“Is there anything left of the castle?” Mary Elizabeth swung towards the young boy, the only other person standing beside the feisty waters of Loch Leven. It was bitterly cold, a sharp contrast to the intense humidity Mary Elizabeth had escaped in Toronto only days before.
The boy watched Mary Elizabeth with the eye of one who had seen countless tourists wanting to know all the gory details of the fated castle on the island in the middle of the loch. He couldn’t have been much more than twelve, but he had the look of a man twice his age. “Aye,” he said simply, his Scotch brogue rich and thick. “A few stones and crumbled walls. Not much.” He paused, mostly to draw out the suspense. “There is the tower, though. Queen Mary was imprisoned in the tower. Strange how that survived and nothing else did.”
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