I was born in a small village called Dunnlauden, located near Cape Wrath on the Northwest tip of Scotland. All that you can see of the place now is a heap of rubble in the distance. That was the tower of the house of my Great Uncle, Angus McCleod.
All else are the small lines of stone foundations. Not until you’re standing directly in it, can you make out the jagged thoroughfare that cut through the centre of the village.
The last time I was there was with Sebastien on business for Cardinal Richelieu. My husband relied upon me for introductions to the Crimson Cardinal’s allies, some of whom were my own kinsmen. To say that it was awkward because I had barely seen any of my relations since my mother had died when I was very young is a supreme understatement. The mention of my mother and uncles and because my husband was French rather than English or even another Scot from a rival Clan, seemed to be enough, however. The fact that he was a Catholic and representative of France’s chief minister and could handle himself with a sword also seemed to win a few more of my recalcitrant relatives to the cause.
To be honest, I do not go there often. I really have no reason to. All of my people, my family are gone from that place after the massacre that occurred there. Those that survived were scattered to the four winds; some still living in Scotland, others shipped off to to England to work in the very halls of their conquerors. Some, like me, ended up in France and still others went to the New World.
My ties to that place other than it being the place of my birth and where my mother is buried, were broken long ago. I grew up on the Fortunate Island and spend most of my time then as now either there or in France on my husband’s ancestral lands. Part of the reason I dislike going to Scotland is that the weather in that place is probably the most miserable of any found on the Earth. The other reason I dislike it is perhaps more obvious. It’s the ghosts that now reside in that place, that keep me away. That more than anything else gives me little in the way of desire to return.
Life Belongs to Sekhmet 
Something tells me that it is the ghosts of your past, rather than the weather that keep you away, Faelyn. After all, we have both been able to survive, and thrive in worse. As I recall, you prefer rain over snow or sleet, oui?
*softer* I remember how hard it was for you, and I am very grateful for your introductions, and your assistance. It made my job, one of the last ones I did for the Cardinal, that much easier.
You are correct, mon amour. They glared at me then – because as a child I had been taken away by Morgienne. They knew who and what I was, and as far as they were concerned blood was the only tie that I had – that and my Uncle Angus’ protections and that which your sword afforded me.
And no, the only time I ever liked snow was that day you came to my Chataeu before the storm. Somehow with you there, I minded far less having been pitched into a snowdrift by my horse. *smirk* I do not really like rain, either. In Scotland, and particularly in that area, it rains all of the time. Even when the sun shining it seems, it is doing some sort of misting over. Good for the skin, bad for the disposition.
It was my pleasure to help you where I could, Sebastien. The Cardinal used every available asset at his disposal, and I did what I could for you – not for him. I honestly think that a few of my kinsmen genuinely liked you for yourself: that and you could drink their whiskey just as well as they could.