Chapter Text
“Claire, I have to be at the university by noon. Will you be alright here by yourself?” My uncle’s voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs—brisk, already half‑distracted. We’ve only been in this house a handful of days, but life never pauses for Lambert Beauchamp. He doesn’t settle so much as collide with a new routine at full speed. Always forward. Always moving. For eleven years we lived from dig site to dig site, our lives packed into crates and canvas bags. Then, last week, everything changed. Lamb accepted a position at the local university—a professor, of all things. “To finally be settled,” he’d said, puffing his chest out in mock dignity. “We need a home base, Claire‑Bear. I’m not getting any younger.”
I try not to think about that. I can’t imagine a world without Lamb. Without him, there’s no one. My parents died when I was five, and Lamb—brilliant, chaotic, utterly unprepared Lamb—became my guardian overnight. A man who’d spent his life wandering deserts and ruins suddenly saddled with a small, grieving child. It should’ve been a disaster. Maybe it was, at first. But we made it work. We made us. So being left alone in this tiny Scottish flat while he starts his new life as a professor? Hardly a hardship. “Yeah, I’ll be fine!” I called back, pushing myself upright in bed. “I’ve got a few things to do before school starts Monday. I need to pick up my uniform this afternoon. And my class schedule.”
A series of thumps echoed from downstairs—Lamb rummaging through boxes like a badger in a rubbish bin. Organization has never been his strong suit, and moving into a flat hasn’t magically cured him. “Alright,” he shouted. “I left some money on the counter. Order takeaway for dinner.” Another crash. “I won’t be home till later, don’t wait up.” No surprise there. “Sounds lovely,” I muttered, far too sarcastically. He snorted, amused. “Love you, Claire‑Bear. Stay safe, aye?” I laughed. “I’ll avoid criminals and cross the street with my eyes open. Don’t worry about me, Uncle.”
“See you tomorrow morning,” I added. A pause. A cough. “Tomorrow evening,” he corrected flatly. “Ah. What is it they say in Scotland? Dinna fash.” We both laughed. This is normal. Our life together has never looked the way society says it should. The front door clicked shut behind him. Silence settled over the flat. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stretched, the air cool against my skin. “Welcome to Scotland, Claire,” I whispered to myself. Unlike most of the flat, my room is actually put together. I’m the complete opposite of Lambert in nearly every way. Where he thrives in chaos, I crave order. Where he wanders, I settle. He’s the extrovert who can charm a room full of strangers; I’m the introvert who would rather curl up with a book and disappear for hours. To Lamb, that’s grade‑A torture. To me, it’s bliss.
Standing in the center of my room, I take it all in. If you didn’t know better, you’d think I’d lived here my whole life. Everything has a place. Everything is intentional. It feels… settled. And for the next few years at least, it’s home. I’ve got two more years of secondary (counting this one) before university, and after that, things will move quickly. I want to become a doctor. I plan to study in London. My future is mapped out—clear, bright, waiting for me. And I’ll get there. Because that’s who I am. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. Organized. Driven. Independent. Headstrong. Goal‑oriented. Maybe a little sad sometimes. But sadness gets tucked away behind a practiced smile. Music on. Shoulders back. No time to dwell when there’s a future to build—brick by brick, choice by choice.
I lace up my boots, shrug into my leather jacket, and take one last look in the mirror before heading downstairs. My curls are… mostly intact. The Scottish rain has declared war on them, but I’ve surrendered that battle. I’m not what anyone would call a typical teenage girl anyway. Fashion trends, makeup, all that fuss—it’s never been me. Give me a worn band tee and black leggings, and I’m set. More than set. Ready. Ready to take on the world. Or, at least for today… Scotland.
The school—if you can even call it that—looks more like a fortress than a place for teenagers. Weathered stone blocks stack up toward the grey sky, ancient and unmoving, like they’ve been here since the dawn of time. Historic, imposing, and entirely too serious for such an early hour. The courtyard is pristine, the breezeway buzzing with students in identical navy uniforms. Uniforms. Fantastic. I may not care about fashion, but at least when I dress myself, I don’t look like a clone in a sea of blue. Here, everyone blends together—an ocean of Scottish teenagers drifting toward their chosen destinations. Or their parents’ chosen destinations.
