for true gentlemen, such as your grandfather,” Mr. Douglas explained, noticing Megan's surprised examination of the hall's unique decor.
“Are there bears around here?” Megan inquired warily, noticing a bear skin by the fireplace.
The manager smiled at her question, “No, that skin was a gift to your grandfather from an American hunter, an old friend of his.”
“That’s good…” replied Megan thoughtfully. She had always been afraid of wild animals.
“One need not fear the beasts,” Gregor unexpectedly interjected, his gaze inscrutable as he looked at her. “Often, it is people who pose the greater threat…”
Megan scrutinized his face with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. His last remark seemed odd, even menacing. Deciding she might be reading too much into his words, she chose to remain silent and turned her attention back to the hall's interior.
The chairs and sofa were upholstered in wool fabric made at the McKenzie mill, featuring the family's traditional blue-green tartan. Legend has it that this pattern and color scheme were adopted by the clan chief and his kin in the 13th century. Consequently, it had become a tradition for all family members to own several items in the blue-green tartan, for holidays, significant events, and everyday wear, suitable for any weather.
Megan's initial impressions of her ancestral castle were undeniably profound. A bittersweet melancholy washed over her as she realized that, despite the years which have passed by, she had never once made the effort to visit and see everything with her own eyes, to feel the deep connection to her lineage.
All these years, Arline had painted these places as a godforsaken backwater, untouched by civilization. Megan had imagined nothing more than crumbling walls of an ancient castle, frozen ruins on the verge of turning to dust, a vague memory of a glorious past. Now, she understood that her previous notions bore no resemblance to reality.