I wouldn’t know what that’s like. Schooling with Lamb was always important, but in the same way everything with Lamb is important—loosely, gently, with a “we go where the wind blows” shrug. Once I got old enough to decide for myself, I doubled down. I have big goals, remember? Lamb didn’t argue. He never does when it comes to my future. He found tutors, mentors, specialists—anyone who could help me chase whatever dream I latched onto. It’s a freedom most kids never get, and I’m grateful. But becoming a uniformed robot? Honestly, that might be one of the cruelest indignities ever inflicted on teenagers. “Goals, Beauchamp.” I remind myself aloud. If wearing a navy-blue knee‑length skirt, white button‑up, striped tie, and jumper is the price of building a new life in Scotland—and smashing every goal along the way—so be it. Uniform me up.
My boots echo through the hallway, and heads turn. Of course they do. I’m a storm cloud of black in their ocean of navy. I stand out before I even open my mouth. And when I do speak—dear God—the English accent hits the air and their eyes practically bulge. Lips curl. Fantastic. It’s as if Scotland never left the 18th century at all… and here I am, the lone Sassenach trespassing on sacred ground. This should be delightful. I roll my eyes internally and push through the office door.
An elderly woman stands behind the desk, speaking softly to—well, I’m not sure. A man? A boy? A student? He can’t be...He’s tall, broad‑shouldered, copper‑haired, and—oh, brilliant—tan. Perfectly sun-kissed. He has that slightly clumsy teenage swagger, but his eyes— Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. They’re blue. Not just blue—blue. A shade I’ve never seen in all my travels. Something between sky and sea and something else entirely. And he’s looking right at me. Until I speak to the lady behind the desk. “I’m Claire Beauchamp… um, my first day is Monday. I’m here to pick up my uniform.”
His head snaps away so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. Was it the accent? The fact that I’m new? Doesn’t matter Beauchamp, move on. He mutters something to the receptionist, excuses himself, and disappears into the sea of navy‑blue on the other side of the door. Except he doesn’t—not really. His copper curls glow like a beacon until the hallway swallows him whole. I turn back to find the woman behind the desk staring at me. Heat creeps up my neck—brilliant, she definitely caught me gawking at the beautiful Scot who bolted the second I opened my mouth.
“Miss Beauchamp?” she coughs delicately, eyes flicking over my all‑black outfit. “Um—yeah.” I stutter. “I was told to come by the office for my uniform and class schedule.” She nods and begins shuffling through papers, muttering to herself as she searches. “Sorry for the confusion, dearie. I’ve got it here somewhere.” Then she turns her head and calls over her shoulder, “Mrs. Fraser, could ye bring me that uniform tae the desk? Miss Beauchamp is here.” I smile. “Claire. You can call me Claire.” She meets my eyes with a warm, crinkly smile. “Aye, Claire. And ye can call me Mrs. Fitz. I’m always here in the office if ye need anything.”
A younger woman approaches, holding a neatly hung uniform. “Here ye are, sweetheart.” Her smile is bright and open. “I’m Mrs. Fraser. I’m also here if ye need anything. I’ve lined up a student tae give ye a tour on Monday and help ye find yer classes.” She places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Just come tae the office when ye arrive. He’ll be waiting for ye.” I nod gratefully just as Mrs. Fitz lets out a triumphant little noise, holding a paper high in the air—well, as high as she can. She barely reaches Mrs. Fraser’s shoulder. “Here we are, lass!” she crows, handing me my schedule.
“Thank you both,” I say, turning to leave. “It was wonderful to meet ye, Claire,” Mrs. Fraser calls. “We’re honored to have ye here.” I wave awkwardly and step back into the hallway. The crowd has thinned, but clusters of students still linger—perched on lockers, sprawled across benches, chatting in tight circles. One of them, a red‑haired girl with bright emerald green eyes, lights up the moment she sees me. She springs to her feet and hurries over. “New lass, right?” she asks, head tilted, studying me with open curiosity. “Claire Beauchamp,” I say with a smile.
“Good tae meet ye Claire.” She thrusts out her hand. “I’m Geillis. Geillis Duncan.” I shake her hand, trying not to look as awkward as I feel. Growing up on dig sites doesn’t exactly prepare you for teenage socializing. But that’s about to change. Whether I like it or not. “Hi, Geillis. It's good to meet you too.” She grins, loops her arm through mine, and tugs me toward her group. “Come on, let me introduce ye tae my friends.” I hesitate, but let her pull me along. She’s right—I’ll need friends here. We reach the group, and my eyes immediately land on him. The copper‑haired boy from the office. The one with the impossible blue eyes. He doesn’t look at me, but two other boys step forward, already smiling.
“Claire, this is Rupert,” Geillis says, gesturing to the taller one. “And this is Angus.” She jerks her chin toward the shorter, wilder‑looking boy. “The great dark mood hoverin’ behind us? Och, that’s just Jamie bein’ Jamie.” She says it teasingly, earning a sideways glance from him. “And that’s Laoghaire,” she adds, her tone making it clear she’d rather introduce me to literally anyone else. They all greet me with nods or quick hellos—except Angus, who steps in far too close, studying me like I’m a new species. “So, Claire. Yer English, aye?” I smile tightly, already tired of the question. “Yep.” I pop the “p.” He chuckles. “Aye.” Turning to the others, he announces, “She's a sassenach and I like her already.”
Rupert shoves him. “O’ course ye do, eejit. She’s verra bonny. Wouldna matter if she were Scottish, English, or American.” Angus shoves him back, waggling his eyebrows. “Aye.” Jamie scoffs under his breath but still doesn’t meet my eye. “Claiiiire,” Laoghaire drawls, stretching my name like taffy. “So where did ye come from exactly?” I study her for a beat, trying to figure out why she’s this hostile before breakfast. “Originally Oxfordshire, but I haven’t lived there since I was a girl.” Her eyebrows lift, so I continue. “Most recently, Greece.” She hums, unimpressed. “Greece. What in the world takes ye there?” I catch Geillis giving her a look I can’t decipher, but I ignore it. “My uncle is an archaeologist. Well—was. He just took a job at the local university as a professor.” At the word archaeologist, Jamie finally glances at me—but looks away before I can catch his eye.
Rupert brightens. “Jamie here is goin’ tae be an archaeologist.” Jamie shoots him a murderous look but nods. “Aye. That’s the plan after uni.” I can’t get a read on him, so I smile at his response and keep talking to the group. “Yeah, I grew up traveling with my uncle. Greece, Egypt, Crete, Turkey, Morocco. All over.” My voice dips. “And now we’re here.” Geillis squeezes my arm, her smile warm. “Aye. Now ye’re here. And we’re glad tae have ye.” A few others nod, but not Jamie. He’s still watching me like I’m a puzzle he hasn’t decided whether to solve. I paste on a polite smile. “I’m glad to be here.” I gently slip my arm from Geillis’s. “But I really should get going. I’ve got a few things I need to do before Monday.”
I turn from the group, clutching the hanger with my new uniform, and start down the hallway. My boots echo against the stone floor—steady, confident, or at least pretending to be. I’m halfway to the stairwell when the voices behind me rise just enough to carry. Laoghaire’s, of course. Sharp. Sour. Jealous. “God, she’s barely been here five minutes and ye’re all actin’ like she hung the bloody moon.” The words hit me square between the shoulder blades. I don’t stop walking, but something in my chest tightens—just a little, just enough. Before I can even process it, Geillis fires back, loud enough that everyone hears. “Jealousy’s showin’, Laoghaire. Might want tae tuck it back in.” A few snickers ripple through the group. Someone mutters “aye,” and I don’t have to turn around to know Laoghaire’s face has gone the color of curdled milk.
I keep moving, chin up, eyes forward. If there’s one thing twelve years on dig sites taught me, it’s how to walk away without letting anyone see the bruise. Still… It’s strange, hearing people defend me. Stranger still that they barely know me. I exhale slowly, pushing open the heavy door at the end of the hall. “Welcome to bloody Scotland, Beauchamp.” I murmur for the second time today—this time with a wry little smile.
And here’s your daily dose of our standard farm‑fam chaos: Whiskey is casually sprawled across the coffee table like he pays the mortgage (he is not allowed up there), Scotland is out here basking in the sunshine like she didn’t spend an entire week flirting with death, and Ellie… oh Ellie… looking like she rolled in every mud puddle on the property. My daughter eventually wrangled her into the outdoor tub, and now she’s sparkling white again—like the feral swamp creature phase never even happened.
